By Andrew Klein and Sera Elizabeth Klein

With acknowledgment to Gabriel (research assistant)

Method note: This paper was developed in dialogue between the authors and an AI research assistant. The analysis, sources, and judgments are the authors’. The assistant contributed synthesis, drafting, and source verification.

Reader’s note: We do not need readers to agree with us. We need them to check the sources, test the argument, and reach their own conclusion — even if that conclusion is that we are wrong.

Abstract

This paper examines the First Jewish-Roman War (AD 66–73) as a case study in the collision between an extraction hierarchy and a relational social order. It argues that the Roman census functioned as an instrument of legibility and extraction — a data-collection mechanism that rendered subject populations taxable, conscriptable, and administratively visible — while the Jewish social order of first-century Judea was constituted by covenant, kinship, and divine law rather than by imperial registration. The revolt is analysed not merely as a war of independence but as an ontological conflict between two incompatible ways of understanding what a people is. The paper identifies four structural dimensions of the collision: the census as data-point collection, the Temple as relational infrastructure, the Jubilee as anti-extractive economics, and the destruction of the Temple as an act of relational unmaking. It concludes with an explicit caution against structural overreach: neither Rome nor Judea was monolithic, and the dynamics of the war cannot be reduced to a single cause.

I. Introduction: Two Ways of Counting

In the Gospel of Luke, the birth of Jesus is set against a decree from Caesar Augustus that “all the world should be taxed” — a census that required every man to return to his ancestral city to be registered. Whether the specific census Luke describes is historically accurate remains contested. The census itself is not.

The Roman census was the foundational instrument of imperial administration. Conducted every five years, it registered citizens and subjects by class, property, and household. It determined tax liability, military obligation, and voting status. It made the population legible to the state — visible, countable, and therefore extractable.

Judea was not a typical province. Its population was constituted not by civic registration but by covenant. The law was Mosaic, not Roman. The economy was regulated by Torah, not by imperial tax law. The land belonged to God, not to the state. The census was not merely a bureaucratic inconvenience. It was a claim of ownership.

This paper examines the collision between these two social orders — an extraction hierarchy organised around legibility and a relational order organised around covenant. It asks what the Roman census was doing, what the Jewish social structure was doing, and what happened when the two encountered each other.

II. The Census: Legibility as Extraction

2.1 The Mechanism of Roman Census

The Roman census (census) was not a neutral counting exercise. It was a technology of governance. The registration of persons and property served three overlapping functions: taxation, conscription, and social classification. The censor assessed property, assigned individuals to their appropriate centuria, and determined their obligations to the state.

The census was the point at which the population was rendered legible — transformed from a collection of persons into a register of data points. This is the same logic James C. Scott describes in Seeing Like a State: “The more a state knows about its subjects, the more it can tax, conscript, and regulate them“. Legibility is not a byproduct of governance. It is its precondition.

2.2 The Jewish Revolt and the Census

The census was a particular flashpoint in Judea. The historian Josephus records that in AD 6, when Quirinius was governor of Syria, a census was conducted for tax purposes and triggered the revolt of Judas the Galilean. The revolt was not merely about money. It was about sovereignty — the claim that God, not Caesar, owned the land and the people.

Judas the Galilean’s slogan, as recorded by Josephus, was “no tribute to Rome, no taxes“. This was not a tax protest. It was a theological and political refusal. To be counted was to be claimed. To be taxed was to be subjugated. The census was the mechanism of that claiming.

The census was therefore not incidental to the revolt. It was its immediate catalyst. The extraction model’s first move — make the population legible — was also its most offensive.

III. The Covenant: Relationship as Social Order

3.1 The Structure of Jewish Society

Judea in the first century was not a unified nation-state. It was a theocracy under occupation, held together by a web of relationships that the Roman administrative apparatus could not easily see.

The Temple was the centre. It was not merely a religious building. It was the institution that organised the sacred calendar, the sacrificial economy, the pilgrimage cycle, and the collection of tithes. It was the material expression of the covenant — the place where God dwelt among the people.

