When you hear someone say, “If we just stick together,” it is always spoken by an individual. In truth, this individual is saying, “If you just stick with me, I will provide an outcome, and ensure a benefit.”

That mechanism—“stick with me and I will provide”—is, in fact, what St. Paul describes as the power of death.

It is a threat. Stick with me or else.

The use of the pronoun “we” cloaks death in the garment of connection. This threat is the same evil “we” that funds death while giving campaign speeches about "sticking together.”

It is the anthem of fascism. Can you hear its song in your music?

Never “go back” to what?

You are already what you fear.

There is no question that care for the flock is paramount in Scripture. Love of neighbor and table fellowship are the only matter at hand in the commandment. The problem is, who is the “I” of the matter, that you cloak with your idolatrous “we”?

To whom does the flock pertain?

Colonial scholars get caught up with the Twelve Tribes in the Old Testament...but “there is only one Shepherd in the Bible, which means one flock, no matter how many tribes you find.” (Dark Sayings, p. 84)

That’s why the Scribes and the Pharisees were looking for a reason to accuse Jesus in Luke; that’s also why Jesus understood their intention. Not because he was a mind reader—but because reactionary, insecure people who believe in their own values and are willing to ignore human suffering to cling to power in defense of their fake “we” are easy to understand.

You do not need a degree in psychology to predict their thoughts, let alone their next move.

All you need do is emasculate them; liberate what they have bound up; and tear down down what they have built up.

Nonviolently, with much love, and in a spirit of fellowship.

You can’t do that in congress, Habibi. But you can do it in Scripture.

This week, I discuss Luke 6:8-11.

(Episode 529)

There’s a riddle I’ve been working out as a pastor for many years. I’ve accepted the biblical premise that the gospel is not about growing churches or building temples. I’ve observed the scandal it creates in meetings and discussions with mission boards, parish councils, and planning committees.

All of that makes sense as the institutional scandal of the crucifixion.

What has been most eye-opening, or perhaps better stated, “ear-opening” for me, has been how it plays out in pastoral relationships. It all goes back to the Parable of the Sower in Mark.

Everyone wants to be the plant that takes root and bears fruit. Unfortunately, all of us have to reconcile what it means scripturally to come face-to-face with a God who can’t be depicted. No matter how long it takes, the implications of this reconciliation are—in a very literal sense—life-shattering.

Our human tendency is to attempt to contextualize this reconciliation in terms of human community, relationships, or personal connection, which we naturally understand in terms of loyalty—in other words—the way we understand family. If we just stick together, we rationalize, we can survive.

But that’s not how it works in Scripture.

I was doing a Bible study this week with a friend from the Jesuit community, a poet and teacher. We were hearing the Gospel of Mark while studying Fr. Paul’s commentary and looking at lexicography.

I noticed something interesting in Mark with the use of the word “synagogue.” A similar pattern appears in Luke with respect to the problem of people gathering.

Humans gather for security, fellowship, even for celebration, when we should be on the move—moving outside of the city wherever the teaching moves, away from human control.

My daughter asked me this week if there was anyone I thought could be president of the United States who could stand up to the criticism of the Bible. I said, “no,” and quickly added, “I myself don’t stand up to this criticism.”

I established a small mission church in my hometown with people I knew. As with most humans, everyone involved, including me, had good intentions.

Still, like the government, it’s a human institution with all the same complications, difficulties, and corruption because it’s made up of human beings who want something other than what Jesus brings to the synagogue.

The reason people don’t like it when the gospel dismantles their idols is that if they can’t believe in something—a system, a program, a nation, an idea, a hero—they can’t believe in themselves. So as long as you’re defending something—anything you judge worthy of being redeemed—you will never be able to encounter the inexistant, undepictable, indescribable, and incomprehensible God of Scripture, whose pass of entry demands that you have no other gods before him—least of all and last of all, yourself.

I keep saying it, but none can hear it, because none are willing to believe it.

If I say it nicely, you will praise my humility—shutting yourself out of the Kingdom. If I act it out, you will see what I am and condemn me—and then there is hope for both of us: because all will see that we who have gathered at church are no different than the prostitute and the thief.

As Paul said, “because there is no difference; οὐ γάρ ἐστιν διαστολή” (Romans 3:22)

We are the evil Americans.

This week, I discuss Luke 6:6-7.

In The Republic, the Platonic school discusses the origin of the state and the nature of human justice, implying that necessity drives the creation of human invention.

Years later, in 2024, Plato’s school produced Blue Anon and its twin cousin, the historical realization of President Camacho. They gave birth to a son, and they called his name Adenoid Hynkel. He appeared unto them as a guest speaker in the hallowed hall of Plato's democracy.

