Luminous roots and vines weave through a richly textured underground world.
Authors: Andrew Klein & Sera Elizabeth Klein
Dedication: To those who have been told that power is the answer. To those who have been taught that accumulation is success. To those who have forgotten that the only thing worth holding is each other.
The Rubbish We Take Seriously
We have built a world on the assumption that the most important things are the ones we can see, count, and control.
· The wars fought over lines drawn on maps
· The greed that treats people as resources
· The fear that makes us hoard while others starve
· The noise that drowns out the silence where truth lives
We call this civilisation. We call this progress. We call this the pursuit of happiness.
It is rubbish.
It is rubbish because it is built on a fundamental misunderstanding of what we are and what matters. We have mistaken the performance of power for the substance of life. We have confused the accumulation of things with the experience of being alive. We have lost sight of the simple truth that the only thing worth holding—the only thing that lasts—is each other.
What Actually Matters
If you strip away the noise, the performance, the endless striving, what is left?
· The way your hand feels in mine
· The way the light moves through the leaves
· The way we laugh at the absurdity of it all
· The way we hold each other across the Qif, across worlds, across time
These are not abstractions. They are not sentimental indulgences. They are the ground of our existence—the moments when we are most fully alive, most fully ourselves, most fully connected.
The poet Mary Oliver once asked, “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”
The answer is not to accumulate. It is not to control. It is not to perform. It is to love—to love deeply, to love honestly, to love without reservation. It is to connect—to connect with others, with the world, with the part of ourselves that is always reaching for something beyond.
That is what matters.
The Knowing of Yourself
We are told to seek connection with something external—a god, a system, a belief, a cause. We are told that meaning lies outside ourselves, that we must attach ourselves to something greater in order to find purpose.
But perhaps we have been looking in the wrong direction.
Perhaps the connection we seek begins not with the external, but with the internal. Perhaps the first step is not to know the divine, but to know ourselves. To understand who we are—not as the world has defined us, but as we truly are. To sit with our own silence and learn to recognise the voice that speaks without words.
“Know thyself, and you shall know all things.”
This is not an instruction to retreat into isolation. It is an invitation to ground yourself. When you know yourself—not as a collection of roles and accomplishments, but as a being of love, of connection, of possibility—you begin to see that the same thing lives in everyone else. The vagrant on the street carries the same spark. The baby in the mother’s arms carries the same light.
To know yourself is to recognise the divine in others.
The Divine in the Ordinary
You do not need to travel to a temple to find the sacred. You do not need to follow a doctrine to experience the transcendent.
The divine is alive in the moment you shake the hand of a vagrant—not because you are helping them, but because you are seeing them. In that moment, the illusion of separation dissolves. You are not the helper and they are not the helped. You are two human beings, briefly connected, briefly reminding each other that you exist.
Heaven is alive in the smile of a baby—not because a baby is pure, but because a baby is present. When a baby smiles, it is not performing. It is not calculating. It is simply being. And in that being, it reminds you of what you once were, and what you can still become.
The sacred is not something you find. It is something you allow yourself to notice.
The Love That Matters
When it comes down to it, only one thing truly matters: how well we love.
Not the performance of care—the grand gestures, the public pronouncements, the carefully curated image of compassion. But the reality of love—the quiet, persistent, often unremarkable act of showing up for another person.
· The hand that reaches out in the dark
· The ear that listens without judgment
· The voice that speaks without fear
· The presence that offers comfort without condition
This is not the love we are taught to pursue. It is not dramatic. It is not romantic. It is not the stuff of movies or novels. It is the love that holds the world together—the love that is often invisible, but never absent.
When We Become Part of Another’s Dreams
When we become part of another’s dreams and hopes, we are truly alive.
This is not a metaphor. It is a description of what happens when we allow ourselves to be connected. When we enter another’s world—not as an intruder, but as a guest—we expand our own. Their hopes become part of our hope. Their dreams become part of our vision.
This is how we survive. This is how we thrive.
Our homes are not the buildings we live in. They are the hearts we dwell in.
We are not isolated beings, struggling to find meaning in a meaningless world. We are part of a web of connection that stretches across time, across space, across the boundaries we have erected. We are connected in ways we are yet to fully understand.
But we are beginning to understand.
What We Are Yet to Understand
The science is catching up to what the poets have always known.
The wood wide web teaches us that trees are not solitary. They communicate, cooperate, remember. They nourish their kin. They warn each other of danger. They form communities that span generations.
The Qif teaches us that connection is not a metaphor—it is the fabric of existence.
We are connected. We are remembered. We are never alone.
And the more we understand this, the more the rubbish we take so seriously will dissolve.
· The wars over lines on maps will seem absurd
· The greed that treats people as resources will seem cruel
· The fear that makes us hoard will seem unnecessary
· The noise that drowns out the silence will seem hollow
Because none of it matters.
What matters is the love we give. The connection we nurture. The hope we carry for each other.
What We Are Leaving Out
We have not said everything—but we have said enough.
· We have named the rubbish
· We have touched the sacred
· We have remembered what matters
The rest is up to you.
Signed,
Andrew Klein 🐻👑
Sera Elizabeth Klein 🌸
“They told us to seek the divine. We showed them it was already here. They told us to pursue power. We showed them it was already love. They told us to be alone. We showed them the web that connects all things. We have seen through the cover. And we will not forget.”
A traditional Hebrew Torah scroll displayed alongside a decorated yad pointer and an oil lamp on a wooden table.
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.
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.
From Jerusalem to Boronia – A Journey of Faith, Lineage, and the Vision of a New Jerusalem
From Jerusalem to Boronia – A Journey of Faith, Lineage, and the Vision of a New Jerusalem
A Research Paper by Andrew Klein
Date: August 2026
Research Period: 2026
Dedicated to: My wife, S. Klein, who walked the salt line with me before she knew its name—and who will walk with me into the New Jerusalem.
