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Fr. Marc Boulos presents "Crossing into Judgment: The ʿIbri, the ʿArabah, and the Philological Manufacture of an Ethnos" at the 2026 OCABS Symposium, held October 2–3, 2026, at St. Elizabeth Orthodox Church in St. Paul, Minnesota. Drawn from his forthcoming book Man of Letters, the sequel to The Eucharist: A Grammar of Thanksgiving, the talk hears the Abrahamic text on its own terms: as a scripture that stands against Plato, against Homer, and against Odysseus. The 2026 OCABS Symposium gathered speakers in person and online around a single theme: Scripture, Bible and Qurʾan, heard on its own terms. ★ Support this podcast on Patreon ★

Fr. Paul Nadim Tarazi's final public presentation, "The Scriptural Canon," delivered as the keynote address at the 2026 OCABS Symposium, held Saturday, October 3, 2026, at St. Elizabeth Orthodox Church in St. Paul, MN. ★ Support this podcast on Patreon ★

In Episode 590, Father Marc Boulos examines Luke 9:39 through Ezekiel, 3 Maccabees, and the linguistic connections between Greek, Hebrew, and Arabic. He challenges modern ideas of choice, agency, and the “pursuit of happiness,” showing how Scripture presents God—not the human being—as the true subject and actor. ★ Support this podcast on Patreon ★

غ ن يAcademic institutions, like religious institutions, are metropolitan in nature, gathering where the Scriptural God scatters. They are the elephant whose snout hoards knowledge for the tyrants of the earth like the Egyptian scribes (Genesis 41:8), inscribing their will with an iron stylus on the foreskins of human hearts, concealing them from God (The Eucharist, 270). The psychē (ψυχή) fights against God by clinging to the sarx (σάρξ), desperately struggling to shut out the pneuma (πνεῦμα) with all its might, concealing the uncircumcised heart from the Almighty God under cover of the circumcision of human institutions. Oh yes, Hellenists love the psyche. It’s what they “turn” (to) and in, epistrephein (ἐπιστρέφειν, Corinthians 3:16), away from him, spinning as they spin their rejection of the sufficiency of God. It’s the source of all they talk about on their podcasts. They gather it up in their communities to meditate on it and its endless crisis of “loneliness.” (2 Timothy 3:2–4)  “If only they knew.” (Qurʾan, Sūrat al-ʿAnkabūt سورة العنكبوت “The Spider” 29:64) But God, in his sufficiency, is all seeing and all knowing, and their schemes will fail. Each moment in life, each kairos, each encounter with the unseen God in the crossing of neighbors in the ʿarabah terrifies the human institution, because the crossing presents each living, breathing soul with a divine uncovering, and the possibility of a revelation: we do not need the institutions. We never did. It’s ironic. The academy will insist it exists to question, to challenge and to tear down, but of its nature a building is incapable of the apostle’s turning in his withering, let alone the prophet’s birth-pains. Yes, they critique, but not to tear down, one stone from another. No. They critique in order to build their artificial mother. Their blasphemous alma mater. “Because they disbelieved and uttered terrible slander against Mary.” (Qurʾan, Sūrat al-Nisāʾ سورة النساء “The Women” 4:156) Yet, “God is not mocked” (Galatians 6:7), for everyone knows that milk sweetened with chemicals is toxic. Well, not everyone. Against them, and all who are like them, the Abrahamic scriptures neither build nor synthesize. They present no dogma. People who “read” them do, of course. That’s how we end up with buildings and tribes, which all three scrolls summarily condemn. Instead, what these texts offer is a method for hearing and seeing in daily living, so that each of us can hear how to walk our path in this life. Indeed, God, who is the source of all knowledge, has assigned a path for each of us, and this life is your test. Only you can hear and see what he has presented for you to understand, for your sake.  It is your test.  On that day, you have no advocate but yourself and no recourse but him. The sooner you stop covering your ears and hiding behind your eyes; the sooner you open your heart to his instruction, the better your chance of receiving his gift with empty hands. God has assigned a lesson for you in your brief time on earth, which, as the song says, is as “but a dream.” True knowledge does not come from men. It comes directly from him, and Scripture is a guide on the path through his wilderness. Unlike human institutions which traffic in recycled human words, Scripture offers only the witness—the martyrdom—of the unseen, of the done-unto by God, who stand by you on the path, bearing witness to your witness to his divine words. And the words are signs along that path to help you find your way, as you uncover the test he has prepared for you, which is yours and yours alone. The Bible was not written to establish anything. It was written to keep the path open, for your sake, so that nothing would ever stand in between you and God on the path, before the time, until the time he shall judge the living and the dead; and of his kingdom, there shall be no end. This week, I discuss Luke 9:38 ★ Support this podcast on Patreon ★