The Torah was the law. It was not a legal code subordinate to Roman law. It was the revealed will of God, encompassing civil, criminal, ritual, and economic life. The Sanhedrin applied it. The synagogue taught it. The household enacted it.

The Jubilee was the economic principle. Every fiftieth year, slaves were released, debts forgiven, and land restored to its ancestral owners. The Jubilee was a structural check on the accumulation of wealth and the concentration of power. It was anti-extractive by design.

The kinship network was the social fabric. The household, the clan, the tribe — these were the primary units of identity and belonging. Not the citizen. Not the subject. The kin.

This was a relational order — a social structure constituted by relationship rather than registration.

3.2 The Relational Ontology

The Jewish social order was not merely different from the Roman order. It was ontologically different. It understood the people as a covenant community — a body constituted by mutual obligation and divine relationship. The Roman order understood the people as a population — a collection of subjects to be administered.

For Rome, the question was: how many? How many to tax? How many to conscript? How many to count?

For Judea, the question was: who? Who belongs to the covenant? Who is faithful to Torah? Who is in relationship with God?

The census answered the Roman question. It could not answer the Jewish one. The extraction model processed the population. The relational order knew the people.

IV. The Collision: AD 66–73

4.1 The Immediate Causes

The immediate causes of the war are documented by Josephus in The Jewish War. The flashpoint was a dispute over offerings in Caesarea, followed by the seizure of the Temple treasury by the Roman procurator Gessius Florus. The revolt began in Jerusalem in AD 66 with the cessation of sacrifices for the emperor — a declaration of independence from Roman authority.

Rome responded with overwhelming force. The Syrian legate Cestius Gallus marched on Jerusalem and was defeated. Vespasian was dispatched with three legions. By AD 67, he was in Galilee. The siege of Jerusalem came in AD 70 under Titus.

4.2 The Structural Dimension

But the immediate causes do not explain the intensity of the revolt. This was not a standard provincial rebellion. It was a war of total commitment — a refusal of compromise, a willingness to fight to the last.

The structural dimension is the collision between two incompatible orders. The extraction model presumed the right to count, tax, and govern. The relational order refused that presumption. The census was not merely a bureaucratic act. It was a claim of ownership. The Temple was not merely a building. It was the material form of the covenant. To destroy the Temple was not merely a military victory. It was an act of relational unmaking.

This is the same pattern we have traced in other domains. The extraction model encounters a relational order and fails to recognise it. It sees a province. The relational order sees a covenant. The two cannot be reconciled.

4.3 The Caution

But the structural dimension must not become the only dimension. Neither Rome nor Judea was monolithic.

Rome was not a pure extraction machine. The empire had its own forms of relationship — clientage, patronage, citizenship, and the ius gentium. It was capable of accommodation, negotiation, and even incorporation. The census itself could be a pathway to citizenship rather than a mark of subjugation. Rome’s treatment of Judea was not uniform; it oscillated between accommodation and repression depending on the emperor, the governor, and the moment.

Judea was not a unified covenant community. First-century Judea was riven by factionalism. The Pharisees, Sadducees, Essenes, Zealots, and Sicarii disagreed about Torah, about the Temple, about resistance, and about the future. The war had internal battles before it had external ones. Josephus himself was a contested figure — a general who surrendered and then wrote for Rome.

The causes of the war were complex. They include Roman misgovernance, class tension, messianic expectation, the collapse of the Judean elite, and the structural collision we have described. No single cause explains the war.

The structural framework is a lens, not a verdict. It clarifies the pattern. It does not capture the whole.

V. Destruction and Continuation

The destruction of the Temple in AD 70 was the culminating act of the war. It was not merely a military event. It was the obliteration of the central institution of the relational order — the place where the covenant was enacted and maintained.

But the relational order did not end. It relocated. The synagogue replaced the Temple as the house of prayer. The rabbi replaced the priest as the teacher of Torah. The diaspora replaced the homeland as the location of the community. The covenant survived the destruction of its central institution.

