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The Bible as Literature

The Bible as Literature

Auteur(s): The Ephesus School
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 Each week, Fr. Marc Boulos discusses the content of the Bible as literature. On Tuesdays, Fr. Paul Tarazi presents an in-depth analysis of the biblical text in the original languages.© Copyright The Ephesus School Network, 2013-2024. All rights reserved. Christianisme Pastorale et évangélisme Spiritualité
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  • One is the Only Number

    One is the Only Number
    Oct 2 2025
    The functional path of oneness is not an abstract unity but a lived encounter of utter dependence. Western thought, enslaved by the grammar of the Anglo-Saxons, treats the human as an individual: a self-contained atom, an object unto itself. It imagines freedom as isolation, and isolation as freedom. But this supposed independence becomes sterility: the atomized person, cut off from the Shepherd’s breath, is lost in a sea of thorns, choked by its own irrelevance.True independence lies not in the language of atoms but in the biology of divine anatomies, in the irreducibility of God’s living functions. The Semitic root does not define a solitary “one” but a functional, dependent, and connected one. Every creature is undoubtedly one, yet cannot sustain itself any more than a cell can live apart from the body.As the body cannot live without its head, the tree without the earth withers.The triliteral root—three consonants binding the Tree of Life to the Master who gives it breath—embodies this living unity. Each consonant functions only in relation to the others; none can speak alone. Like branches drawing life through hidden roots, utility flows from dependence on him, not autonomy.In this linguistic body, the Semitic scrolls convey the unity of divine oneness: connection without possession, coherence without control. To be yaḥid is to be fragile, dependent, and open without self-reference: the earthen vessel through which the breath of ha-ʾEḥad flows.Western language, by contrast, breeds an unconscious polytheism of the self. When every person becomes an independent atom, the world fills with gods. Each will asserts its own dominion; each word competes for sovereignty. Polytheism, at its base, is war: the multiplication of possessive wills in endless collision. The Lukan crowd becomes a pantheon of thorns, a battlefield of competing gods. The soil of faith is twisted into a field of confrontation, where the multitude gathers against the Lord and his Christ to suffocate the one who brings the life-giving breath of his instruction.Yet within that suffocating crowd stands the yaḥid, Jairus, whose “only daughter”—his yeḥidah—lies dying. His lineage collapses; his name withers. Yet in this desolation, he does not press or grasp; he kneels before the “one.” There, in the stillness of dependence, the breath returns, and the Shepherd that the cares of this life cannot choke breathes life into the earthen vessel that has ceased to strive.μονογενής (monogenes) / י־ח־ד (yod-ḥet-dalet) / و-ح-د (wāw-ḥāʾ-dāl)One and only; single of its kind; only-born; only, only one, solitary, unique.“She was his only one [יְחִידָה (yeḥidah)]; he had no other son or daughter.” (Judges 11:34 )Here יָחִיד (yaḥid) expresses the fragility of the earthen vessel. In verse 34, the human line rests upon a single, irreplaceable life. Jephthah’s entire legacy depends on his yeḥidah; when she is offered, the limits of family and human continuity are laid bare. The father’s grief, bound to his only daughter, exposes the futility of lineage and the inevitability of dependence on God. The yaḥid becomes the mirror through which the insufficiency of man encounters the sufficiency of God.“Deliver my life from the sword, my only one [יְחִידָתִי (yeḥidati)] from the power of the dog.” (Psalm 22:21) LXX 21David cries from the edge of annihilation. His yeḥidati (“my only one”) refers to his only life (nefeš). He stands surrounded by predators, stripped of every defense, holding nothing but the breath that God alone can sustain. In that setting, ha-yaḥid encounters ha-ʾEḥad; the singular human breath encounters the One God who gives it breath. The weakness of the individual, the threatened “only life”, is the functional context of י־ח־ד (yod-ḥet-dalet) where triliteral replaces human vulnerability with God’s sufficiency.“Turn to me and be gracious to me, for I am alone [יָחִיד (yaḥid)] and afflicted.” (Psalm 25:16 ) LXX 24Here, yaḥid is not emotional loneliness but martial isolation: the condition of a soldier or supplicant with no human ally, no support, no constituency. The psalmist is cut off from every network of defense; he stands as the yaḥid before ha-ʾEḥad. His solitude is not inward melancholy but strategic exposure. He is a man encircled and undone, left with no strength but God’s. In that position, the oneness of God supplants the weakness of the individual, and dependence itself becomes the ground of divine action.“Rescue my life from their ravages, my only one [יְחִידָתִי (yeḥidati)] from the lions.” (Psalm 35:17) LXX 34The psalmist again names his life (nefeš) his yeḥidah: his one, irreplaceable self surrounded by devouring forces. This cry is not heroic but helpless; the yaḥid has no shield, no strength, no tribe. He stands as the fragile earthen vessel awaiting rescue from...
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    48 min
  • Unsettled Settlement