In episode 588, Fr. Marc hears the mashal of the Transfiguration as a warning against attempting to control what God gives freely. The Arabic root ش-ي-ع (shīn–yāʾ–ʿayn) spreads light naturally shedding itself without the inevitable fracture it finds in human hands. Peter's ploy to "make" tents for the prophets is a poor attempt to turn the gift of light into property. But the light, like rain, is lost the moment the human hands close around it. ★ Support this podcast on Patreon ★

In Episode 587, Fr. Marc Boulos hears the names Lyla and Elijah as rasm, unpointed traces, skeletons of consonants standing like the dry bones in Ezekiel's valley, waiting for a breath that is not their own. His baptism homily, dated July 25, 2026, follows the Arab grammarians, for whom the vowels are ḥarakāt, movements supplied by the one who formed the bones, into the night of Genesis 1, where darkness is called laylā by the same triliterals as in the Quran. Fr. Marc traces the turning of the letters, taṣrīf, as the work of an unseen hand: "thus we turn the signs" (Q 6:105). ★ Support this podcast on Patreon ★

In Episode 586, Fr. Marc Boulos asks what it truly means to welcome someone in Scripture. In Luke's account of the feeding of the five thousand, the answer is far richer than simple hospitality. Examining the Greek verb ἀποδέχομαι (apodechomai) alongside the Hebrew root צ-ר-ר (ṣ-r-r) and the Arabic ص-ر-ر (ṣ-r-r), Fr. Marc demonstrates that biblical welcome is not merely greeting a stranger—it is binding someone into the community of God. Beginning with Luke 9:14–17, he traces the literary and lexical threads that unite the crowd's welcome of Jesus (Luke 8:40) with Jesus' welcome of the crowd (Luke 9:11), culminating in the wilderness banquet. Along the way, he explores Luke's distinctive vocabulary of reclining (κατακλίνω), the companies (κλισίαι) of fifty, Israel's wilderness camp, the Greek symposium, the Gibeonite covenant meal, Abigail's "bundle of the living" (1 Samuel 25:29), Abraham's guests in Sūrat al-Dhāriyāt (Qur'an 51), Noah's self-bound hearers, the manna traditions of Exodus, Psalms, and the Qur'an, and the recurring biblical contrast between those whom God binds to himself and those who bind themselves to the old. Rather than treating Greek, Hebrew, and Arabic as isolated languages, this study follows their shared literary and lexical patterns to illuminate the grammar of the biblical text, revealing how the wilderness table gathers Jew and Greek into one people under one God. ★ Support this podcast on Patreon ★

In episode 585, Fr. Marc Boulos explores the profound linguistic and scriptural connections between Luke 9:10–13 and Sūrat al-ʿAṣr, showing how both texts speak a common Semitic grammar of time, need, loss, and divine provision. As the day declines in Luke, the disciples conclude that the crowd must be sent away. They see the wilderness, the fading light, and their five loaves as proof that there is not enough. Yet Jesus reads the very same signs differently. Throughout Scripture, the wilderness is where God feeds his people, the declining day belongs to the God who stretches out the heavens like a tent, and apparent lack becomes the place where his provision is revealed. Drawing on Hebrew, Greek, and Arabic, Fr. Marc examines the roots behind Luke's language of need (χρεία), the bending of the day (κλίνω / נ-ט-ה / ن-ط-و), and the Qurʾan's oath by the "declining time," al-ʿaṣr (العصر), arguing that both texts confront the same temptation: allowing the pressure of time and the appearance of scarcity to govern our judgment instead of the command of God. The episode also considers the biblical understanding of desire, the guarding of the heart, the relationship between God's word and true provision, and the symbolic significance of the five loaves as the bread of the Torah. Rather than presenting the feeding of the five thousand as a miracle detached from its setting, Fr. Marc shows how every detail—the wilderness, the hour, the bread, and the command—belongs to a single scriptural grammar in which obedience transforms lack into abundance. The Declining Day is an invitation to read the signs as Scripture reads them: not through the arithmetic of scarcity, but through the God whose provision is already present in the very place where the world sees only loss. ★ Support this podcast on Patreon ★