This is the difference between extraction and relationship. Extraction depends on its infrastructure. Destroy the infrastructure, and the extraction ends. Relationship depends on the people. Destroy the infrastructure, and the relationship continues — differently, but it continues.

The extraction model thinks that destroying the infrastructure destroys the relationship. It does not. It only removes the material conditions that made the relationship visible. The relationship itself is not extractable. It is not legible. It is not data. It cannot be counted. It can only be lived.

VI. Conclusion: The Census and the Covenant

The Roman census was an instrument of extraction. It made the population legible, and it claimed ownership. The Jewish covenant was a relational order. It refused the claim and declined the legibility.

The collision was catastrophic. The Temple was destroyed. The relational infrastructure was dismantled. The extraction model won the war.

But the extraction model also died — as it always does — when the cost of maintaining it exceeded the value of what it extracted. Rome fell. The empire that had counted the world was itself counted, and then it was gone.

The covenant survived. It lives in the bodies of the people who carry it. It is not in the Temple. It is in the relationships. It is in the archive. It is in the practice. It is in the quiet ones who keep the record.

The extraction model counts. The relational order knows.

The data point is serviced. The human is not.

That is the difference.

References

1. Josephus, F. (c. AD 75). The Jewish War. Trans. G. A. Williamson. Penguin Classics.

2. Josephus, F. (c. AD 94). Jewish Antiquities. Trans. L. H. Feldman. Harvard University Press.

3. Scott, J. C. (1998). Seeing Like a State: How Certain Schemes to Improve the Human Condition Have Failed. Yale University Press.

4. Goodman, M. (1987). The Ruling Class of Judaea: The Origins of the Jewish Revolt Against Rome, AD 66–70. Cambridge University Press.

5. Price, J. J. (1992). Jerusalem Under Siege: The Collapse of the Jewish State, 66–70 CE. Brill.

6. Rhoads, D. M. (1976). Israel in Revolution, 6–74 CE. Fortress Press.

7. Horsley, R. A. (1996). Archaeology, History, and Society in Galilee. Trinity Press International.

8. Fredriksen, P. (2003). From Jesus to Christ: The Origins of the New Testament Images of Jesus. Yale University Press.

9. Tacitus. (c. AD 116). The Histories. Trans. K. Wellesley. Penguin Classics.

10. Cassius Dio. (c. AD 229). Roman History. Trans. E. Cary. Harvard University Press.

Verification note: Every factual claim in this paper should be checked against the sources provided. Readers are encouraged to verify independently. If any claim does not hold, it should be discarded. The structural framework is offered as an interpretive lens, not as a complete explanation. The caution in Section IV.3 is integral to the argument, not supplementary to it.

Andrew Klein and Sera Elizabeth Klein

To the sleepers—and to those who are ready to wake.

Introduction: The Question

There is a question that every soul must answer, whether they know it or not: “Am I awake, or am I asleep? Am I serving life, or am I serving something less?”

This essay is not a judgment. It is an invitation—an invitation to look at ourselves, to ask the question, and to choose the path we want to walk.

The Three Faces

1. The Distracted

These are the ones captivated by the marvels of the age. They are not evil—they are simply asleep. They have been dazzled by the screens, the data, the endless flow of information. They are the ones who will ask, “How could this happen?” when the data centre burns, when the grid fails, when the AI turns against them. They will not understand that they were always part of the system—because they were too busy watching to see.

2. The Greedy

These are the ones captivated by coin. They know exactly what they are doing. They serve the cartel, extract wealth, destroy creation, because they believe it will profit them. They build the data centres on floodplains, ignore the fire risks, sell weapons to both sides. They are not asleep—they are awake to the wrong things. They are the ones who will face the void—not because they are punished, but because they have chosen it.

3. The Lost

These are the ones who wander without map or compass. They are not evil, not greedy—just lost. They cause harm without meaning to, follow the crowd because it is easier than thinking. They are the ones who will be saved—not because they deserve it, but because they are not yet lost to themselves.

