A Word Against the Witnesses

Human beings move as a flock. What feels like freedom is motion inside a herd. People act the way they do because of pressure, habit, fear, desire, reward, or past experience. When we make decisions, we are responding to systemic forces already acting on us, even when theologians insist on calling this a free choice, the so-called “free will.” Long before a choice is named, the path is worn.

Governments, workplaces, laws, economies, religions, philosophies, ideologies, and social norms all rely on the same logic. If certain behaviors are rewarded and others punished, people will respond in predictable ways. Obedience inside these systems is never neutral. People comply because it benefits them, protects them, or helps them avoid loss. Even rebellion, blind to what it is building, follows recognizable patterns and is absorbed back into the systems it supposedly opposes.

But beneath these systems sits something deeper and more diabolical: the human logos. Explanation. Justification. Language itself as causality. Words that govern reality, binding reasons to actions, beliefs to outcomes, and sacrifices to meaning. This is how systems hold together. They are not only structures of power, but temples built of language, narratives, and shared explanations. Propaganda. A world where everything makes sense.

Belief, in this sense, is not faith. It is how humans explain themselves to themselves, a projection of the lamp of the body, quieting fear, justifying loss, making obedience reasonable. Over time, this explanatory language becomes a prison people inhabit. A Temple made of human hands, not of stone, but of coherence. An idol constructed from meaning.

Inside this Temple, every sacrifice is justified. Every command explained. Every loss serves a purpose. Even love is rationalized. Domesticated. Hope reframed as likelihood. Language does not merely describe the system. It sanctifies it.

These systems can even tolerate sacrifice, as long as the sacrifice is made for something abstract: the nation, the tribe, the future, the greater good, the “building” up or the “survival” of the community. Abstract loyalty is calculable. It can be taught, praised, rewarded, and demanded. A person who gives themselves for an idea or a cause is still operating inside logic the system understands and human language can defend.

Torah insists that a true command cannot arise from within this Temple or employ its language. Scripture does not perceive human beings as autonomous agents standing outside the flock, freely acting. It finds people as they are: already bound, already oriented, already enslaved to something. That is why Torah does not ask whether people are free, but whom they serve. Egypt is not replaced by false autonomy, but by covenant. Pharaoh is not replaced by the self, the builder of temples, but by the Voice of the Shepherd, that commands, calling us out of the temples that entomb us. 

According to Scripture, if a rule makes sense because it works, helps, or produces good outcomes, then following it is still a calculation. It may be wise or effective, but it is not obedience. It is sycophancy. That is why the Voice of the Shepherd is heard in the wilderness, away from stable systems and the human Temple of explanation. In the wilderness, people cannot rely on strategy or outcomes. They can only hear and respond. To those who live inside the system, this looks like slavery, or worse, insanity. Far from it.

It is trust.

This is where love of neighbor enters, and it does not enter as an idea, let alone a Platonic ideal. A neighbor is not humanity in the abstract. A neighbor is not the future, the cause, or the system. A neighbor is the real person who stands before you and whose claim cannot be translated into principle without being lost.

Your neighbor is not defined by worth, identity, or moral condition, but by proximity under obedience to the Command. 

Love of neighbor is irrational by decree. It does not weigh consequences. It does not ask whether the whole will survive. It does not justify itself in language the system can use. Systems assume that when forced to choose, people will sacrifice the one for the many. Love of neighbor refuses that exchange. It does not assume God’s purview. It does not control. It does not judge. It does not choose the right thing. It submits to the Command: love for the one encountered. 

This is why love of neighbor looks dangerous from inside the Temple. It threatens coherence. It interrupts explanation. It is willing to let the world burn rather than betray the one who stands before you. It does not argue. It does not explain. It does not rebel. The moment it does, it has already been absorbed back into the prison of the human logos. 

Hope enters here, not as optimism and not as confidence in success. Hope is what remains when explanation fails. Hope is the willingness to act without knowing whether the act will save or destroy everything. It interrupts causality by refusing to let outcomes or narratives decide what matters. Love of neighbor does not act because things will turn out well. It acts because of the Command.

The Command does not abolish cause and effect, but it interrupts it. Scripture introduces something causality and human language cannot produce: a binding word that is not an effect, not a tool, and not a story we tell ourselves. It is not obeyed because it succeeds or pays off, but because it is spoken and heard, through the claim of a real person, a flesh and blood prophet, rather than the demands of an abstract group.

When people live inside societies and institutions, this kind of hearing becomes difficult. Explanation returns. Outcomes take precedence. Faithfulness is measured by effectiveness. Hope is reduced to human belief in a future that can be imagined and defended. The Temple quietly rebuilds itself.

Scripture keeps pointing back to the wilderness to remind people that freedom is not about mastering systems or rejecting them, but about remaining able to hear and act when human language blinds and deafens us, to act with conviction when explanation fails, and to obey the Command of the Shepherd even when the world can no longer be justified.

This is the promise in which we hope, faith in things not seen: that through his Command God alone will achieve victory for his many flocks, which in his sight are one flock:

Episode 576 is a searching and uncompromising meditation on language, submission, and judgment, spoken from the land itself rather than from the safety of abstraction. Recorded in Jordan on New Year’s Day, the conversation between Father Marc Boulos and Father Timothy Lowe unfolds as both personal reckoning and scriptural indictment.

At its core, the episode argues that modern Christianity has betrayed the text it claims to serve by severing itself from the languages in which Scripture was spoken. Translation is not neutral, and reliance on English is not innocent. To speak in God’s name while neglecting Hebrew, Greek, and Arabic is to risk uttering words God never said. For the preacher, this is not an academic shortcoming but a spiritual danger, because every utterance stands under divine accounting.

The discussion presses further, insisting that biblical languages are not tools but living realities that carry wisdom through shared Semitic roots. By tracing these roots across the Torah, the Gospel, and the Qur’an, the speakers present the three Abrahamic scrolls as inter-functional rather than isolated. To sever one, especially the Qur’an, is named as a grave act of apostasy, born of a Western scholarly posture that places itself above the text rather than submitting to it.

Beneath the linguistic argument runs a sharper critique of modern self-reference. Greek habits of contemplation and analysis are exposed as a subtle refusal of submission, a way of delaying obedience while imagining oneself as judge. Biblical wisdom, by contrast, understands the human being as the one under examination. Study, whether of Scripture or of the created world, is not mastery but exposure to judgment.

Jordan becomes more than a backdrop. Petra stands as a monument to false security, wealth, and permanence, ultimately revealed as a vast tomb. Wadi Rum, by contrast, embodies the wilderness where God’s breath animates dust and life remains fragile. In that fragility, submission becomes unavoidable. The desert exposes the illusion of safety that governs modern life, from gated communities to economic anxiety, and reveals how fear, when misdirected, leads to the abuse of creation and neighbor alike.

The episode closes with a stark call to recover the scriptural posture of hearing and doing. Obedience is not contemplation, discussion, or delay. It is action born of trust. Submission, proposed as the word for the year, is not passivity but courage, fear rightly directed toward the one God who has spoken and who provides.

This encounter offers not comfort but exposure. Father Marc and Father Timothy ask whether modern believers are willing to be shaken by Scripture, to abandon false securities, and to place themselves again under the judgment of the living words, spoken in the living languages in which God Almighty has spoken the truth.