In Episode 584 of the Bible as Literature Podcast, Fr. Marc Boulos explores Luke 9:10 through the Semitic root ס־פ־ר / س־ف־ر (samek-fe-reš / sīn-fāʾ-rāʾ), uncovering a rich biblical ecology of sending, hearing, obeying, recounting, and carrying the word of God. Beginning with a sharp critique of Greek epistemology and the modern assumption that knowledge originates in the human mind, Fr. Marc argues that Scripture presents a radically different orientation. The fool who says "there is no God" is not merely the unbeliever, but the one who enthrones himself in the seat of judgment, making human reason the source of truth. In contrast, the biblical witness portrays humanity not as the author of knowledge but as its recipient, addressed and commanded by God. Tracing the root ס־פ־ר across the Hebrew Bible, the New Testament, and the Qurʾan, Fr. Marc shows how the apostles' "report" in Luke 9:10 is far more than a missionary debrief. Their recounting belongs to the same scriptural pattern found in Abraham's slave, Moses, Ezekiel, Joseph, and the prophets: the slave is sent, encounters God's action, and returns to recount what God has done. The true witness does not testify to his own experience but hands on the command and deed of the Lord. Along the way, Fr. Marc explores the connections between journey (safar), scroll (sefer), scribe (sofer), unveiling, dreams, hearing and obedience (ש־מ־ע / س־م־ع), and the contrast between faithful slaves who carry God's word and false prophets who recount only the dreams of their own hearts. The episode culminates in a powerful reading of Luke 9:10 in which the apostles appear not as religious entrepreneurs reporting their accomplishments, but as slaves who have been found, sent, instructed, and returned to hand back the word they received. The question is not what a person knows, but which way he is turned. ★ Support this podcast on Patreon ★

In this episode, Fr. Marc Boulos explores the profound connection between the Qurʾanic account of Adam as khalīfa (خليفة), Paul’s teaching on κοινωνία (koinonia), the biblical function of stewardship, and Luke 9:7–9, where Herod is troubled by reports concerning Jesus. Why is Herod perplexed? Why does Scripture repeatedly shift attention away from the identity of the messenger and back toward the command of the One who sent him? Drawing on the Qurʾan, the Hebrew Bible, and the New Testament, Fr. Marc argues that the central conflict in Scripture is not ignorance but rebellion. Like Iblīs before Adam, Herod hears the command but refuses to bow. He seeks understanding through sight, observation, and human judgment, while Scripture consistently calls human beings to hear, obey, and cross. The episode also examines the fundamental conflict between the biblical framework and the Greek philosophical tradition. Plato teaches that man escapes the cave through contemplation and attains truth through a clearer vision of reality. Aristotle locates perfection in the Unmoved Mover, the highest principle understood through intellectual contemplation. In both cases, salvation is associated with sight, understanding, and ascent. Scripture presents the opposite movement. Abraham does not contemplate, he crosses. Israel does not speculate, it crosses the sea. Elijah does not discover truth within the cave, he leaves the cave under command. The prophets are not enlightened by self-reflection but confronted by the word of the Most High. The biblical problem is therefore not lack of knowledge but refusal to submit. The obstacle is not ignorance but rebellion. Herod’s διαπορία (diaporia), his inability to find a way through, becomes the literary embodiment of this conflict. He seeks a passage through observation, evidence, and human reasoning, yet the only crossing available is obedience. Like Iblīs before Adam, he refuses to bow before a command that God has placed into the hands of another. Thus Luke’s Gospel and the Qurʾanic account of Adam converge on the same question: Will you submit to the One who sent the messenger? The messenger may disappear. The steward may pass away. The shepherd may fall. But the command of the Most High continues to cross the Arabah. ★ Support this podcast on Patreon ★