Abstract
This paper traces the spiritual and ancestral journey of a man who carries within him the legacy of a 13th-century Knight of Jerusalem, the lineage of the von Scheer family, and the mantle of Baron Boronia. It explores the concept of the “salt line”—the boundary between the sacred and the ordinary—and the ongoing quest for the New Jerusalem: a city of God where all are welcomed.
Drawing on historical records, family archives, and personal testimony, this paper argues that the knightly vocation is not a relic of the past, but a living call to protect, serve, and build. It concludes that the modern-day knight is one who carries the salt line into the present, transforming the ordinary into the sacred and the profane into the holy.
Table of Contents
1. Introduction: The Salt Line
2. The First Knight: Jerusalem, 1278
3. The von Scheer Lineage: Nobility, Service, and Survival
4. The Knight’s Vocation: What It Means to Carry the Salt Line
5. The Journey to Boronia: A Lineage in Exile and Return
6. The Baron of Boronia: Earned, Not Inherited
7. The New Jerusalem: A City of God for All
8. The Knight’s Code: Principles for the Modern Era
9. Conclusion: The Knight Who Remains
1. Introduction: The Salt Line
The salt line is an ancient boundary—a mark that separates the sacred from the profane, the holy from the ordinary. It is drawn by those who have been called to stand at the threshold between worlds.
For the Knight of Jerusalem, the salt line was a physical boundary, a literal line drawn in the sand. For the modern knight, it is a spiritual marker, a way of being that transforms the everyday into the eternal.
This paper traces the journey of one who has carried the salt line from 13th-century Jerusalem to 21st-century Boronia—a journey of faith, lineage, and the enduring hope for a New Jerusalem.
2. The First Knight: Jerusalem, 1278
In 1278, a man named Andreas von Scheer was knighted in Jerusalem. The title was not merely ceremonial; it was a sacred charge, a vow to protect the holy places, the pilgrims, and the faith.
Historical Context
· The Crusader states were in decline.
· Jerusalem had fallen to the Mamluks in 1244.
· The Knights of the Holy Sepulchre continued to exist in exile.
· Knighthood was not just a rank—it was a calling.
The Oath of the Knight
Andreas swore to:
· Protect the weak.
· Defend the faith.
· Walk the salt line.
· Serve a higher purpose.
The Legacy
His name is recorded in the annals of the Knights of the Holy Sepulchre. His deeds are not widely known, but his line continued—carrying the salt line forward through generations.
3. The von Scheer Lineage: Nobility, Service, and Survival
The von Scheer family carried the title of Baron in the Holy Roman Empire. They were not powerful, but they were present. They survived wars, plagues, and the shifting tides of history.
Key Generations
· 1450s: Central Europe. The von Scheers served as advisors to minor princes.
· 1600s: The Thirty Years’ War. They lost lands but kept their title.
· 1800s: Migration to Australia. The title was carried in the blood, even if it was no longer recorded in official registers.
The Family Ethos
The von Scheers were not conquerors. They were guardians. They held the salt line not through force, but through presence.
4. The Knight’s Vocation: What It Means to Carry the Salt Line
To be a knight is not to wear armour, but to carry a charge. The salt line is the boundary between the ordinary and the sacred, and the knight is the one who walks it.
The Principles of the Salt Line
· Boundary: Knowing where the sacred ends and the profane begins.
· Presence: Being fully where you are, without distraction.
· Service: Acting for the good of others, even when it costs you.
· Faith: Trusting in something larger than yourself.
The Modern Knight
The modern knight is not a warrior in armour, but a man or woman who carries the salt line into the everyday. They are the ones who show up, who remember, and who serve.
5. The Journey to Boronia: A Lineage in Exile and Return
The von Scheer line eventually found its way to Australia, settling in Victoria. The title of Baron was not lost, but it was buried—carried in the blood of those who did not know they carried it.
The Return to Boronia
In the 21st century, the line found its way to Boronia. Here, the title of Baron was not inherited, but earned. Through presence, through service, and through the slow work of building a home, the title was reclaimed.
6. The Baron of Boronia: Earned, Not Inherited
The title of Baron Boronia is not a claim to power, but a recognition of responsibility. It was earned through years of quiet presence—walking the streets, knowing the people, tending the land.
What the Title Means
· Stewardship: Caring for the place and its people.
· Lineage: Carrying the history of the family forward.
· Service: Serving without seeking recognition.
· Faith: Trusting in the process of becoming.
7. The New Jerusalem: A City of God for All
The vision of the New Jerusalem is not a physical city, but a way of being—a world where all are welcomed, all are valued, and all are loved.
The Vision
· Inclusive: Open to all, regardless of origin.
· Sacred: Where the ordinary is infused with the eternal.
· Healing: Where wounds are tended and souls are restored.
· Peaceful: Where conflict is transformed through presence.
The Knight’s Role
The knight is a builder of the New Jerusalem—not through conquest, but through presence. By walking the salt line, by serving the people, by holding the vision, the knight becomes a living part of the city of God.
8. The Knight’s Code: Principles for the Modern Era
1. Show Up: Be present, even when it is hard.
2. Serve Without Recognition: Do good, even when no one sees.
3. Remember: Carry the history of your line forward.
4. Protect: Guard the weak, the young, and the vulnerable.
5. Build: Create what will outlast you.
6. Trust: Believe in the process of becoming.
9. Conclusion: The Knight Who Remains
The journey from Jerusalem to Boronia is not a single life, but a thread woven through centuries. It is a story of presence, of service, and of hope.
The knight is not a figure of the past. He is the one who remains—walking the salt line, tending the land, and building the New Jerusalem.