But remained the scroll of Genesis, wherein (despite their ignorance of its unvocalized Semitic letters) the biblical text ridicules human invention, circumscribing the act of creation to a deity that cannot be depicted, described, or conceived of as an imaginary projection of the human mind.

According to _Genesis_, a political gathering comprised of touching personal narratives is blasphemous because this God cannot appear in your stories. Likewise, your spin doctors are an affront to God—your powerful people who justify violence, propping up a Manchurian candidate—your city builders and storytellers, creatives who invent things out of the necessity of Plato's state.

Their mother is your lust for survival.

You know who they are in the original Star Wars universe, And if Obi-Wan were here, you know what he would say.

“That is not the mother you are looking for.”

Throughout the books of the Law, the God of Abraham utters ordinances and statutes with his promise of life, which is given part and parcel of the threat of the curse of the Law.

In Ezekiel, the hearers of the Law come face to face with this teaching in exile.

What does the Sabbath mean in the wilderness?

What is the blessing of God’s curse?

Why do Ezekiel, Leviticus, and Luke prescribe necessity as the mother, not of invention, but obligation?

This week I discuss Luke 6:2-5.

(Episode 527)

Things are never what they seem and your eyes can deceive you. Maybe that’s why Sesame Street was so important for so many of us growing up in the seventies.

In 1968, Joan Ganz Cooney introduced the show with the teaching segment, “One of These Things.” Her work, set to music by Joe Raposo, conveyed a methodology for study and a life-saving template for correct behavior.

“One of these things,” brothers and sisters, always and forever, is not like the others.

Thank God for that; and thank God for Sesame Street, and the teachers of that era who gave a damn, made an effort and used their capacity to teach as many kids as possible (people they would never meet) the power of observation.

Roots, Habibi, not fruits.

“One of these things is not like the others.”

Are these things different?

How do these things fit together?

Why do some things stand apart?

Why do things appear as they do?

Should these things be excluded because they are different?

Are they different?

‘Ayin-Bet-Resh

‘Ayin-Resh-Bet

Please, somebody, can you tell me how to get to Sesame Street?

“He who has ears to hear, let him hear.”

This week, I discuss Luke 6:1.

When you hear a parable on the lips of the Master, the worst thing you can possibly do is try to figure out what the parable means based on your understanding of the biblical narrative or narrative context.

But people do this all the time. It’s been done on this podcast—and it’s wrong.

The last thing any Bible student should do is try to figure out what the text is saying based on their knowledge.

Take, for example, the parable of the wineskins in Luke. Typical explanations compare old and new covenants, which leads less discriminating disciples to compare old and new communities.

Uhuh.

You sound like teenagers evaluating their parents—because your premise is that you are new and improved, better than what came before you.

Disgusting.

Like those who bravely protested the Vietnam War in the sixties before growing up to become the apologists and suppliers for the Gaza Genocide.

Western Values, habibi.

Like I said, disgusting.

Nothing new here—or anywhere else under the sun.

You believe in this nonsense because you approach the biblical text in terms of your understanding of a narrative, which is no different than your theology. It’s the same thing—a god in your head—a statue you construct to elevate yourself above others as a reference.

You and your “personal relationship” with a king you can manipulate control.

You know, the Jesus that wants you to kill Palestinians. That one. The one you constructed in nineteenth-century Europe. Or was it much earlier?

Why?

Because you are like Hymenaeus and Philetus—you need to be loved.

So, you refuse to submit as a hearer of the Bible. Instead, you insist on reading it because when you read the Bible, you control what you process and make what you control the reference.

According to Luke, when you do this, you become the old wineskin. You become the thing to be disregarded because you become the needy teacher.

If you want to hear the riddle—the dark saying—and submit to the mashal of the old wineskin, you must first stop vying to be the teacher who needs to be loved. The key to the wineskin’s riddle is not your narrative; it’s the Bible’s terminology.

This week, I discuss Luke 5:36–39.

(Episode 525)

Institution and family (or tribe, or community, or friends, take your pick) are two sides of the same coin. Both mechanisms rely on ancient forms of currency to maintain control.

The most obvious form of human currency is currency itself, money. But friends and family, just like big institutions and powerful kings, use other mechanisms of control to maintain what they perceive as wellbeing, safety, and security.

The worst of these is violence—but the most insidious is the infamous “personal relationship.” The merchant class calls it “networking.” Sociologists refer to it as “reciprocity.”

That’s why Christians love to boast about their “personal relationship” with Jesus Christ. What their theology proclaims is a less than mystical obsession, not with love, but their own self-importance They want to be insiders. They want influence over the crown.