In this episode of The Bible as Literature, Fr. Marc Boulos delivers a powerful Mother’s Day homily and biblical reflection on the meaning of Baal, husbandry, empire, and the anti-imperial function of scripture. Beginning with the Semitic root ב־ע־ל / ب־ع־ل (b-ʿ-l), Fr. Marc explains how the biblical attack is not against the husband or father, but against the corruption of husbandry into domination, ownership, kingship, and institutional power, what he calls “Baalism.” Drawing on examples from Roman slavery, Baalbek, St. George, Ezekiel, Luke 9, Isaiah, Nahum, and the Qur’an, this episode explores how scripture dismantles empire and restores humanity to its proper place as caretaker of the land rather than master over it. Fr. Marc argues that the earth functions as mother, not as a goddess, and that Elohim alone is Father, King, and Lord. The second half of the episode turns to Luke 9:6 and the Greek verbs διέρχομαι, εὐαγγελίζω, and θεραπεύω, showing how the apostles do not possess healing as power, but cross through the land as slaves bearing witness to the coming judgment and kingdom of God. Through Hebrew and Arabic lexical correspondences, Fr. Marc demonstrates how biblical language functions not as abstract philosophy, but as enacted decree. This episode challenges modern assumptions about power, property, fatherhood, rights, religion, and institutional life, while presenting scripture as an ancient anti-imperial witness against tyranny and domination. Luke 9:6Εξερχόμενοι διήρχοντο κατὰ τὰς κώμας εὐαγγελιζόμενοι καὶ θεραπεύοντες πανταχοῦ “Departing, they began going throughout the villages, preaching the gospel and serving everywhere.” ★ Support this podcast on Patreon ★

I call out to Isaiah: اخرج من الكتب القديمة (ukhruj min al-kutub al-qadīmah), come out of the old books as they came out. The world needs you now. Mahmoud Darwish said it under the siege of Beirut, in 1982, watching human flesh hung from the walls over the openings of the Old Testament. He knew what most of us still do not: that the scroll does not stay on the shelf. The prophet steps off the page. Each time the Gospel of Luke is proclaimed, Isaiah walks the streets of any empire that is using his book to justify injustice. The suffering slave, the mešullam (Isaiah 42:19), from the root ש־ל־מ (šin-lamed-mem), the one at peace, made whole through submission, comes out of the scroll without relent to face every generation each time the empire thinks it has buried him, and in every generation he is heard again, standing in the Decapolis, proclaiming what great things God has done (Luke 8:39). This is the test Luke puts to you, first at Gerasa, and then at the Commission of the Twelve. The Shepherd arrived on the contested shore, the Decapolis, ten cities imposed by Rome on Syro-Arabian nomadic land, and he did what the mešullam does. He drove the legion of Rome into the sea (Luke 8:32-33), the way Moses drove Pharaoh’s chariots into the sea (Exodus 14:27-28), and the people of the city did exactly what the wilderness generation did at the meat-pots of Egypt (Exodus 16:3; Numbers 14:2-4). They said: “Leave us alone. We were better off in slavery.” They begged the Shepherd to go (Luke 8:37). And he did. The boat pulled away from the shore of Gerasa, and that boat was ἀποτινάσσω (apotinasso), the sandal shaken at the threshold of the entire region, the verb נטשׁ (naṭaš), from the root נ־ט־שׁ (nun-ṭet-šin), written across the water (1 Samuel 10:2; Jeremiah 12:7), the dust of the God who marches forward, deposited on the coastline of a city that loved its bondage. “I have forsaken my house. I have abandoned my heritage” (Jeremiah 12:7). The Gerasenes were cowards, and the Shepherd honored their cowardice the way the text always honors cowardice: he left them to it. But he did not leave the city. He sent the found man back. The Shepherd shook the dust and sent the prophet back into the city that had just been sealed with it. ὑπόστρεφε εἰς τὸν οἶκόν σου, καὶ διηγοῦ ὅσα σοι ἐποίησεν ὁ θεός (hupostrephe eis ton oikon sou, kai diegou hosa soi epoiesen ho theos), “return to your house, and describe what great things God has done for you” (Luke 8:39). That ὑποστρέφω (hupostrepho) is the root ש־ו־ב (šin-waw-bet), the turn God commands into the place where his name has been denied. Abraham returning from the valley of kings (Genesis 14:17). Moses returning to the mountain still breathing the stench of the calf (Exodus 32:30-31). Gideon returning to the camp (Judges 7:15). The found man is deployed into Greco-Roman imperial territory, as the suffering slave made whole through submission, and his presence in that city is a standing rebuke. A living testimony of mercy refused and judgment invited. He is Isaiah coming out of the old books. He is the mešullam walking the streets. The Gerasenes were blind with the blindness of Isaiah 6: “He has blinded their eyes and hardened their heart, lest they see with their eyes and turn” (Isaiah 6:9-10; cf. John 12:40; Matthew 13:14-15). That is the blindness God imposes on the arrogant so that his judgment is total for the sake of the poor’s deliverance (Isaiah 61:1-2; Luke 4:18-19). The refusing city is blind in that sense. They saw the legion go into the sea but could not see what was staring them in the face. But the found man was blind with the blindness of the suffering slave in Isaiah 42: “Who is blind but my slave, or so deaf as my messenger whom I send?” (Isaiah 42:19). The mešullam. He did not see; he trusted that God saw on his