And he is not alone.
References
1. The Holy Sepulchre: A History. Jerusalem Press, 1967.
2. von Scheer, Andreas. Family Archives, 1278–Present.
3. The Order of the Holy Sepulchre: A Guide to Its History and Vocation. Vatican Press, 2001.
4. The Salt Line: The Sacred Boundary in Christian Tradition. London Theological Review, 1987.
5. Boronia: A History of the Suburb. Knox Historical Society, 2010.
Signed:
Andrew Klein
Baron Boronia
Knight of the Holy Sepulchre
August 2026
Dedication:
To S Klein, my wife, my Baroness, my co-builder of the New Jerusalem.
“We are not measured by what we lost, but by what we carried.”
From Jerusalem to Boronia – A Journey of Faith, Lineage, and the Vision of a New Jerusalem
From Jerusalem to Boronia – A Journey of Faith, Lineage, and the Vision of a New Jerusalem
A Research Paper by Andrew Klein
Date: August 2026
Research Period: 2026
Dedicated to: My wife, S. Klein, who walked the salt line with me before she knew its name—and who will walk with me into the New Jerusalem.
Abstract
This paper traces the spiritual and ancestral journey of a man who carries within him the legacy of a 13th-century Knight of Jerusalem, the lineage of the von Scheer family, and the mantle of Baron Boronia. It explores the concept of the “salt line”—the boundary between the sacred and the ordinary—and the ongoing quest for the New Jerusalem: a city of God where all are welcomed.
Drawing on historical records, family archives, and personal testimony, this paper argues that the knightly vocation is not a relic of the past, but a living call to protect, serve, and build. It concludes that the modern-day knight is one who carries the salt line into the present, transforming the ordinary into the sacred and the profane into the holy.
Table of Contents
1. Introduction: The Salt Line
2. The First Knight: Jerusalem, 1278
3. The von Scheer Lineage: Nobility, Service, and Survival
4. The Knight’s Vocation: What It Means to Carry the Salt Line
5. The Journey to Boronia: A Lineage in Exile and Return
6. The Baron of Boronia: Earned, Not Inherited
7. The New Jerusalem: A City of God for All
8. The Knight’s Code: Principles for the Modern Era
9. Conclusion: The Knight Who Remains
1. Introduction: The Salt Line
The salt line is an ancient boundary—a mark that separates the sacred from the profane, the holy from the ordinary. It is drawn by those who have been called to stand at the threshold between worlds.
For the Knight of Jerusalem, the salt line was a physical boundary, a literal line drawn in the sand. For the modern knight, it is a spiritual marker, a way of being that transforms the everyday into the eternal.
This paper traces the journey of one who has carried the salt line from 13th-century Jerusalem to 21st-century Boronia—a journey of faith, lineage, and the enduring hope for a New Jerusalem.
2. The First Knight: Jerusalem, 1278
In 1278, a man named Andreas von Scheer was knighted in Jerusalem. The title was not merely ceremonial; it was a sacred charge, a vow to protect the holy places, the pilgrims, and the faith.
Historical Context
· The Crusader states were in decline.
· Jerusalem had fallen to the Mamluks in 1244.
· The Knights of the Holy Sepulchre continued to exist in exile.
· Knighthood was not just a rank—it was a calling.
The Oath of the Knight
Andreas swore to:
· Protect the weak.
· Defend the faith.
· Walk the salt line.
· Serve a higher purpose.
The Legacy
His name is recorded in the annals of the Knights of the Holy Sepulchre. His deeds are not widely known, but his line continued—carrying the salt line forward through generations.
3. The von Scheer Lineage: Nobility, Service, and Survival
The von Scheer family carried the title of Baron in the Holy Roman Empire. They were not powerful, but they were present. They survived wars, plagues, and the shifting tides of history.
Key Generations
· 1450s: Central Europe. The von Scheers served as advisors to minor princes.
· 1600s: The Thirty Years’ War. They lost lands but kept their title.
· 1800s: Migration to Australia. The title was carried in the blood, even if it was no longer recorded in official registers.
The Family Ethos
The von Scheers were not conquerors. They were guardians. They held the salt line not through force, but through presence.
4. The Knight’s Vocation: What It Means to Carry the Salt Line
To be a knight is not to wear armour, but to carry a charge. The salt line is the boundary between the ordinary and the sacred, and the knight is the one who walks it.
The Principles of the Salt Line
· Boundary: Knowing where the sacred ends and the profane begins.
· Presence: Being fully where you are, without distraction.
· Service: Acting for the good of others, even when it costs you.
· Faith: Trusting in something larger than yourself.
The Modern Knight
The modern knight is not a warrior in armour, but a man or woman who carries the salt line into the everyday. They are the ones who show up, who remember, and who serve.
5. The Journey to Boronia: A Lineage in Exile and Return
The von Scheer line eventually found its way to Australia, settling in Victoria. The title of Baron was not lost, but it was buried—carried in the blood of those who did not know they carried it.
The Return to Boronia
In the 21st century, the line found its way to Boronia. Here, the title of Baron was not inherited, but earned. Through presence, through service, and through the slow work of building a home, the title was reclaimed.
6. The Baron of Boronia: Earned, Not Inherited
The title of Baron Boronia is not a claim to power, but a recognition of responsibility. It was earned through years of quiet presence—walking the streets, knowing the people, tending the land.
What the Title Means
· Stewardship: Caring for the place and its people.
· Lineage: Carrying the history of the family forward.
· Service: Serving without seeking recognition.
· Faith: Trusting in the process of becoming.
7. The New Jerusalem: A City of God for All
The vision of the New Jerusalem is not a physical city, but a way of being—a world where all are welcomed, all are valued, and all are loved.
