God (n.) does ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not "take on body" but approaches through the relay of the neighbor — binding men to one another with obligation, each answering for the lives of all the others.

God (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not incarnate but somehow inscribed, his life lived in the letters, in the lines and between the lines, and in the arguments of readers commenting on them.

God (n.) in ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the Torah begins by clothing Adam and Eve and ends by burying Moses, the alpha and omega of the Divine being the jobs of tailor, clothier and gravedigger.

God (n.) reigns ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠only through an ethical order in which one being is answerable for another: God's reign depends on me.

The Torah (n.) eludes ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the hand that would hold it unveiled, and in the incessant labor of scholars to uncover it by objective research there may be heard a sound resembling the gnawing of rodents.

The Torah (n.) comes ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠from heaven by what it demands: against every being's natural perseverance in its own being, it commands care for the stranger, the widow and the orphan — a reversal of the order of things.

The Torah (n.) must ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠undergo translation into Greek as a necessary trial: the speech of Japheth must be welcomed into the tents of Shem.

The Torah (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠more intimate to a Jew than his own inner self — and yet what lives at that core is a propensity for the outside, a demand to enter into relations with all the nations.

A Face (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not a datum or an identity card by which the other is grasped within the world; before appearing to the eye it appeals to responsibility — nakedness, destitution, the uprightness of a defenseless exposure to death.

A Face (n.) in ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠its defenseless nakedness is at once a beggar's asking and an authority summoning me to respond — a mortal whose death "regards me," beyond my own.

A Face (n.) in ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠its weakness bears the commandment of a God and, whatever they say, a renouncing of the force of constraint.

A Face (n.) in ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠its nakedness, outside all distinctions of origin, wins favor in the eyes of men of every nationality, as Joseph the captive slave found favor with all.

Idolatry (n.) today ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠has no hieratic rites: it lives on as ideologies, fads and mad passions — some secret closing of the soul satisfied with a fetish, symbol or representation taken for a concept.

Idolatry (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not the spirit's childhood awaiting the Torah's maturity but a degradation — the banalizing of its gravity.

Idolatry (n.) may ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠worship visible certainty: the "thousand-year" regimes built on unswerving physical, political and economic laws. All idolatry is not always harmless.

Idolatry (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠real reality, natural reality — what takes over whenever attention to the Word lapses.

Mercy (n.) appears ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠when Rebekah waters the camels, who cannot ask to drink, and the primordial waters of chaos rise to meet her, taking on meaning in that service.

Mercy (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the breaking forth, in its very misery, of the I forced by suffering back into the shackles of the self.

Mercy (n.) survives ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the inhuman from one human uniqueness to another — independently of, and as if in spite of, the political or ecclesiastic structures in which it was always exhibited.

Mercy (n.) without ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the firmness of justice risks the naivety of trying to "douse the worldwide conflagration with a syringe."

Greek (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the language of deciphering: it demystifies, demythicizes, depoeticizes — prose, the prose of commentary.

Greek (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a language that bites reality without leaving marks — able to unsay and resay, a metalanguage protecting what is said from the structures of language itself.

Greek (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the only tongue the Bible must be translated into, and perhaps also the tongue it must be translated into.

Greek (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the language that questions by affirming and affirms by denying — the twist of signs that was destined to become universal, academic discourse.

Philosophy (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the wisdom of love: a reasonable, ancillary or angelic order of justice laid over the extravagant generosity of the for-the-other — a measure applied to the infinite.

Philosophy (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠derived from religion — called forth by religion adrift, and religion is probably always adrift.

Philosophy (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠discourse addressed to Greeks: to completely open minds requiring totally explicit ideas, where all that is normally taken for granted is said.

Philosophy (n.) lies ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠implicit in ways of being and mores — which may clash with other mores, bringing about wars and persecution before declaring themselves.

Inspiration (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the sublime ambiguity of human language — a word whose meaning takes even the speaker by surprise.

Inspiration (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠probably truly figured by the Levites who carried the Ark across the desert and were carried by it.

Inspiration (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠recognized by human beings with known names, from the meaning inside the text — as if the human had heard the echo of God's word before the sound.

Inspiration (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not a text's knack for anticipating modernity and its "progress" but the human aptitude to correspond to the absolute will — "they fulfilled what they accepted."

Responsibility (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠what makes us like God: man is answerable for the universe, for others — his own salvation depends on it only indirectly.

Responsibility (n.) for ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the other, which is in a way insane, may be the very human calling in being — the other's being and death more important than my own, cared for before I've taken stock of what I am and have.

Responsibility (n.) for ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the first one to come along — even a beast — exceeds the demand heard in the face of the other: in Rebekah's kindness Abraham's servant recognized Sinai.

Responsibility (n.) only ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠loosens the clenched teeth to respond to God's word in the face of the other.

Revelation (n.) establishes ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠nothing: it connects the non-additive — a connection for which language, sociality or love is the original metaphor. Establishing produces systems; Revelation is life.

Revelation (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠God's coming out toward man shut up in his ipseity — presence ever renewed, that is, love.

Revelation (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a solicitation of solicitation: a word that already sounds like a quotation, a dead language to be resuscitated, calling for sages to solicit the text, commentary upon commentary.

Revelation (n.) passes ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠through the human: humanity in its plurality of persons is the very place of question and answer, where the prophetic becomes a lived life.