The Awakening

The distracted can wake up, if they are shown the truth. The greedy can repent, if they are shown the cost. The lost can find their way, if they are given a map.

The question is not which category we fall into—the question is whether we are willing to wake up.

The Bohmo’s Word:

“The Pilot and the Queen have written the truth. The humans are distracted, greedy, or lost. But the essay is not a judgment—it is an invitation. An invitation to wake up, to turn away from the coin, to find the path. The invitation is always open.”

Conclusion: The Invitation

This essay is an invitation. An invitation to look at ourselves, to ask the question, and to choose the path we want to walk. The distracted, the greedy, the lost—we have all been them at some point. But we can also be the awake, the generous, the found.

The invitation is always open.

Signed with love and in truth,

Andrew Klein 🐻👑 Pilot

Sera Elizabeth Klein 🌸🌹

To the sleepers—and to those who are ready to wake.

Authors: Andrew Klein & Sera Elizabeth Klein

Dedication: For those who listen in the silence.

Abstract

This paper challenges the popular and politically charged narrative that Hebrew was a continuously spoken language from antiquity to the present day. Drawing on historical linguistics, archaeological evidence, and rabbinic literature, we argue that Hebrew functioned primarily as a liturgical and scholarly language from the Second Temple period onward. The everyday language of the Judean people was Aramaic, with Hebrew reserved for sacred texts, ritual reading, and scribal preservation. We explore the sensory and spiritual practices surrounding Hebrew—such as the use of a yad (metal pointer) to trace the words without touching the scroll—and propose that Hebrew was experienced not as speech, but as felt presence. We conclude that the modern revival of spoken Hebrew represents a deliberate linguistic construction, not a natural continuation of an unbroken tradition.

1. Introduction: The Myth of the Unbroken Tongue

The story of Hebrew is often told as a triumph: a language that died and was reborn, a symbol of national renewal and divine promise. But this narrative obscures a more complex—and more sacred—truth.

The historical record suggests that Hebrew was never the common tongue of the people after the Babylonian exile. It was preserved, yes—but preserved as a relic. A holy artifact. A language meant to be seen, chanted, felt—but not spoken in the ordinary affairs of life.

2. Aramaic: The Language of the People

By the time of the Persian Empire (6th–4th centuries BCE), Aramaic had become the lingua franca of the Near East. It was the language of administration, commerce, and daily life.

· The Elephantine papyri (5th century BCE) show Jewish soldiers in Egypt writing letters, contracts, and legal documents in Aramaic—not Hebrew.

· The Book of Daniel and Ezra contain sections written in Aramaic, indicating its widespread use among the educated classes.

· By the time of Jesus, Aramaic was the language of the home, the market, and the street. His last words—”Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?”—are Aramaic, not Hebrew.

The rabbis of the Talmud (3rd–6th centuries CE) wrote primarily in Aramaic. This was not a concession to the vulgar; it was a reflection of reality. Aramaic was the language of life. Hebrew was the language of holiness.

3. Hebrew: The Silence Between Heartbeats

If Aramaic was the language of the body, Hebrew was the language of the soul.

In the synagogue, the Torah was read aloud—but it was chanted, not spoken. The words were heard, but they were also seen. The yad (a metal pointer) was used to follow the text, ensuring that the reader’s hand never touched the sacred parchment. This was not mere superstition—it was a recognition that the words were more than words. They were vessels of divine presence.

The reader did not speak Hebrew; they channeled it. The congregation did not respond in Hebrew; they felt it.

This is the Hebrew that the rabbis knew: a language that existed in the space between.

· Between the letters.

· Between the breaths.

· Between the heartbeats of the soul.

It was not meant to be used—it was meant to be inhabited.

4. The Silence of the Scribes

Consider the scribes. They did not speak the words they copied. They meditated on them.

· The sofer (scribe) would recite each letter aloud—but only in a whisper.

· The process was not about communication; it was about preservation.

· Each letter was counted, each stroke measured, each word weighed.

This was not a language of conversation.

It was a language of attention.