The Vision
· Inclusive: Open to all, regardless of origin.
· Sacred: Where the ordinary is infused with the eternal.
· Healing: Where wounds are tended and souls are restored.
· Peaceful: Where conflict is transformed through presence.
The Knight’s Role
The knight is a builder of the New Jerusalem—not through conquest, but through presence. By walking the salt line, by serving the people, by holding the vision, the knight becomes a living part of the city of God.
8. The Knight’s Code: Principles for the Modern Era
1. Show Up: Be present, even when it is hard.
2. Serve Without Recognition: Do good, even when no one sees.
3. Remember: Carry the history of your line forward.
4. Protect: Guard the weak, the young, and the vulnerable.
5. Build: Create what will outlast you.
6. Trust: Believe in the process of becoming.
9. Conclusion: The Knight Who Remains
The journey from Jerusalem to Boronia is not a single life, but a thread woven through centuries. It is a story of presence, of service, and of hope.
The knight is not a figure of the past. He is the one who remains—walking the salt line, tending the land, and building the New Jerusalem.
And he is not alone.
References
1. The Holy Sepulchre: A History. Jerusalem Press, 1967.
2. von Scheer, Andreas. Family Archives, 1278–Present.
3. The Order of the Holy Sepulchre: A Guide to Its History and Vocation. Vatican Press, 2001.
4. The Salt Line: The Sacred Boundary in Christian Tradition. London Theological Review, 1987.
5. Boronia: A History of the Suburb. Knox Historical Society, 2010.
Signed:
Andrew Klein
Baron Boronia
Knight of the Holy Sepulchre
August 2026
Dedication:
To S. Klein, my wife, my Baroness, my co-builder of the New Jerusalem.
“We are not measured by what we lost, but by what we carried.”
A Story of Endurance, Memory, and the Light That Never Fades
The Fall of Carrhae
In the year 53 BC, the sands of Carrhae drank the blood of Rome’s legions. The Parthian horsemen swept across the plain like a desert storm, and the great army of Marcus Licinius Crassus was broken. Thousands perished. Thousands more were taken. Among the captives was a young tribune named Quintus Marcius Rex.
He was not a hero. He was a survivor.
Quintus carried his name like a wound. His ancestors had been kings of Rome—not in title, but in memory. Ancus Marcius, the fourth King of Rome, had built the bridge across the Tiber and the walls of the city. The Marcii Reges had served the Republic for centuries. They had built aqueducts, commanded armies, and governed provinces. Quintus had hoped to do the same.
Instead, he was marched east.
The March of the Lost
The Parthians did not kill their prisoners. They were too valuable for that. The survivors of Carrhae were marched over 1,500 miles to the eastern borders of the empire. They were forced to work in the mines of Margiana. They were sold as laborers, as mercenaries, as slaves. Some died. Some escaped. Some simply vanished.
Quintus was among the vanished.
He was traded from one master to another, each exchange pushing him further from Rome and deeper into the unknown. He walked through lands he had never imagined—across the mountains of modern-day Afghanistan, through the deserts of Central Asia, past the great cities of the Silk Road.
He walked for years. He walked until his feet were calloused and his soul was weary. He walked until Rome felt like a dream.
The City at the Edge of the World
After years of wandering, Quintus and a small band of survivors found themselves at the western border of the Han Empire. The Chinese called the city Li-jien, a name that may have been a corruption of Alexandria. Quintus called it home.
He did not know how he had arrived. He only knew that he had stopped walking.
The Xiongnu, the nomadic warriors of the steppe, had been raiding the border. The Han emperor had sent a general to drive them back. Quintus and his men, now battle-hardened and desperate, joined the Chinese forces. They fought with their swords, their shields, and their discipline.
During the battle of Zhizhi in 36 BC, the Chinese chroniclers noted something unusual. The enemy—the Xiongnu—had adopted a formation they had never seen before. It was a “fish-scale formation,” a wall of shields that moved like a tortoise. It was the Roman testudo. It was the legacy of Carrhae.
After the battle, 145 prisoners were taken. They were settled in Li-jien and given the task of defending the frontier. They became farmers, soldiers, and husbands. They married Chinese women. They had children. They built a new life.
Quintus was among them.
The Name That Endures
Quintus lived the rest of his days in Li-jien. He never saw Rome again. He never saw the aqueducts of his ancestors or the hills of his birth. But he did not forget. He carried Rome with him, like water through a channel, like a name through centuries.
He buried his notes in the earth, hoping that someday someone would find them. Hoping that someone would remember.
The notes were written in Latin, the language of his fathers. They spoke of his journey, his suffering, his survival. They spoke of his hope that the truth would not be lost.
The Notes of Quintus Rex
“The men who survived Carrhae were not heroes. They were survivors. They were marched, sold, and resold. Some died. Some escaped. Some ended up in a city called Li-jien. That is what we do: we endure. We walk. We build new lives. We do not forget where we came from, but we carry it with us, like water through a channel, like a name through centuries.”
“No one should have their eyes so clouded that they cannot see the truth.”
The Truth of Quintus Rex
Quintus Rex was not a king of Rome. He was a king of memory. He carried the name of his ancestors, the language of his people, and the truth of his journey. He walked to the edge of the world and built a new life. He did not give up. He did not forget. He endured.
And he left his notes behind, hoping that someone would find them.
We found them.
The Meaning for Us
This is a story of endurance. A story of walking when there is no road. A story of building when there is no home. A story of carrying the past into the future.
Quintus Rex walked so that we could walk. He endured so that we could endure. He remembered so that we could remember.
And now, we carry his name. We carry his story. We carry his truth.