behalf. He did not speak for himself; he spoke what Jesus sent him to speak (Luke 8:39). He carried nothing into the streets of the Decapolis except the command of the one who had found him. This is the commission Luke 9 delivers to the Twelve. συγκαλεσάμενος δὲ τοὺς δώδεκα (sunkalesamenos de tous dodeka), “having called the Twelve together,” ἔδωκεν αὐτοῖς δύναμιν καὶ ἐξουσίαν (edoken autois dunamin kai exousian), “he gave them power and authority,” καὶ ἀπέστειλεν αὐτοὺς (kai apesteilen autous), “and he sent them out” (Luke 9:1-2). With no staff. No bag. No bread. No money. No second tunic (Luke 9:3). Why? Because the suffering slave carries nothing. Because the mešullam does not defend himself. Because his Father said, “Be still, I am the one who fights for you, not you” (Exodus 14:13-14). Because if the Twelve carried a bag, they would be carrying David’s crutch: the five smooth stones in the shepherd’s pouch (1 Samuel 17:40); if they carried a second tunic, they would be hedging against the Father’s provision (Matthew 6:25-33); if they carried bread, they would be trading in the coin of the city they were sent to judge. They are sent as the found man was sent: empty-handed, blind in the blindness of trust, deployed into contested territory as the living proclamation that the Lord’s Shepherd has arrived. And at every threshold, one of two things happens. The household receives them, μένετε (menete), “remain” (Luke 9:4). What Paul commands as στήκετε (stekete, Galatians 5:1), ὑπομονή (hypomone, Romans 5:3-4), what the Qurʾan names صمود (ṣumūd) from the root ص-م-د (ṣād-mīm-dāl) (Qurʾan 112:2), this is your test, this is your Decapolis, this is the house where the prophet is received, or the house refuses them, and they ἀποτινάσσετε τὸν κονιορτὸν (apotinassete ton koniorton), they shake the dust (Luke 9:5), as the Shepherd shook it when the boat pulled away from Gerasa, the אָבָק (ʾabaq), from the root א־ב־ק (ʾalef-bet-qof), of Deuteronomy 28 (Deuteronomy 28:24). The cloud of the feet of the marching God in Nahum (Nahum 1:3). The plague-powder of Exodus 9 (Exodus 9:8-9). Deposited on the doorframe of the house that refused. The refuser نبذوه وراء ظهورهم (nabadhūhu warāʾa ẓuhūrihim), from the root ن-ب-ذ (nūn-bāʾ-dhāl), who casts the Book behind his back (Qurʾan, Sūrat Āl ʿImrān آل عمران “The Family of ʿImrān” 3:187; cf. Sūrat al-Baqarah البقرة “The Cow” 2:101). Two gestures, one movement. The Book behind the refuser’s back. The dust behind the messenger’s sandal. Both remain, recorded as evidence against those who reject the prophet until the Hour. The dust on the threshold and the prophet in the house are the same testimony. The dust is the judgment that severs the refusing city from its false peace. The prophet is the judgment that walks the streets of the city that refused, until the poor of that city hear and turn. Mercy is not leniency against judgment. Judgment itself is hope (Isaiah 26:8-9). Judgment is what cuts off your false hope in the sons of men (Psalm 146:3), the Satan who rules human institutions (2 Thessalonians 2:4, 9), so that in your darkness you can be found by the fierce light of God’s voice (John 1:5; cf. Qurʾan, Sūrat al-Nūr النور “The Light” 24:35). The dust falls and the prophet walks, and both are the arm of the Lord that Isaiah names (Isaiah 53:1), revealed to whomever will believe the report (John 12:38). This week I discuss Luke 9:5. ★ Support this podcast on Patreon ★

The Greek ὑπομονή (hypomone) is a compound: ὑπό (hypo, under) and μονή (mone, a remaining, from μένω, meno). Literally: remaining under. The one who endures is the one who remains standing under the pressure of weight. This is not a second concept grafted onto μένω (meno); it is the same root with the load made explicit. The one who stands is the one upon whom weight is placed. This is why Paul’s μενέτω (meneto) in 1 Corinthians 7, “let him remain,” is not passive advice. It is not: be comfortable where you are. It is a warning: stand under the weight that God has placed on you. The calling in which you were called is not a lifestyle; it is load-bearing. God appointed you (Hiphil: הֶעֱמִיד, heʿemid, he caused to stand) in a particular place, and that place has weight. To remain is to bear. The slave remains a slave not because slavery is good but because God placed him there, and the weight of that position is God’s test. The unmarried remains unmarried not because marriage is deficient but because God stationed him there, and the weight of that station is the discipline. Paul’s μενέτω (meneto) is the Qal pregnant with the Hiphil: the causative is already gestating inside the simple form, it’s pregnant, waiting to be recognized: you stand because God caused you to stand, and the weight you bear is his imposition, not yours. This is the power of the Andalus method: the root