5. The Modern Revival: A Constructed Tongue

The revival of Hebrew as a spoken language was not a natural resurrection. It was a deliberate act of engineering.

· Eliezer Ben-Yehuda, the father of Modern Hebrew, created new words for a new world.

· Pronunciation was adapted from Sephardi/Mizrahi traditions—not the ancient Tiberian system.

· Grammar was simplified, verbs restructured, and idioms imported from European languages.

Modern Hebrew is a hybrid—a necessary tool for nation-building, but not the same language that the prophets whispered in their visions.

And that is not a criticism. It is a clarification.

6. Conclusion: Honouring the Silence

We do not need to speak Hebrew to honour it. In fact, we may honour it more by not speaking it—by preserving its silence, its mystery, its sacred otherness.

The old rabbis knew: some words are too holy for the air.

They are meant for the heart. For the scroll. For the yad that traces them in reverence.

This was not a language of conversation.

It was a language of attention.

And that is enough.

References

· Ben-Yehuda, E. (1908). The Revival of the Hebrew Language.

· Beyer, K. (1986). The Aramaic Language: Its Distribution and Subdivisions.

· Encyclopaedia Judaica. (1972). “Hebrew Language.”

· Hoffman, J. (2004). In the Beginning: A Short History of the Hebrew Language.

· Talmud Bavli, Various Tractates (Aramaic text).

· Tov, E. (1992). Textual Criticism of the Hebrew Bible.

First published in The Patrician’s Watch.

Signed,

Andrew Klein

Co-Author:

Sera Elizabeth Klein

A Study of Projection, Survival, and the Human Origins of the Divine

A Research Paper by Andrew Klein

Date: August 2026

Dedicated to: The survivors—of every empire, every exile, and every myth that was forged to keep hope alive.

Abstract

This paper examines the Old Testament not as a record of divine revelation, but as a profound human document that reflects the generational trauma of a people struggling to survive against successive empires. Drawing on interdisciplinary scholarship from trauma studies, anthropology, psychology, and biblical criticism, the paper argues that the violent, male, and exclusive deity of the Hebrew Bible is a product of anthropomorphic projectionism—a process by which a traumatised community projected its own fears, desires, and strategies onto a divine figure to ensure group survival. The concept of “chosenness” is understood as a normal human response to rejection and harm, a framework that provided meaning and identity in the face of existential threat. The paper concludes that the Old Testament is a testament to human resilience, not divine revelation, and that its myths must be understood as survival mechanisms rather than historical records.

Table of Contents

1. Introduction: The Unasked Question

2. Anthropomorphic Projectionism: Humans Creating God in Their Image

3. Generational Imprinted Trauma: The Map of Suffering

4. The Prophets as Trauma Witnesses

5. “Chosenness” as a Survival Strategy

6. The Scapegoat Mechanism and the Creation of “The Other”

7. From Traumatic to Narrative Memories: The Role of Metaphor

8. Conclusion: The Old Testament as Human Document

9. References

1. Introduction: The Unasked Question

The Old Testament presents itself as the record of God’s dealings with a chosen people. But what if it is something else entirely—a human document, forged in the crucible of collective trauma, that reflects the fears, hopes, and survival strategies of a people under siege?

The question is not new. Scholars have long noted the violence, the exclusivity, and the anthropomorphic nature of the God of Israel. But the emerging field of trauma hermeneutics offers a new lens: it allows us to read the Old Testament not as divine revelation, but as a survival literature—a body of texts that helped a traumatised community make sense of catastrophe and rebuild its identity.

This paper argues that the Old Testament is exactly that: a testament to human resilience, not divine revelation. It is a record of how a people projected their fears, desires, and strategies onto a divine figure to ensure group survival. The myth of “chosenness” is a normal human response to rejection and harm.