    Unsettled Settlement
    Sep 18 2025
    The obsession of Western spirituality with forgiveness—therapeutic forgiveness—is an obsession with the self. With control. With the usurpation of God’s throne by human power. It domesticates God, it drags wisdom into abstraction, it ties it down, it entangles it in comfort for the self, and multiplies suffering for others.But Scripture cuts the knot. Forgiveness from the cross is not therapy. It is release. Its root, ἀφίημι (aphiemi), to let go, to remit, to release, shatters settlement. It refuses possession. It suspends judgment.To release guilt through forgiveness. Nūḥ (نُوح) preaches divine مغفرة (maghfira), a release, a remission, the undoing of claim. The Gospels speak the same: ἀφίημι (aphiemi). And on the cross, Jesus says: “Father, ἄφες (aphes) them” (Luke 23:34). Not to soothe himself. Not to achieve “closure.” But to relinquish claim and leave unsettled judgment in God’s self-sufficient hand.Forgiveness here is no possession. It is gentle rain: falling, renewing, moving on. It cannot be held by the hand of man. It cannot be domesticated. It unsettles the settlement itself. It leaves all things provisionally in the hand of God.“Who is a God like you, who pardons wrongdoing and passes over a rebellious act of the remnant of his possession? He does not retain his anger forever, because he delights in mercy.” (Micah 7:18)This week, I discuss Luke 8:51.“When he came to the house, he did not allow [οὐκ εἴασεν, ouk eiasen] anyone to enter with him, except Peter, John, and James, and the girl’s father and mother.” (8:51)‎ἀφίημι (aphiemi) / נ־ו־ח (nun-waw-ḥet) / ن-و-ح (nūn-wāw-ḥāʾ)The root נ־ו־ח (nun-waw-ḥet) in Hebrew, ἀφίημι (aphiemi) in Greek, and ن-و-ح (nūn-wāw-ḥāʾ) in Arabic share a core function: to rest, to let be, to release. But in the Bible and Qurʾan, this rest is always provisional: never possession, never settlement.Settle, Remain“The man, the lord of the land, said to us, ‘By this I will know that you are honest men: leave [נוּחוּ (nuḥu)] one of your brothers with me and take grain for the famine of your households, and go.’” (Genesis 42:33)To settle or remain as a pledge. Here, נ־ו־ח (nun-waw-ḥet) functions as “leave behind.” One brother must stay behind while the others travel. The act of settling is temporary, an enforced pause, not ownership.“So the Lord allowed those nations to remain [וַיַּנַּח (wayyannaḥ)], not driving them out quickly; and he did not hand them over to Joshua.” (Judges 2:23)To let stay means to permit settlement. Here, נ־ו־ח (nun-waw-ḥet) signifies God’s intentional suspension of conquest. The nations remain unsettled alongside Israel in the land. It is a pause in divine judgment that disallows human presumption.Transient Rest, Repose“Then Samson said to the boy who was holding his hand, ‘Let me feel the pillars on which the house rests [הַנִּיחֵנִי (hanniḥeni)], so that I may lean against them.’” (Judges 16:26)To rest or relax physically. Here, נ־ו־ח (nun-waw-ḥet) signifies bodily relief. Samson leans for support. Rest is not a possession but a temporary dependence.“From men with your hand, Lord, from men of the world, whose portion is in this life. You fill their belly with your treasure; they are satisfied with children, and leave [הִנִּיחוּ (hinniḥu)] their abundance to their infants.” (Psalm 17:14; 16:14 LXX)To rest in satisfaction and to leave behind. Here, נ־ו־ח (nun-waw-ḥet) functions as the fullness of life’s portion as rest represented in inheritance. Yet, this rest is transient: what remains passes to children, never held permanently.Leave Behind, Let Go, Abandon“So I hated all the fruit of my labor for which I had labored under the sun, for I must leave [אַנִּיחֶנּוּ (ʾanniḥennu)] it to the man who will come after me.” (Ecclesiastes 2:18)To leave or give up as an inheritance for someone else. Here, נ־ו־ח (nun-waw-ḥet) indicates relinquishment. What one works for cannot be held permanently but must be released.“In the morning sow your seed, and in the evening do not let your hand rest [תַּנַּח (tannaḥ)]; for you do not know whether morning or evening sowing will succeed, or whether both of them alike will be good.” (Ecclesiastes 11:6)To wait, but not passively. Here, נ־ו־ח (nun-waw-ḥet) acts under pressure: not to stop but to stay active in anticipation without assurance or any sense of control over the outcome. Rest here is paused in darkness, waiting without certainty.Abandon / Let Be“And he said, ‘Let him alone [הַנִּיחוּ (hanniḥu)]; let no one disturb his bones.’ So they left his bones undisturbed, with the bones of the prophet who came from Samaria.” (2 Kings 23:18)To abandon in peace, to let be. Here, נ־ו־ח (nun-waw-ḥet) functions as non-interference. Even in...
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    55 min
  • Despair and Light