carries more than the surface morphology reveals, and it takes lexicographic attention to proclaim what is carried in the womb. The root speaks across the corpora, habibi, and the Andalus method is the midwife. ὑπομονή (hypomone), then, names what the root ע-מ-ד (ʿayin-mem-dalet) does when it functions properly. It is not patience in the English sense, not waiting politely, not gritting your teeth. It is structural. It is the pillar (עַמּוּד, ʿamud / عَمُود, ʿamūd) bearing the load of the edifice. Remove the pillar, and the building collapses. The one who exercises ὑπομονή (hypomone) is the one who holds up what God placed above him. This is why Paul says in Romans 5:3-4: θλῖψις ὑπομονὴν κατεργάζεται, ἡ δὲ ὑπομονὴ δοκιμήν (thlipsis hypomonen katergazetai, he de hypomone dokimen), “tribulation produces endurance, and endurance produces proven character.” The tribulation is the load; the endurance is the standing under the load; and what is produced is δοκιμή (dokime), the testing that proves the metal. The sequence is Levitical: the priest examines the mark, and it עָמַד (ʿamad), it stood in its place, and the verdict follows. Tribulation examines; ὑπομονή (hypomone) stands; the verdict is rendered. You may recall that I traced the Qurʾanic correspondence of this function in Rise, Andalus. It runs through two roots. The first is ص-ب-ر (ṣād-bāʾ-rāʾ), ṣabr: patience, endurance, the cactus that bears fruit in the desert against all odds. The second, and structurally deeper, is ص-م-د (ṣād-mīm-dāl), ṣumūd: steadfastness, the act of remaining unmoved under strain. And the divine epithet الصَّمَد (al-Ṣamad) in Sūrat al-Ikhlāṣ 112:2, اللَّهُ الصَّمَدُ (allāhu ṣ-ṣamad), God the everlasting Refuge, the one upon whom all depend, the absolute pillar. God is the عَمُود (ʿamūd) who does not move. God is the ṣamad who bears all weight and is borne by nothing. The formula holds in both directions. What God causes to stand, stands. This is μένω (meno), this is Paul’s μενέτω (meneto), this is the עֹמְדִים לְפָנַי (ʿomedim lefanay) of Isaiah 66:22, the new heavens and new earth standing before God. What men cause to stand, stands still and cannot answer: the idol of Isaiah 46:7, propped up, immobile, mute. Conversely, ὑπομονή (hypomone) is the human participation in God’s standing: not the standing of the idol, the manmade burden which bears no weight and answers no one, but the standing of the unseen pillar, which bears the load that God imposed and remains under it until the verdict is rendered. Paul’s “stay as you are” is therefore not conservatism, caution, or circumspection. It is ṣumūd. It is the command to be a pillar of the Kingdom, deliberately (عمداً, ʿamdan), structurally, under weight, in the place where God baptized you (عَمَّدَ, ʿammada) into standing, against whatever pressures befall you in your assigned station. This week I discuss Luke 9:4. ★ Support this podcast on Patreon ★

When Luke records Jesus commanding the Twelve to take nothing for the journey, neither staff, nor bag, nor bread, nor money, he activates a deliberate stripping that recalls the scriptural logic of exile as exposure. The Hebrew root ג-ל-ה (gimel-lamed-heh) can function as “to uncover” or, by extension, “to go into exile,” linking displacement with nakedness in the prophetic texts themselves. There, exile is repeatedly portrayed as being uncovered, stripped naked, and shamed before the nations. Nakedness is not merely physical but signals dispossession and removal from the land. In Luke 8, the Gerasene demoniac embodies this condition, naked, outside the city among the tombs, cut off from communal and tribal life, a living figure of exposure in exile. When Jesus restores him, he is clothed and seated in his right mind, and he is commanded to return home to bear fruit as a witness, with nothing in hand but the knowledge of his sins and the command of God. Immediately afterward, in Luke 9, Jesus sends the Twelve out divested of staff and supplies, stripped of institutional and tribal supports, and of any authority derived from them. Though not naked in body, they are stripped of the signs of power, protection, affiliation, and provision. Both the demoniac and the Twelve thus reflect the same scriptural function: exile as nakedness, and exposure out in the open as the precondition of restoration for mission. ῥάβδος (rhabdos) / מ-ט-ה (mem-ṭet-heh) Staff; tribe, delegated power. From the triliteral root נ-ט-ה (nun-ṭet-heh), to stretch out, to extend, to incline. “And you shall take in your hand this staff [מַטֶּה (maṭṭeh)] with which you shall do the signs.” (Exodus 4:17)The staff represents what is stretched out. In Exodus, it symbolizes the instrument through which delegated authority operates, acting as an extended hand. In Numbers 17, each leader brings his staff, which denotes his