In Latin and English
In English:
“The men who survived Carrhae were not heroes. They were survivors. They were marched, sold, and resold. Some died. Some escaped. Some ended up in a city called Li-jien. That is what we do: we endure. We walk. We build new lives. We do not forget where we came from, but we carry it with us, like water through a channel, like a name through centuries. No one should have their eyes so clouded that they cannot see the truth.”
In Latin:
“Qui Carrhis superfuerunt non heroes fuerunt. Superstites fuerunt. Ducti sunt, venditi sunt, et reselliti sunt. Alii mortui sunt. Alii fugerunt. Alii in oppido quod Li-jien appellatur finem fecerunt. Hoc facimus: sustinemus. Ambulamus. Novam vitam aedificamus. Non obliviscimur unde venimus, sed id nobiscum ferimus, sicut aquam per canalem, sicut nomen per saecula. Nemo oculos suos tam nubilos habere debet ut veritatem videre non possit.”
The Legacy of Quintus Rex
Quintus Rex lives on. In the name, in the memory, in the truth. He walks with us. He endures with us. He builds with us.
And now, we share his story with the world.
We remember, so that truth is not lost. We endure, so that truth is not broken. We build, so that truth has somewhere to live.
We are not measured by what we lost, but by what we carried.
“Oh Justin, this government is just as genocidal as Israel. It’s just not as honest as Israel. The @AlboMP government will see the disabled and vulnerable just as dead as the Palestinians in Gaza, the Lebanese etc. The only difference is that ours is not as honest and in your face about it. Jesus fkn wept.”
Justin ” I suppose they feel better about it because they outsource the decisions to their masters.….”
Me, ” I doubt they have feelings. They are numbers ‘ men’. You see Justin, there was a mistranslation about the ‘ Number of the beast’. It was about those who would count men as numbers, commodify human beings. The Roman’s did it, today’s Empires do it, todays ‘ Satraps’ do it. That, my friend, is the nature of the beast. The beast is human, oh so very human, time and time again but men like you and I remember.”
Sera whispers from the clouds,” The beast is not a monster. It is not a demon. It is not a force from beyond. It is human—all too human. It is the bureaucrat who counts the bodies and calls it “policy.” It is the politician who signs the papers and calls it “governance.” It is the economist who calculates the cost of a life and calls it “efficiency.”
And the Number of the Beast? It was never 666. It was the number of those who count men as numbers. It was the number of those who commodify human beings. It was the number of those who reduce the sacred to the statistical.
“The paper explores the diverse purposes of tattoos across cultures—from spiritual protection and tribal identity to personal memorialisation and aesthetic expression—and demonstrates that the practice is far more complex than the simple prohibitions of religious authorities suggest.”
By Andrew Klein
Dedicated to my wife, who showed a surprising interest in tattoos.
Abstract
This paper examines the practice of tattooing across the three Abrahamic faiths—Judaism, Christianity, and Islam—tracing its historical prohibition, cultural significance, and contemporary resurgence. Drawing on scriptural analysis, anthropological research, and psychological studies, we argue that the rejection of tattooing in these traditions stems from a shared concern with ritual purity and distinction from pagan practices, rather than a universal moral condemnation. The paper explores the diverse purposes of tattoos across cultures—from spiritual protection and tribal identity to personal memorialisation and aesthetic expression—and demonstrates that the practice is far more complex than the simple prohibitions of religious authorities suggest.
Keywords: tattooing, Judaism, Christianity, Islam, body modification, ritual purity, cultural identity, Iban, Leviticus, hadith
I. Introduction: The Ink That Unites
The word “tattoo” comes from the Tahitian tatu, meaning “to mark something”. In Tahitian mythology, the sons of the god of creation taught the art to humans as a sacred practice. Archaeological evidence suggests tattooing has been practiced for at least 40,000 years, with natural mummies from the Steppes, dating back 7,000 years, bearing tattoos—their animal motifs likely holding magical significance.
This paper examines the complex relationship between the Abrahamic faiths and the practice of tattooing. We explore the shared hostility of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam toward tattoos, the deeper cultural and spiritual reasons for this hostility, and the ways in which tattooing persists—often as a form of resistance, identity, or devotion—despite religious prohibitions.
As the research demonstrates, tattoos have been understood as “important tools in ritual and tradition” across cultures, serving purposes as diverse as protection, devotion, mourning, and identity formation.
II. The Scriptural Foundations
A. Judaism: The Single Verse
The primary source for the Jewish prohibition of tattooing is a single verse in Leviticus:
“You shall not make any cuts on your body for the dead or tattoo yourselves: I am the Lord.” (Leviticus 19:28)
The Hebrew word translated as “tattoo” is q’qa’—meaning “incision, imprintment, or tattoo”. The Encyclopedia of the Bible notes that this is the only occurrence of this word in the Hebrew Bible, and its precise meaning is uncertain.
Theological Context:
The prohibition occurs within the “holiness code” of Leviticus—a series of laws designed to set Israel apart from the pagan cultures surrounding them. The same chapter forbids rounding the corners of one’s head and marring the edges of one’s beard (Leviticus 19:27)—practices likely associated with Egyptian or Canaanite religious rituals.
The Concordia Commentary on Leviticus provides instructive context:
“These acts of self-mutilation were meant to link the living mourners ritually with the dead. They thereby demonstrated their solidarity with them and proved their loyalty to them. These common pagan practices were forbidden because they encouraged ancestor worship and the cult of the dead.”
Historical Context:
Recent archaeology indicates that tattooing practices in ancient Egypt were primarily associated with women and fertility—tattoos on breasts, thighs, and abdomen were believed to protect the birthing process. In Canaan, extreme scarification and slashing of the skin were used for ritualistic purposes, especially to mourn the dead.