    Despair and Light
    Sep 4 2025
    Every dynasty insists on its permanence. Every people clings to the hollow echo of its own voice. Every generation invents its own despair and dares to call it light. Yet Scripture unmasks the fragility of these human building projects.The voices of despair rise in the camp, soothing themselves with stories of morality, while kings and judges build false legacies and nations carve idols in the light of their own eyes. Again and again, the words of God cut across this chorus, splitting the false consolation of narrative with the constellation of Abrahamic function: exposing human futility with divine riddle, and announcing what no human voice can summon: the surplus of grace and light. Or perhaps, when hope is gone and the fall seems final, it descends for you not as light but as despair.Can you even tell the difference? Are you still confused about the Shepherd’s identity? Yes, you are. Because you are a Westerner. And now even the East has turned West. All of you are talking about yourselves.Catch up quickly, ḥabībī. God is written. God does not forget. God does not turn. And God, as the Apostle said, is not mocked.This week, I discuss Luke 8:41.Ἰάϊρος (Iairos) ‎/י־א־ר (yod-alef-resh, “light”)‎י־א־ש (yod-alef-shin, “despair”) /‎ي־ء־س (yāʾ-hamza-sīn)The functions י־א־ר (yod-alef-resh, “shine”, “light”) and י־א־ש (yod-alef-shin, “despair”) share the same first two letters (י + א). Only the last letter is different: resh (ר) for shine, shin (ש) for despair. In Semitic languages, this kind of overlap often forms a word-family or cluster where similar-looking roots embody opposite meanings. The placement and structure leave the door open to hear and see them as two edges of the same blade—one edge to shine, the other to despair. The Arabic cognate يَئِسَ (yaʾisa, “to despair”) expands this constellation of function, confirming the polarity as it treads across the breadth of Semitic tradition. (HALOT, pp. 381-382)The Double-Edged Sword of Semitic Function: Despair and Light1. The Voice of the People: DespairLuke 8:49 “Your daughter is dead; do not trouble the Teacher any longer.”The crowd speaks. The household voices despair.This is not faith, not trust, not light, not life. It is the voice of the human being declaring finality. It is the voice of war in the camp, of the cruelty of throwing children away.The Hebrew/Arabic root י־א־ש / ي-ء-س (to despair) captures this perfectly. Across Semitic tradition, despair is the word of man: resignation, futility, darkness.“None despairs تَيْأَسُوا (tayʾasu) of the mercy of God except the disbelieving people.” (Qurʾan, Surah Yūsuf سورة يوسف “Joseph” 12:87)Again, despair is attributed to the people.Human communities, when confronted with death, loss, or trial, give voice to hopelessness.2. The Voice of God: Light and HopeLuke 8:50 “Do not fear; only trust, and she will be saved.”This is not the voice of the people. It is the word of the Lord, cutting through human despair.The name Jairus (יָאִיר, yaʾir “he will shine”) itself belongs not to human commentary but to God’s proclamation. The child will live; light will shine.“Until, when the messengers despaired ٱسْتَيْـَٔسَ (istaʾyasa) and thought that they were denied, our help came to them, and whoever we willed was saved. But our might cannot be repelled from the guilty people.” (Qurʾan, Surah Yūsuf سورة يوسف “Joseph” 12:110)The human limit is despair. God’s instruction interrupts where human beings fail. His mercy and help arrive at the point where human voices collapse.In both the Gospel and the Qur’an, the sword of Pauline Grace hangs above the scene. On one edge is the people’s despair: sharp, cutting, self-inflicted, and final. On the other edge is God’s light: sharper still, decisive, and life-giving. Scripture allows no compromise between the two. One voice must be silenced: the word of the people falls, and the word of God stands, forever.‎πίπτω (pipto) / נ־פ־ל (nun-fe-lamed) / ن־ف־ل (nūn-fāʾ-lām)The root carries the function “to fall, fall down, be slain, collapse, fail; to fall in battle, collapse in death, or prostrate,” and in its semantics it denotes a sense of finality, the collapse of life or order.According to Lane’s Lexicon, the root ن-ف-ل (nūn–fāʾ–lām) indicates “he gave without obligation, akin to Pauline grace as a free gift” (نَفَلَ nafala), “that which falls to a man’s lot without his seeking it” (نَفْل nafl), or “booty, spoil, bounty” (أَنْفَال anfāl), while Tāj al-ʿArūs describes it as “that which falls (يَقَعُ yaqaʿu) to someone’s portion.” This resonates with Paul’s use of χάρις (charis, grace), where salvation is not earned but freely given: “For by grace [χάριτί (chariti)] you have been saved through faith; and ...
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    46 min
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