This dialogue touches on something central to how both of our traditions understand the story of redemption. Often, conversations between Jews and Christians hit a wall here: Christians explain that the Torah was “fulfilled,” while from an Orthodox Jewish perspective, hearing that mitzvot are no longer binding can feel like a bypass of an eternal covenant.
Having spent years in Jewish-Christian dialogue, I’ve found it helps to first understand the Christian framework on its own terms:
*The Two-Stage Timeline: Christian theology views the redemption not as ignoring Torah, but unfolding across a First and Second Coming.
*Ceremonial vs. Moral: In that view, the sacrificial and temple rites are seen as blueprints whose ultimate purpose was realized in Jesus’s death and resurrection (as argued in the Book of Hebrews), while the moral law (justice, kindness, ethics) remains fully alive. The cosmic realization of universal peace, resurrection of the dead and other major end of days milestones, are reserved for the second stage.
To my fellow Jews, it’s understandable why that distinction doesn’t align with our normative framework. We’ve always seen the mitzvot (commandments) as concrete, day-to-day covenantal obligations given for all generations, not as temporary shadows waiting to be retired.
At the same time, when we talk with our Christian neighbors, it’s worth being honest about the depth within our own rabbinic tradition. While Judaism certainly doesn’t teach that the commandments are obsolete today, our classical texts “do” grapple with the radical nature of the ultimate redemption:
* Mitzvot in the World to Come: The Talmud actually preserves the provocative statement, “Mitzvot will be nullified in the future to come”* (Niddah 61b; see also Shabbat 151b regarding the resurrection).
* The Sacrificial System: The Midrash (Vayikra Rabbah 9:7) teaches that in the future, all sacrifices will cease except for the thanksgiving offering (Korban Todah).
* The Prophets & Writings:The Rambam (Hilchot Megillah 2:18) notes the tradition that in the Messianic era, the Prophets and Writings will effectively be set aside, with the exception of the Five Books of Moses and Esther.
Of course, each of these bullet points carries layers of commentary and nuance rather than a quick social media exchange.
None of this means rabbinic Judaism says, “Moshiach arrives, so stop keeping Shabbat and eating kosher.” Far from it. But it does show that our sages recognized the Messianic era and the resurrection of the dead as ushering in a radically transformed spiritual reality—one where the mechanics of covenant and obligation may look entirely different than they do now.
Instead of a flat dichotomy where one side says “pure permanence” and the other says “fulfillment,” the deeper conversation is about how each tradition envisions the shift from: Promise → Fulfillment → Ultimate Transformation.
At the end of the day, our theological conclusions remain genuinely different, and neither of us needs to dilute our core convictions to share a table. But when we take the time to move past simplistic slogans and actually engage each other’s foundational texts, we discover that our respective traditions are wrestling with the very same profound questions about God, covenant, and the ultimate destiny of our world. Genuine bridge-building isn’t about erasing disagreement; it’s about replacing caricature with real understanding and treating each other’s sacred commitments with the deep honor and respect they deserve.
Honoring the Original Voice
For many Christians, reading the Hebrew Bible—the Tanakh—is inevitably an exercise in retrospective vision. They approach the ancient scrolls already carrying the Gospels, the letters of Paul, the empty tomb, and the unshakable conviction that Jesus of Nazareth is the ultimate telos of the entire biblical arc. But when you step back into Genesis, Isaiah, or the Psalms through that lens alone, you are no longer standing where the original audience stood.
It is like rewatching a film whose climactic plot twist you already know. Suddenly, an offhand glance carries ominous weight; background props look like deliberate clues. A viewer can legitimately say, “Now I see what that opening scene was setting up.” But what they cannot honestly claim is that they are experiencing the opening scene in its own right.
In Jewish-Christian relations, this interpretive habit has long created an unexamined gulf. To bridge it, we need a shift in posture—an intentional decision to look under the hood of scripture before asking where the vehicle is headed.
In the context of Jewish-Christian dialogue, it’s helpful to clarify the linguistic nuances of the original Hebrew text. The Hebrew word used in Isaiah 7:14 is ‘almah (עַלְמָה), which fundamentally denotes a “young woman of childbearing age.” While Hebrew has a specific word for a literal virgin—betulah (בְּתוּלָה)—Isaiah chose ‘almah, focusing on the woman’s youth and maturity rather than her sexual status.
A clear example of this usage is found in Proverbs 30:19. There, the author marvels at things in the natural world that leave no physical trace or path behind them: the way of an eagle in the air, a serpent on a rock, a ship in the sea, and “the way of a man with an ‘almah.” The poetic beauty of this metaphor relies entirely on things leaving behind zero physical evidence. If ‘almah meant a strict biological virgin here, the intimacy implied would contradict the author’s imagery of a pathless journey.