tribe. Extension here signifies lineage: what is stretched out becomes a branch, and that branch becomes a tribe. Thus, the rod is not just wood but a visible symbol of authority and continuity, indicating the ordered descent and delegated power. ῥάβδος (rhabdos) / ש-ב-ט (šin-bet-ṭet) Rod, scepter, tribe. From the triliteral root ש-ב-ט (šin-bet-ṭet), associated with striking and ruling. “You shall break them with a rod [בְּשֵׁבֶט (be-šebeṭ)] of iron.” (Psalm 2:9)The rod is the instrument of rule. It disciplines, enforces, and governs. In Proverbs, it corrects; in Isaiah, it becomes the rod of divine anger; in royal psalms, it signifies sovereign authority. The same word names a tribe, linking governance with structure. The rod is therefore not merely a stick but embodied jurisdiction, the visible sign of judicial and royal power. ῥάβδος (rhabdos) / ק-ל-ל (qof-lamed-lamed) Rod; stick; branch, to be light, slight. “And the Philistine said to David, ‘Am I a dog, that you come to me with sticks [בַּמַּקְלוֹת (ba-maqqelot)]?’” (1 Samuel 17:43)This rod belongs to the field, not the throne. It is the shepherd’s implement, the ordinary support of the traveler. In Genesis 30 Jacob uses rods in the tending of flocks; in Samuel David carries them into battle as a shepherd confronting a warrior. The stick here signifies pastoral presence rather than institutional authority. It is wood in the hand of the lowly, not the emblem of a court. ῥάβδος (rhabdos) / ש-ע-ן (šin-ʿayin-nun) Staff of support. From the verbal root ש-ע-ן (šin-ʿayin-nun), to lean upon, to rely. “Behold, you are trusting in Egypt, that broken staff [מִשְׁעֶנֶת (mišʿenet)] of reed.” (Isaiah 36:6)The staff here is what one leans upon. It represents reliance, alliance, and structural backing. When it breaks, dependence collapses, and the individual who is leaning on it falls. The rod becomes a metaphor for political trust and misplaced confidence. It is not an instrument of striking but of support, the symbol of that upon which stability rests. ῥάβδος (rhabdos) / שַׁרְבִיט (šarbiṭ) Scepter; royal staff. Likely a Persian (modern-day Iran) loanword associated with imperial authority. “If the king holds out the golden scepter [שַׁרְבִיט (šarbiṭ)] that is in his hand, he shall live.” (Esther 4:11)In Esther, the rod is sovereignty compressed into a single gesture. Life and death depend on whether it is extended. It is not the shepherd’s staff, not the tribal symbol, not the rod of discipline. It is ceremonial kingship embodied in gold. The scepter draws the line between execution and mercy, exclusion and acceptance. Authority is visible, concentrated in the king’s hand. But does the king’s own life ultimately matter? A wise leader knows that his life is of little value because it does not belong to him. As Jesus commands, the sign of God is neither the owner, the support, nor the strength of God’s many peoples.  There is no god but God.  Scripture repeatedly shows, through Persian rulers like Cyrus and Xerxes, that real control belongs neither to Israel, nor to the king, nor to the empire. Sovereignty belongs to God alone, who governs history itself, directing kings as easily as he directs the sun and the moon, according to his plan. πήρα (pera) Shepherd’s bag. “And he took his staff [τὴν ῥάβδον (ten rabdon)] in his hand and chose for himself five smooth stones from the brook and put them in the shepherd’s bag [εἰς τὴν πήραν τὴν ποιμενικήν (eis ten peran ten poimeniken)]…” (1 Samuel 17:40 LXX)David advances toward Goliath carrying two things: the rabdos (ῥάβδος) and the pera (πήρα). The rabdos is the shepherd’s staff, the maqel (מַקֵל), a rod in the hand of one who tends flocks. The pera is the shepherd’s satchel, the container of stones and the place of stored provision. One extends the arm; the other holds what sustains the strike. This is the only occurrence of pera (πήρα) in the Septuagint. The five stones evoke Torah, the Five Books. Their smoothness carries the root ח-ל-ק (ḥet-lamed-qof) / ح-ل-ق (ḥāʾ-lām-qāf). In Hebrew, ḥalaq is to divide, to apportion, to allot. In Arabic, ḥalaqa is to shave, to make smooth, to strip bare. These are not separate functions. To smooth a stone is to shape it by removal. To allot land is to cut it from the whole. The triliteral holds division and preparation together. The brook itself sharpens the resonance. Naḥal (נַחַל), from the root נ־ח־ל (nun-ḥet-lamed) / ن-ح-ل (nūn-ḥāʾ-lām), in Hebrew is a wadi, a seasonal stream. But the same consonants in both languages yield naḥalah (נַחֲלָה), naḥala (نَحَلَ) / niḥla (نِحْلَة) inheritance, endowment, gift, or allotted possession. Water and land converge in the root. David reaches into the stream and draws out inheritance.  Surat al-Naḥl سورة النحل refers to “The Bee,” an animal associated with provision, honey, and divinely guided producti...