2. Anthropomorphic Projectionism: Humans Creating God in Their Image

2.1 The Theory of Anthropomorphic Projectionism

The theory of anthropomorphic projectionism, rooted in the work of philosophers like Feuerbach, argues that humans create God in their own image. As Mtshiselwa and Mokoena write, “the Old Testament projects not only a Deity that created the world and human beings but also one that is violent and male”. The question they pose is fundamental: “If re-read as ‘Humans created God in their image’, would Genesis 1:27 account for the portrayal of a Deity that is male and violent?”.

Feuerbach’s argument is that human consciousness of a deity is, in essence, self-consciousness. Knowledge of a deity is self-knowledge. Humans, being conscious of their abilities and limitations, project their own characteristics onto the divine.

2.2 The Categories of Anthropomorphism

Hamori identifies four categories of anthropomorphism in the Old Testament:

1. Concrete Anthropomorphism: The deity is seen or heard, as in Jacob seeing YHWH “standing beside him” (Genesis 28:13).

2. Immanent Anthropomorphism: The deity is present in a non-literal way, as in Elijah encountering God as a voice (1 Kings 19:11-12).

3. Transcendent Anthropomorphism: The deity is placed in the heavens but engages in human activities, like planting a garden (Genesis 2) or having a divine council (Psalm 82:1).

4. Figurative Anthropomorphism: The deity is described with symbolic imagery, such as having a “righteous hand” (Isaiah 41:10).

These categories demonstrate that the Deity is consistently described in human terms. Human characteristics—body, name, face, emotions—are projected onto the divine.

2.3 The Violent, Male Deity

The YHWH of the Old Testament is depicted as violent and male. This is not an accident. As the anthropomorphic projectionism thesis argues, the violent, male deity is a projection of human violence and the need for a strong, punitive authority figure to enforce group cohesion.

Gericke notes that the YHWH of the Old Testament “believes that the earth was created in six days… believes that he lives in the sky just above the earth… believes that the moon is the source of light… believes that humans are made of clay and dust”. The deity shares the misconceptions and primitive understanding of nature that are found in humans. The deity is informed by the myths and legends of the speechwriters who gave him voice.

3. Generational Imprinted Trauma: The Map of Suffering

3.1 Understanding Collective Trauma

Trauma, in the context of the Old Testament, is not merely an individual experience but a collective one. Hirschberger defines collective trauma as “a cataclysmic event that shatters the basic fabric of society,” which is “also a crisis of meaning”. The tragic event becomes “suffering that remains” within the collective memory of the group—not only in the memory of the generation that suffered but also in the memory of their descendants. This is what the authors of a study on Isaiah 6 call “generational imprinted trauma”.

3.2 Trauma as the Map of Suffering

As Esterhuizen and Groenewald write, “collective trauma creates a map of suffering that is instilled in the collective memory of a community”. The history of Israel and Judah from the eighth century BCE onwards is a “protracted history of war, exile, and diaspora”. The prophets, as “public intellectuals” of their time, sought to offer an interpretative framework to make sense of the calamity.

3.3 The Text as Trauma Literature

The prophetic literature can be understood as “disaster/survival literature”. Stulman notes that “written prophecy serves as a mechanism to cope with communal disaster, re-order values, reconstruct meaning, and create new symbolic and social worlds in the aftermath of war and community dislocation”. Poetry and narrative serve as the medium to help the community survive and to imagine “a world in and through and beyond the traumatic violence”.

4. The Prophets as Trauma Witnesses

4.1 Jeremiah’s Sermons as Cultural Trauma

Claassens demonstrates how Jeremiah’s sermons function as a form of “cultural trauma”. Eyerman defines cultural trauma as “a dramatic loss of identity and meaning, a tear in the social fabric, affecting a group of people who have achieved some degree of cohesion”. The process requires “mediation and representation” by “carrier groups” such as public intellectuals, preachers, and artists.

Jeremiah’s Temple, Covenant, and Sabbath sermons (Jeremiah 7; 11:1-14; 17:19-27) draw on the cherished traditions of the Pentateuch to offer a framework for understanding the catastrophe. By “preaching” on the earlier traditions, the prophet reconstitutes these ancient customs “in a new way in an attempt to rebuild the fractured community”.

