Anonymous asked:
I want to share things like other anons do but I want you not to tell god
he'll never know (he's reading over my shoulder. and yours)
eesirachs reblogged
the rim, the margin, the כרכוב, has ritual form in the hebrew narrative. this referent appears in exodus' framing of the altar used for sacrifice. this altar is hollow, has acacia facing, a rim on its upper surface, and horns on each side, four phalluses that extend without rivening. the familiarity here needs naming, as there is another pentateuchal figure with hollowness, phallic horns and acacia facing—the ark. the ark and the altar haze into one another here, flesh of the rite unto flesh of heaven. yet in relief, the rim— כרכוב—raises itself to separate the two. only the altar has it. this rim, the skin ego of ritual slaughter, is a funeral rite for the offering and a reminder that hashem, offered in his own turn, might need a funeral rite also
Anonymous asked:
the genealogy of the patriarchs , why they name certain sons and daughters and not the others, and their descriptions of age are confusing to me. why were these figures written in that way? and if they are symbolic, it is not clear what they symbolize. if they are to be taken literally, why are we left with the historical problems that cant really pinpoint this genealogy in the ANE?
the history here is as about the mothers and fathers of the narrative as it is about the hands that held, shaped, named that narrative. the redactors, the oral stories, the voices of the unsaid—this is their history, too. and so the figures here need not appear neat to us, the holes need not be filled. the narrative hazes, opens itself for us, inviting and familiar and foreign at once. move alongside it, not against it
Anonymous asked:
The heart of the man who repeatedly denies God hardens by itself, because God abandons that man to himself.
hashem אֲחַזֵּ֣ק the heart of pharaoh—this is in piel imperfect, a tense reserved for intensive and resulting action. there is nothing passive here, and this ancient near eastern god, especially for the early yahwist source, refuses to remain remote or noninvolved
Anonymous asked:
why did god harden pharaoh’s heart? ive never known him do that anywhere else in the Bible
the yahwist narrative of exodus is a nonnarrative, really—hashem has a remoteness here, and a familiarity. an abjection that feels nostalgic, a heavenly antecedent never named. faith happens after the hardening, not in foreplay of it
i struggle to reconcile that god resides. he is not looking down from above nor walking beside. where is he. he cannot be everywhere?
'resides' has such fit-ness here. he's in your lap
eesirachs reblogged
referents in the hebrew narrative that are עָמֹק, amoq—holders, sheol, mouths and mouthfuls, skin. through amoq, then, skin nears these other holes, spreads, horizons. here, the skin ego, the organ of erogenous, haptic feel, the surface of self and nonself that hazes, falls in on itself, swallows, as sheol might, in mouthfuls
Anonymous asked:
Hi Samantha, I’m approaching this from a broader perspective on how we envision the future. My question is whether our efforts to improve the world are ultimately meaningful or if they’re in some way futile? can’t really pinpoint a theology or exegesis that answers this without circling back to heaven as post-life.
meaningful and futile—not meaningful or futile. that’s what you need here, i think. that and to read keller’s work on apocalypse
Anonymous asked:
I can't advise on anon's situation unfortunately, but could you elaborate on your response that god might be emergent from violence or, as you put it, "the making of us"? It's a very interesting thought, though not one I feel qualified to expand on.
heaven might emerge through and with us. violence and ex nihil and anon messages might serve as sites that, like cuts into the real, unveil something familiar and holy. or they might not
eesirachs reblogged
I am going to ask you a question, that I do not want to ask, and you may not want to answer. Please feel free to ignore, and I am sorry if i cause any harm. I love you.
The poet John Donne, after the death of his wife, speculates in a poem that God killed her because he was jealous of Donne's divided devotion. My question is if you have ever felt the same? Is such a thing possible? Would God do that to me? I do not have a beloved beside him, but I am a little afraid that if I got one... he might take him... visit my iniquity upon me...
I'm sorry again if this question hurts. I love you.
there is no stealing, yet his arms remain open. the violence of heaven isn’t that he has been taken from me but that he is there, safe and familiar, and i am not
prophets only perish in yerušalem. foreign and far from the holy of holies, the flesh of the rest is refused. amos and hosea, victims of assyria, are riven into the nonnarrative of the north. miriam, rotting in numbers, is forgotten in its sand. nineveh forecloses the nihil prophet from his end, nebuchadnezzar’s furnace shuts, huldah scrolls up. the hebrew narrative’s natality is fatal—a prophet either passes here, or not at all