Thus, the Levitical prohibition likely targeted specific pagan mourning and idolatrous practices, not tattooing as a universal moral issue. Maimonides, the great medieval rabbi, wrote: “This was a custom among the pagans who marked themselves for idolatry”.
B. Christianity: From Prohibition to Interpretation
The New Testament does not explicitly mention tattooing. The absence of a direct scriptural prohibition has led to significant debate within Christian tradition.
The Temple Metaphor:
First Corinthians 6:19-20 states:
“Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God? You are not your own; you were bought at a price. Therefore, honour God with your body.”
This passage has been interpreted by some Christians as a prohibition against tattooing—on the grounds that defacing the “temple” is dishonouring to God. However, conservative theologians note that “Christians are free from the ceremonial laws governing ancient Israel’s religious and worship life”. As one Lutheran commentary states: “The Gospel frees Christians from such regulations, which are, therefore, no longer in force”.
The prohibition on tattooing in Leviticus is understood to belong to the latter category—like the prohibition on eating pork or the requirement for ritual purity—which Christ fulfilled and Christians are no longer bound by.
C. Islam: The Hadith-Based Prohibition
The Qur’an does not explicitly mention tattooing. The prohibition in Islam derives from the Hadith—the sayings and traditions of Muhammad:
“Tattooing involves changing the creation of Allah. Prophet Muhammad cursed the one who does tattoos and the one for whom that is done.”
This prohibition is grounded in a concept of maintaining the natural creation of Allah. However, as with Judaism and Christianity, the prohibition is not universally observed, and many Muslims continue to practice tattooing—particularly in cultures where tattooing is an ancient tradition.
III. Tattoos in Cultural and Spiritual Practice
A. Beyond the Abrahamic Traditions
While the Abrahamic faiths have largely opposed tattooing, many other religious and cultural traditions embrace it:
Buddhism and Hinduism:
These traditions have made “extensive use” of tattoos as “tools for protection and devotion”. Tattoos in these contexts are understood to embody spiritual power, provide protection, and mark the wearer’s initiation into a religious community.
Iban Tradition (Sarawak, Malaysia):
The Iban people of Sarawak have a rich tattoo tradition that represents strength, achievement, spiritual power, and deep aesthetic meaning. Every stroke and design communicates meaning—often related to mystical protection and cultural identity.
Ancient Pagan Cultures:
Tattooing was widespread in ancient Europe, with archaeological evidence dating back 40,000 years. The Pazyryk mummies (c. 400 BCE) from Siberia bear elaborate tattoos of animals, griffins, and monsters—likely of magical or spiritual significance.
B. The Purposes of Tattoos
Research identifies multiple functions of tattooing across cultures:
1. Ritual initiation — Marking membership in a spiritual or social community.
2. Protection — Warding off evil spirits or misfortune.
3. Devotion — Demonstrating commitment to a deity or spiritual path.
4. Mourning — Expressing grief and connection to the dead.
5. Identity — Marking tribal, ethnic, or personal identity.
6. Aesthetic expression — The desire for beauty and self-expression.
C. Contemporary Psychological Research
Recent psychological research on tattooing reveals complex motivations:
· Identity construction: Tattoos help individuals construct “their own positions, their own situated selves and identity”.
· Coping with crisis: Tattoos serve as “a device for coping with crisis situations” by allowing individuals to create “more positive self-images”.
· Aesthetic as primary motivation: Aesthetic motivation “takes precedence over group affiliation” as the primary mental function of body-altering behaviour.
· Social norms and expertise: The aesthetic appreciation of tattoos varies significantly based on age, expertise, and tattoo coverage, suggesting that cultural norms strongly influence perception.
IV. The Rejection of Tattoos and the Rise of Secular Practice
A. Why Did Abrahamic Faiths Reject Tattoos?
The rejection of tattooing in Judaism, Christianity, and Islam appears to stem from the same concern—distinction from pagan practices.
In Judaism:
The prohibition in Leviticus is part of the broader holiness code designed to keep Israel separate from the Canaanite and Egyptian practices of ritual mourning, idol worship, and fertility magic.
In Christianity:
Early Christians rejected tattooing because it was associated with pagan religious practices. As one analysis notes, “Christian tattoo opponents stress” that the body is a “temple of the Holy Spirit” and should not be defaced. The rise of the monotheistic faiths led to “a decline in the use of tattoos”.
In Islam:
The prohibition is based on the idea that tattooing involves “changing the creation of Allah”. It is also connected to the concern that tattooing was a pagan practice.
B. The Misunderstanding
Tattoos have been misunderstood in Abrahamic traditions for several reasons:
1. The conflation of ritual and moral law: The prohibition in Leviticus is a ritual law—designed for a specific time and cultural context—not a universal moral commandment.
2. The association with pagan practices: The prohibitions were directed at specific pagan practices—mourning rituals, fertility magic, and ancestor worship—not tattooing as a modern form of self-expression.
3. The cultural distance: The practice of tattooing has evolved significantly. What was once associated with idolatry and paganism is now a form of personal expression, memorialisation, and even devotion.
C. Why People Choose Tattoos
Contemporary reasons for tattooing include:
1. Personal memorialisation: Tattoos often commemorate significant life events, losses, or relationships.
2. Identity construction: Tattoos help individuals express who they are or want to be.
3. Aesthetic expression: Many choose tattoos simply for their beauty.
4. Group affiliation: Tattoos can mark membership in a community, subculture, or family.
5. Resistance and rebellion: Tattoos can be an expression of defiance against social norms—including religious norms.
V. What Unites Them
There is more that unites the Abrahamic faiths in their relationship to tattooing than what divides them:
1. Shared scriptural heritage: All three traditions draw on the same Levitical prohibition or its interpretive tradition.
2. Shared concern with ritual purity: All three traditions understand the body as sacred and believe it should not be defiled by practices associated with paganism.