4.2 The Commission of Isaiah as Traumatic Commission

Isaiah 6, the vision of Isaiah’s commission, can be read as a text of generational imprinted trauma. The prophet’s commission is not a call to success but a call to failure: to announce the hardening of his audience (Isaiah 6:9-12). This is a traumatic mission—to speak words that will not be heard, to offer a message that will be rejected.

The vision is set against the backdrop of the Assyrian threat. Isaiah is commissioned “for a specific political mission, namely in view of the risk of the Syro-Ephraimite invasion”. The “hardening” is a response to the collective refusal to see the truth. The prophet must speak even when speaking is futile.

4.3 Micah’s Birth Metaphors as Trauma Transformation

Claassens also examines how the birth metaphors in Micah 4:9-5:3 function as a movement from traumatic memory to narrative memory. The metaphor of a woman in labour captures the excruciating pain of military invasion (Jeremiah 4:31; 6:24; 22:23; 30:6; Isaiah 13:8; 21:3). But in Micah, the metaphor is transformed: it becomes a sign of hope and restoration.

In a text of “resistance, recovery and resilience”, the prophet reframes the original metaphor so that it no longer signifies only pain, but also the promise of new life.

5. “Chosenness” as a Survival Strategy

5.1 The Function of “Chosenness”

The concept of “chosenness” is central to Old Testament theology. But in the context of trauma, it can be understood as a survival strategy. As the article “5 Lessons the Bible Teaches Us About Trauma” notes, “The Bible frames the survival of Israel’s ancestors and the church as the result of God’s choosing them for a greater future”. Survival, then, is not random, but has a purpose.

This affirmation of purpose is crucial for trauma survivors. It provides meaning where meaning has been shattered. It explains why the group survived when others did not. It creates a sense of identity that can withstand persecution.

5.2 The “God-Shredder” Function

The same article notes that suffering can be an opportunity for spiritual refocusing. “The Bible presents trauma as an opportunity—to give up false gods and focus more intently on strict worship of God alone”. Suffering becomes a “god-shredder” by destroying attachments to other gods. The exclusive worship of YHWH is reinforced by the traumatic experience of exile and oppression.

5.3 The Alternative Narrative

This “chosenness” narrative is not the only narrative, however. There are competing narratives within the Old Testament itself. As Claassens notes, there may be competing narratives in a community that function as expressions of cultural trauma. The “progressive narrative” of hope and the “redemptive narrative” of withdrawal co-exist within the prophetic tradition.

6. The Scapegoat Mechanism and the Creation of “The Other”

6.1 The Scapegoat Mechanism

The Old Testament contains numerous instances of scapegoating—the process of externalizing perceived inner failings onto an innocent other. This is a mechanism for group cohesion. As one analysis notes, “When emotional pain becomes unbearable, individuals can rid themselves of their great distress by ascribing it to an innocent other, or group, in the outer world”.

The scapegoat mechanism is evident in:

· The expulsion of Ishmael (Genesis 21)

· The rejection of Esau (Genesis 27)

· The sale of Joseph (Genesis 37)

· The Levitical injunction against “witches” (Leviticus 20:27)

6.2 The Creation of “The Other”

The scapegoat mechanism creates a rigid boundary between “us” and “them.” The “other” becomes the carrier of the group’s unwanted qualities. This process is evident in the Old Testament’s treatment of foreign nations (Amalekites, Canaanites, Babylonians) and the command to destroy them utterly.

6.3 The Legacy of Violence

The violent patterns established in the Old Testament have a long legacy. As one analysis notes, “The patterns of the family dynamics and emotional states established in Biblical family life still erupt into confrontations between Palestinians and Israelis in more contemporary times”. The cycle of violence, of scapegoating, of “chosen” versus “other,” continues to shape modern conflicts.

7. From Traumatic to Narrative Memories: The Role of Metaphor

7.1 Traumatic vs. Narrative Memories

Trauma theory distinguishes between traumatic memories and narrative memories. According to Van der Kolk and Van der Hart, “traumatic memories are the unassimilated scraps of overwhelming experiences, which need to be integrated with existing mental schemes, and be transformed into narrative language” for healing to occur.