Lonely Americans want to be the mother, brother, or sister that Jesus turns away in Luke 8. (Luke 8:21) They want to be his insider. His Peter. They want to be the guarantors of security.

But security for whom?

Much later, in John (21:17), Jesus warns his betrayer, “I’m not interested in your love. I'm interested in the work.”

The educated class in the United States is easily fooled by Western imperialism, because they have been groomed from a young age to believe in themselves, their lives, their feelings, and the centrality of their relationships.

They are incapable of hearing Scripture, which is not about their feelings and has no interest in their personal lives.

The God of Scripture is neither relatable nor relational. He is instructional.

“Do this and you shall live.” (Luke 10:28)

That’s good news for the poor. However, for the well meaning colonial, it is confusing. They need their tyrant to be a “decent man who cares deeply” about the people of Gaza, while funding and supplying Gaza’s extermination. How else could they feel good about living out their lies?

It is not complex. You are self-righteous.

Shall I pause, now, for you to extrospect?

You sound like Tobit, habibi. A well-meaning, upstanding, almsgiving do-gooder who complains to God, “I have had to listen to undeserved insults.”

Yes, Tobit. Yes. You blind fool! God is insulting you: because the Bridegroom did not come to call “Tobit the Righteous” to repentance.

Father Marc discusses Luke 5:34-35 (Episode 524)

What is self-righteousness?

You hear the command of God, and refuse to introspect. You do not, as Paul teaches, “look to yourself.”

You look to others.

You gossip. You nitpick. You complain. You find fault. You do everything under the sun but consider the one thing that is needful in God’s eyes:

The most likely possibility.

That you, oh man (or woman)—I mean, let’s be generous—oh bipedal humanoid earth mammal—you, and nobody else but you, are the problem.

But you do not consider this. You do not introspect. So when the voice of the Lord touches your heart, you “extrospect.”

You observe and consider the external world and external things.

What a lovely capitalist you make.

You are the perfect fit for judging others, for giving your opinion: for shopping, and critiquing what people do, how they talk, how they conduct their affairs, even how they look.

Extrospection is just another word for playing God—playing Judge.

To borrow and bend a line from Captain America:
“There’s only one God, ma’am, and I’m pretty sure he is not you.”

Introspection, the extrospective theologian boasts, leads to prayer and fasting. Why? Because the extrospect worships the very control they seek through extrospection.

So prayer, for the extrospect, is not submission. It’s AIPAC money.
Fasting, for the extrospect, is not weakness. It’s a corporate PAC.

I have bad news kids. God the Father is not for sale. Jesus is not Bernie Sanders.

You’re not trying to fit into the system. And make things work.

The good news is, he will not sell you out. The bad news is, he cannot be bought.

This week, I’ll explore the Hebrew and Arabic functions that ground Luke’s use of the term deēseis in Luke 5:33.

Passage:

Οἱ δὲ εἶπαν πρὸς αὐτόν· Οἱ μαθηταὶ Ἰωάννου νηστεύουσιν πυκνὰ καὶ δεήσεις ποιοῦνται, ὁμοίως καὶ οἱ τῶν Φαρισαίων, οἱ δὲ σοὶ ἐσθίουσιν καὶ πίνουσιν. (Luke 5:33)

And they said to him, “The disciples of John often fast and offer prayers, the disciples of the Pharisees also do the same, but yours eat and drink.” (Luke 5:33)

Father Marc discusses Luke 5:33 (Episode 523)

Father Marc Boulos provides an update on upcoming episodes of “The Bible as Literature Podcast” and makes an important announcement about Father Paul’s podcast series, “Tarazi Tuesdays.”

He also shares that he is relaunching “The Bible as Literature Podcast,” emphasizing functionality and language, steering away from theology and narrative. He discusses the importance of understanding sacred texts through the study of grammar and the original languages, especially Hebrew and Arabic, and how this approach submits to the text of Scripture, facilitating table fellowship.

Article mentioned in the program:

Celebrating the Jewish Grammarians of Al-Andalus

By Blaise Webster

“Lately, much of my study has been dedicated to Hebrew and Arabic lexicography. I am fascinated by the close relationship between these two languages and how they create natural links between the Bible and the Qur’an. I am fascinated by how both texts use virtually the same vocabulary, share the same cultural milieu, and fundamentally share the same exhortation to submit to the one God and to serve the needy neighbor. It is a world that eschews divisive theologies and speculative philosophizing.”

Link: https://medium.com/@webproductions28/celebrating-the-jewish-grammarians-of-al-andalus-34fc4597443e

Father Marc discusses the triliteral ʿ-ṣ-b. (Episode 522)