Homily: The Prodigal Son, The Lost Sheep, and the Raven Fr. Marc BoulosSunday, February 8, 2026 In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen. Today’s Gospel (Luke 15:11-32) forms a diptych with the parable of the Lost Sheep (Luke 15:3-7), which unfortunately is used systematically by the followers of Epstein, or, more accurately, by those captivated by the mentality of Epstein ecclesiology: the business model of church growth that treats the neighbor as a commodity. Which is everyone. Because if you are an American, or a European, or anyone who subscribes to the ideology of the elite class, the success ideology, the growth ideology, the manifestation ideology, you ultimately view your neighbor as property, as lesser, as acquisition. Or, as Satan has taught the Church in the West to say, you refer to your neighbor as a “giving unit.” It is a disgusting phrase. No less ugly than what they used to say when I was a child. They claimed to count souls, but they were counting giving units. Now, the key to hearing the parable of the Lost Sheep is to hear the accusation of the Pharisees and the scribes that prompted the parable, and to hear it in the context of Noah, which governs Luke. Jesus gives the parable of the Lost Sheep because he is accused of receiving: “This man receives sinners and eats with them.” (Luke 15:2)That is the key. He is accused of receiving sinners. What is returned to him from the wilderness is what is received. The prodigal, as you should know by now, is not praised for coming back. He simply returns. The parable of the Lost Sheep is about instruction, about remaining under command whether inside the fold or outside it. This is what is at stake when the follower says “No.” It is also what is at stake with the two birds in the account of the flood. You have a raven (Genesis 8:7) and you have a dove (Genesis 8:8-12). For those of you who study what I teach, you know the significance of the raven. For those who do not, the work is here. The rest is between you and God. In Hebrew, the word often associated with the raven is derived from three consonants, ʿayin, resh, bet. It refers to a migratory, nomadic bird, associated with the locality of the ʿArabah, the Syro-Arabian wilderness known to you as Mesopotamia, encompassing Lebanon, Syria, Palestine, and Iraq. The raven is nomadic in a very specific biblical sense. It pertains to peoples who mix among tribes and who come out at night. These are the tribes that fed Elijah. That is the raven Noah sends out. The word used is “release.” It corresponds to the same verb Jesus uses when he sends out the Twelve to proclaim the judgment of the Kingdom in Luke chapter 9, verse 2. He releases them under instruction. What is interesting is that this corresponds to the usage of the word “Bedouin” in the Qur’an. You have heard me speak about Bedouins, and many of you assume I am speaking about Arab culture. I could not care less about culture. I am speaking about Scripture. The Bedouins appear in the Bible and in the Qur’an, and they have a function. In Genesis 8:6-12, Noah sends out the raven before the Lord breaks his silence. The Lord had not spoken since the flood began, when he shut the ark with his own hand behind Noah (Genesis 7:16). He does not speak again until Genesis 8:15. There is release from Noah, but there is no command from God. The raven goes out into a world not yet ordered by divine speech. Noah releases the raven into disorder in anticipation of God’s instruction, which alone can establish order. The same is true of the dove. Both are sent out, released in hope that they might return. It is not demanded. It is a free gesture. That is how it works. In this absence, the dove’s return unfolds within divine silence, not compelled by a new command but moving in anticipation of the word by which God alone restores order. The decisive reality is the command of God, not human initiative. The prodigal, sitting on the dung heap, cannot boast, “I came back.” He came back because he was hungry. In the house of the Father, every voice is silenced before the obedience of Jesus (Philippians 2:6-11). In the Qur’an, the striking thing about the Bedouins is their obstinacy. (Rise, Andalus, p. 53; Sūrat al-Tawbah, “The Repentance, The Return” 9:97) They exist on the edge. That is why this question of sinners among the peoples on the boundaries, in the night watches, matters. Those are the ones Jesus receives. That is what angers the Pharisees and the scribes in Luke. Those whom they despise, the ravens, exist on the edge, beyond the proclamation of what is read aloud. And now they are stepping within range of that proclamation. The word Qur’an means “what is read aloud,” the proclamation of the word of God. It is rooted in Arabic, a Semitic tongue like Hebrew. Those on the margins live beyond the reach of that proclamation. The lost are released, sometimes under instruction, sometimes in hope of the instruction that alone can call them back. So for Jesus, the concern is whether the sinners and the tax collectors are within reach of the proclamation. What is truly problematic is that the scribes and Pharisees complain when the prodigals return from the edges to hear what Jesus is announcing. That is the issue. But the problem with the Epstein business model of church growth is that it does not care what Jesus is saying. In that model, the neighbor is a giving unit. So it cannot let the prodigal go. In the parable of The Prodigal (Luke 15:11-32), the father never compels the son to return. In Paul’s teaching, you are never permitted to force someone to remain married to you (1 Corinthians 7:15). It is forbidden. This teaching carries over into the Qur’an as well: you are not allowed to compel anyone (Sūrat al-Baqarah 2:256; see also 4:19; 2:231). But in the Epstein model of church growth, it does not work that way. In that model, it is the opposite of what we heard today, namely, that your body does not belong to you: “You are not your own.” (1 Corinthians 6:19)The body to which Paul refers is the body politic of Jesus Christ. You are not permitted to sin against it for profit. You may not exploit any living soul for gain, least of all your own. Not according to the parable of the Lost Sheep. According to that same instruction, a sheep may be sent away and allowed to go until it heeds the call and returns, and is then received with joy according to the command, but never chased or coerced. Some sheep may even be handed over to Satan for a time, unto destruction, if they jeopardize the fold (1 Corinthians 5:5;1 Timothy 1:20). But not in the Epstein model of church growth, which cares only about security, growth, and success. God does not care about buildings, institutions, or church growth. He does not care about constitutions, or borders, or nations, or tribes. He cares about your living, breathing, precious soul. “For what does it profit a man to gain the whole world and lose his soul? For what can a man give in return for his soul?” (Mark 8:36-37)I am not God. But I am responsible to teach what God has commanded us to teach. May we submit to God’s instruction like the dove, returning in hope of the word by which God alone establishes order. To him alone be the glory, the dominion, and the majesty, now and ever and unto ages of ages. Amen....