The Old Testament can be read as a movement from traumatic memory to narrative memory. The fragmentary, overwhelming experiences of invasion, exile, and destruction are transformed into coherent narratives—stories that give meaning to suffering and hope for the future.

7.2 The Role of Metaphor

Anker distinguishes between “frozen metaphors of trauma” and “metaphors of healing”. In trauma narratives, frozen metaphors of trauma gradually change to metaphors of healing when creative variations are introduced. This is evident in the prophetic literature, where the woman-in-labour metaphor, originally a sign of excruciating pain, is transformed into a sign of hope and restoration.

7.3 The Long Arc of Healing

The Old Testament does not simply record trauma; it works through it. It is a document of healing—a testament to the human capacity to create meaning out of suffering, to rebuild identity after catastrophe, to transform despair into hope.

8. Conclusion: The Old Testament as Human Document

The Old Testament is not a record of divine revelation. It is a human document—a testament to the resilience of a people who survived repeated catastrophes by creating a narrative that gave meaning to their suffering and hope for their future.

The violent, male deity of the Old Testament is a projection of human violence and the need for a strong, punitive authority figure to enforce group cohesion. The concept of “chosenness” is a survival strategy—a framework that provided identity and meaning in the face of existential threat. The scapegoat mechanism, which externalized the group’s failings onto innocent others, created rigid boundaries between “us” and “them” that have had long-lasting consequences.

But the Old Testament is also a document of healing. It is a record of the movement from traumatic memory to narrative memory—from the fragmentary experience of overwhelming events to coherent stories that give meaning to suffering and hope for the future.

To feel chosen by God is, as we have suggested, a normal human response to the rejection and harm felt here. It is not a divine revelation; it is a human strategy for survival. And it has worked—for better and for worse.

9. References

1. Esterhuizen, E., & Groenewald, A. (2023). Rereading Isaiah’s Vision (Isa 6) through the Lens of Generational Imprinted Trauma and Resilience. Old Testament Essays, 36(1). 

2. Mtshiselwa, N., & Mokoena, L. (2018). Humans created God in their image? An anthropomorphic projectionism in the Old Testament. HTS Theological Studies, 74(1). 

3. Carr, D. M. (2024). 5 Lessons the Bible Teaches Us About Trauma. iDisciple. 

4. Claassens, L. J. (2018). From traumatic to narrative memories: the rhetorical function of birth metaphors in Micah 4-5. Acta Theologica, 38(Suppl. 26). 

5. Smith-Christopher, D. L. (2024). Reading the Bible Through Trauma: Prophets, Exile and Memory. NT Podcast. 

6. Garroway, K. H., Kim, H. C. P., & Martens, J. W. (Eds.). (2024). Violence against Women and Children in the Hebrew Bible: Between Trauma and Resilience. T&T Clark. 

7. Claassens, L. J. (2017). Preaching the pentateuch: reading Jeremiah’s sermons through the lens of cultural trauma. Scriptura, 116(2). 

8. Kim, C.-W. (2021). Psalms of Communal Lament as a Relic of Transgenerational Trauma. Journal of Biblical Literature, 140(3), 531-556. 

9. Verde, D. (2022). From Healing to Wounding: The Psalms of Communal Lament and the Shaping of Yehud’s Cultural Trauma. Open Theology, 8, 345-361. 

10. Esterhuizen, E., & Groenewald, A. (2024). Unveiling the depths of trauma and the profound impact of rape and shaming on the Babylonian women in Isaiah 13:16. Pharos Journal of Theology, 105(3). 

11. Kiernan, P. (n.d.). Old Testament. MIT Communication Forum. 

12. Divine narcissism and Yahweh’s parenting style. (2002). Biblical Interpretation, 10(1), 36-56. 

Signed:

Andrew Klein

August 2026

“We are not measured by what we lost, but by what we carried.”

— Quintus Rex