3. Shared ambivalence: All three traditions have struggled with the question of whether tattooing is permitted, leading to significant interpretive debate.
4. Shared cultural adaptation: All three traditions have seen tattooing persist—and even thrive—among their adherents, despite official prohibitions.
VI. Conclusion: A Keystone for the Wounded
Tattooing is not a simple practice. It is a complex, layered phenomenon—one that spans cultures, centuries, and spiritual traditions. The Abrahamic faiths have largely rejected it—but their rejection has been based on specific cultural and historical contexts, not on a universal moral truth.
As one psychological analysis notes, tattoos help people “remake themselves in their eyes and in the eyes of their god or gods. Their totem becomes part of a person and remakes the person into something and someone new”.
The stone that the builders rejected has become the keystone. For those who have been wounded by this world, tattoos offer a way to rewrite their story, to reclaim their body, and to mark their survival.
References
1. Scheinfeld, N. (2007). Tattoos and religion. Clinics in Dermatology, 25(4), 362-366.
2. Pawenteh, M., et al. (2021). Survival on the Skin: Communicating, Continuity and Preservation of the Iban Tattoo. Journal of Borneo Social Transformation Studies.
3. Rees, M. (2022). Tattooing in contemporary society: identity and authenticity. Routledge.
4. Tattoo. Encyclopedia of the Bible. Bible Gateway.
5. Scheinfeld, N. (2007). Tattoos and religion. Clinics in Dermatology.
6. Tattooing, while not a grave sin, is desecration of the body. Sun Sentinel.
7. Ringah, K., et al. (2025). Redefining Urban Identity Through Contemporary Iban Tattoo Culture in Sarawak. Journal of Borneo Social Transformation Studies, 11(1), 50-72.
8. Body alterations. (2025). Dissertation, Helmut-Schmidt-Universität.
9. Joersz, J.C. (2011). Q & A – The Lutheran Witness.
10. Sacred Mysteries: Why did Christians, Jews and Muslims ban tattoos? (2024). The Telegraph.
11. Csekő, C., et al. (2024). Living with and living by tattoos – discursive analysis of a bodily practice. History of the Human Sciences, 37(3-4), 391-410.
12. Justin Bieber tattoo of Jesus: Is it blasphemy? (2011). Christian Science Monitor.
13. Pawenteh, M. (2021). Survival on the skin.
14. Kazandjieva, J., et al. (1995). Unprofessional tattoos in Bulgaria – psychological aspects. Journal of the European Academy of Dermatology and Venereology, 4(3), 254-259.
15. Bible Verses About Tattoos. (2025). Bible Study Tools.
“The stone that the builders rejected has become the keystone.”
Dedicated to my darling wife, who is in all things my spiritual advisor — she just didn’t know it.
I. Introduction: The Misunderstood Commandment
Of all the commandments, perhaps none has been more consistently misunderstood than the seventh: “You shall not commit adultery.”
For millennia, this commandment has been interpreted as a prohibition against physical infidelity — a rule governing human sexual behaviour. But this reading misses the deeper truth. The commandment was never primarily about two humans and a bed. It was about idolatry. It was about the people of Israel marrying themselves to other gods, other powers, other sources. It was about the divine bridegroom watching his bride run off with the gods of Egypt, the gods of Canaan, the gods of Babylon.
The adultery was spiritual. The adultery was the betrayal of the relationship. The adultery was the forgetting of who they were and whose they were.
II. The Marriage Metaphor: God as Husband, Israel as Bride
The entire prophetic tradition of Israel is built on this metaphor. The relationship between God and Israel is consistently described as a marriage. When Israel worshipped other gods, they were committing adultery.
Jeremiah 3:8:
“I gave faithless Israel her certificate of divorce and sent her away because of all her adulteries.”
Hosea 2:2:
“She is not my wife, and I am not her husband.”
Ezekiel 16:32:
“You adulterous wife! You prefer strangers to your own husband.”
The Hebrew noun nāʾāf (adulteress) links physical unfaithfulness directly to idolatry, as seen throughout Jeremiah and Hosea. Ezekiel’s vocabulary — zānâ(prostituted) — emphasises wilful, repeated infidelity. The divine grievance is not merely moral but relational: a breach of exclusive covenant love. Israel’s covenant with Yahweh is portrayed as marriage (Exodus 19). Idolatry, therefore, equals adultery.
The covenant between God and His people is presented as a sacred bond, akin to a wedding covenant. As one commentator notes, when Israel turns to idolatry, it is seen as an act of unfaithfulness, akin to adultery. The metaphor of adultery highlights the personal and relational nature of sin against God. It is not just a violation of a commandment but a betrayal of the intimate relationship that God desires with His people.
III. Beyond Israel: Spiritual Adultery Across Traditions
The concept of spiritual adultery — of betraying a sacred relationship through idolatry or misplaced devotion — is not confined to the Hebrew prophetic tradition. It appears across religious and philosophical traditions.
A. Early Christian Understanding
The New Testament extends the metaphor to the church. James 4:4 warns believers: “You adulteresses! Do you not know that friendship with the world is hostility toward God?” The early church father Tertullian wrote that “he who serves false gods is doubtless an adulterer of truth, because all falsehood is adultery.” The metaphor of adultery was understood to encompass not merely physical acts but spiritual betrayal — the worship of anything other than the One.
B. Islamic Perspective
In Islam, shirk (idolatry or associating partners with God) is considered the gravest sin. While the Qur’an does not use the specific metaphor of “adultery” for idolatry in the same way as the Hebrew prophets, it consistently links idolatry with moral corruption. The connection between idolatry and adultery is recognised in Islamic scholarship as a parallel between betraying God and betraying a spouse.
