Psalm 119 is not a praise poem. It is one hundred and seventy-six verses of a man who loved the Torah and could not keep it, begging to be changed from the inside. The new covenant is the answer to that cry, and from Yeshua's own mouth to the last letter of Yochanan, the Brit Chadashah is standing exactly where the psalm stood.
Ask what happened in the three days between the cross and the empty tomb and you will get one of two answers: a holy pause, or a raid on hell. The Hebrew was built to say something else. The grave was a mikvah, the immersion of the new covenant itself, and what came up out of that water was a crowned King and a heart of flesh. Down a servant, up the King, and the water He rose through is the same water you were buried into.
He put the new covenant in His own blood into the hands of His friends, and we turned it into a sacrament. Read Hebraically, the cup is a covenant cut once and sealed forever, not a rite to be re-administered on a schedule by a professional. A sealed covenant cannot be re-sealed, and the covenant that retires the mediator was quietly rebuilt into a priesthood. Why I refrain, and what is still left at the table.
The West pictures a proud man thrown from a horse and converted to a new religion. There is no horse in the text, and there was no conversion. Saul of Tarsus was a Torah-trained Jew who, on the Damascus road, finally recognized the One his own Scriptures had been pointing to all along, and followed them all the way home.
Jesus warned against straining out gnats while swallowing camels. In an age consumed by denominational controversies and endless theological debates, have we overlooked a much larger problem? This essay announces the dangers of allowing anti-Judaism and supersessionism into the church.