Ultimately, this highlight a fundamental difference in how our two traditions approach scripture. Christian hermeneutics naturally begin with a Jesus-centered approach to interpreting the Hebrew Bible. With the theological conviction of the virgin birth already in place, the Gospel of Matthew understandably reads the Greek translation of Isaiah 7:14 (parthenos) through that specific lens. By contrast, the classic Jewish interpretation reads the text within its immediate, 8th-century BCE historical context. In Jewish tradition, the child prophesied in Isaiah 7 is widely understood to be King Hezekiah. Recognizing these differing hermeneutical starting points allows us to
have a deeper, more respectful understanding of each other’s traditions.
Looking Under the Hood
Before we ask where the car is driving, we must pause and inspect the engine as it was originally assembled. How do the gears mesh? What makes the machine run on its own terms?
When Jewish tradition engages the text, it treats scripture like a living, breathing mechanism. Sages and commentators listen to the engine’s idle, inspect the wiring, and linger over every deliberate tension in its construction. They do not hurry to smooth over rough edges or fast-forward to a predetermined resolution.
For Christian readers, honoring the Tanakh requires a willingness to hit pause. We must learn to freeze the frame.
1. Let David Be David Before He Becomes a Type
In patristic and classic Christian typology, King David frequently risks being flattened into a pious stained-glass archetype: an icon of humility and a precursor of Christ.
Yet when reading forward through Samuel and Kings, the Hebrew text stubbornly refuses to sanitize him. David is a flesh-and-blood man navigating raw political intrigue, sovereign ambition, and devastating moral failure. His descent into adultery with Bathsheba and the calculated murder of Uriah is laid bare without apology.
When scripture calls David a man “after God’s own heart,” it is not an endorsement of an untarnished life. Rather, it marks the posture of a man who, when confronted by the prophet Nathan, utterly shattered. He offered no deflection, no bureaucratic self-justification; he broke open in repentance.
If Christian hermeneutics moves too swiftly to view David merely as an early silhouette of Jesus, it loses the gritty, complicated human being whose genuine brokenness speaks directly to anyone wrestling with moral failure, grief, and grace.
2. The Earthy Dirt of the Psalms
A similar dynamic unfolds in the Psalter. Early Christian allegorical readings often transposed David’s enemies into spiritualized demons, dark cosmic forces, or inward battles with personal sin. While that serves an ascetical and meditative function, freezing the frame reveals something far more grounded: David’s adversaries were flesh-and-blood threats. They were Saul’s spearmen, Philistine raiding bands, treacherous political advisors, and his own rebellious son Absalom.
The Psalms are soaked in ancient dirt, sweat, and tears. In Jewish liturgical tradition, their power lies precisely in this earthly grounding. The text teaches that believers do not need to spiritualize away mundane pain to converse with the Divine. Real terror, tangible persecution, and bodily illness can be brought raw and unedited before the Creator.
The Questions on the Page
Freezing the frame compels us to ask questions that honor the integrity of the original text:
- What is happening right here, on the page?
- What does the Hebrew grammar and literary syntax actually convey?
- What did this mean to an ancient Israelite standing in the shadow of imperial invasion?
- What tensions did the biblical narrator deliberately preserve rather than resolve?
Consider the perennial touchpoint of Isaiah 7:14. In Christian tradition, the passage is read through the Greek translation (parthenos) cited in the Gospel of Matthew, affirming the theological conviction of the virgin birth. Yet within the Hebrew text, the prophet uses the word ‘almah (עַלְמָה)—a term denoting a young woman of childbearing age—rather than the specific technical term for a virgin, betulah (בְּתוּלָה).
This nuance is illuminated by Proverbs 30:19, where the sage marvels at things leaving no trace behind: an eagle in the sky, a serpent on a rock, a ship on the high seas, and “the way of a man with an ‘almah.” The metaphor relies entirely on the natural absence of physical tracks; an interpretation demanding strict biological virginity in that context would dismantle the poem’s very imagery.
In classical Jewish interpretation, Isaiah’s prophecy spoke directly to King Ahaz in the 8th century BCE, offering an immediate historical sign concerning the royal household, commonly understood as the birth of future King Hezekiah.
Acknowledging this historical-grammatical reality does not undermine Christian faith. Rather, it clarifies the difference between two distinct inquiries: “What does this text mean on its own terms?” and “What does this text mean in light of Jesus?”
The first honors the Hebrew Bible’s native voice. The second is an exercise in Christian canonical theology. Confusing the two leads to a subtle hermeneutical substitution—treating the sacred scriptures of Israel merely as passive raw material awaiting Christian utility.
Surviving an Honest Reading
A confident Christian theology has nothing to fear from the original voice of the Tanakh. Jesus does not require the Hebrew Scriptures to be flattened, hollowed out, or retroactively bent to be seen within them. A robust Jesus-centered theology should comfortably survive—and indeed be enriched by—an honest, rigorous Tanakh-centered reading.
When Christians grant the Hebrew Bible the freedom to breathe within its own historical and linguistic ecosystem, they do not diminish their own faith. Instead, they discover a deeper, more mature kinship with their Jewish neighbors—one rooted not in theological assimilation, but in mutual respect for the layered, living depths of the text.
David Nekrutman
www.theisaiahprojects.com
This article first appeared on Adam Eliyahu Berkowitz’s Substack.