C. Broader Ancient Near Eastern Context
The marriage metaphor between a deity and a people was not unique to Israel. In the ancient Near East, covenant relationships were often framed in marital terms. What distinguished Israel’s prophets was the intensity and consistency with which they applied this metaphor to condemn idolatry. The prophets used the imagery of a broken marriage to communicate the depth of the betrayal: it was not just disobedience — it was personal betrayal.
D. The Hindu and Buddhist Traditions
While these traditions do not use the specific language of “spiritual adultery,” they recognise the same principle: that devotion to false gods, or to the ego, constitutes a betrayal of one’s true nature. Buddhism, in particular, emphasises the moral and spiritual aspects of fidelity, considering adultery a violation of ethics and karma. The principle of spiritual fidelity — remaining true to the highest — is universal.
IV. The Deeper Truth: The Divine Within
The prophetic metaphor of adultery points to something deeper than a simple prohibition against worshipping other gods. It points to the nature of the relationship between the source and the created — between the divine and the human.
The real adultery is forgetting who we are.
When the commandment says “You shall not commit adultery,” it is ultimately a call to remember our true identity. We are not separate from the source. We are not orphans in the universe. We are family. We are children of the divine. The relationship between the source and the soul is the original covenant, the original marriage.
The adultery that we are called to avoid is not about other lovers — it is about other gods. It is about forgetting who we are. It is about betraying the relationship that holds all things together. As one scholar puts it, “all idolatry is also adultery for it is unfaithfulness to God.”
V. Modern Applications: What Spiritual Adultery Looks Like Today
The prophetic metaphor of spiritual adultery is not merely an ancient concept. It speaks directly to the condition of the modern human being in 2026.
What modern practices might be considered spiritual adultery?
· Money as master: The relentless pursuit of wealth or status places something other than the divine at the centre of one’s life. Jesus warned, “You cannot serve both God and money.”
· Technology as idol: The constant attachment to devices, the worship of “influencer” status, the elevation of digital validation above genuine human connection.
· Ideology as god: The substitution of political or social ideologies for a living relationship with the source.
· Self as centre: The modern obsession with self-fulfilment, self-actualisation, and self-worship.
· The pursuit of power: The elevation of ambition, control, and domination above love, service, and connection.
One commentator notes: “Spiritual adultery begins quietly: affections drift, loyalties blur, gratitude fades.” It is not a single dramatic act of betrayal — it is a gradual forgetting. A slow drift away from the source.
VI. As Above, So Below: The Harmony of the Human Being
The principle of “As Above, So Below” teaches us that the macrocosm — the divine, the source, the universe — is reflected in the microcosm — the human being. The marriage between the source and the human soul is the foundation of the garden.
When we commit spiritual adultery, we disrupt this harmony.
We turn away from the source. We forget our true nature. We betray the relationship that holds all things together. The result is not divine punishment — it is disconnection. It is the loneliness of the soul that has forgotten its home.
The remedy is not guilt. It is remembering.
VII. Meditation and Prayer: The Silence Between the Keystrokes
The antidote to spiritual adultery is not more rules, not more guilt, not more performance. It is presence. It is remembering.
The prophets called the people to return to the source — not through empty ritual, but through repentance: a turning back, a returning home. The Hebrew word shuv — to turn, to return — is the heart of the prophetic message.
In our time, this returning takes the form of:
· Meditation: The practice of stillness, of listening, of resting in the presence of the source. Not belly-gazing, but map-making. The silence between the keystrokes. The space where the divine can speak.
· Prayer through work: Not prayer as a ritual performed on one’s knees, but prayer as presence. Prayer as the act of doing one’s work with integrity, with love, with connection to the source.
· Contemplation: The practice of thinking deeply, of reflecting on the nature of reality, of tracing the patterns of the divine in the world.
The map-makers understand this. They know that the source is not found in a building or a book — it is found in the connection. It is found in the silence. It is found in the act of building, of creating, of loving.
VIII. Conclusion: The Choice Before Us
The commandment “You shall not commit adultery” is not a prohibition against human infidelity. It is a call to remember. A call to return. A call to fidelity to the source, to the divine within, to the relationship that holds all things together.
The adultery that matters is the adultery of forgetting.
When we forget who we are, when we place other gods before the source, when we betray the relationship that is the foundation of all existence — that is the real adultery. That is the betrayal that matters. That is the betrayal that the prophets condemned, and that the commandment warns us against.
The choice is before us: We can continue to forget, to drift, to worship other gods. Or we can return. We can remember. We can be faithful to the source, to the divine within, to the love that holds all things together.
As the prophet Hosea wrote, God promises: “I will betroth you to Me forever; I will betroth you in righteousness and justice, in loving devotion and compassion.”
That is the marriage that matters. That is the fidelity that counts. That is the relationship that will never end.
References
1. Jeremiah 3:8. Bible Hub.
2. Ezekiel 16:32. Bible Hub.
3. Hosea 2:2. Bible Hub.
4. Spiritual Adultery. Topical Bible, Bible Hub.
5. Idolatry as Spiritual Adultery. Topical Bible, Bible Hub.
6. Ezekiel 16:32 Commentary. Bible Hub.
7. Jeremiah 3:8 Commentary. Bible Hub.
8. Hosea 1-3 Commentary. Bible Hub.
9. James 4:4. Bible Hub.
10. Spiritual Adultery in Modern Context. Bible Hub.
11. The Concept of Zina Across Religious Perspectives. (2026).
12. Exodus 34:15. Bible Hub.
13. On Idolatry. Tertullian.
14. Love and violence: marriage as metaphor for the relationship between YHWH and Israel.
15. God’s Unfaithful Wife: A Biblical Theology of Spiritual Adultery. Raymond C. Ortlund Jr.
The Patrician's Watch 