I am coming to the end of the anthology on and by Philosopher John Caputo. The key emphasis seems to be beyond substitutionary atonement to focus on loving widow, orphan. stranger and enemy as more important than self, and so in Luke-Acts Jesus and Stephen not only end their wrongful deaths with prayers for themselves but emphatically petition for God to forgive their persecutors (and notably do not simply forgive their persecutors themselves).

Previously I looked at Caputo through the lens retributive justice such as a fine payment to balance the books / appease God’s wrath at sin such as substitutionary atonement (in the sense of 4 Maccabees) – vs justice as proactive where God forgives sin without demanding payment, such as in the Lord’s prayer, the penitential psalms, and the story of Jonah.  In this latter case, the mandate is not “eye for an eye” retributive justice as love your neighbor and hate your enemy, but love your neighbor, widow, orphan, stranger and enemy as more important than self.  This latter case sounds more warm and fuzzy than eye for an eye, and is diverged from retribution: Catholic postmodern philosopher David Goicoechea (my late friend) takes this altruistic love to its logical conclusion of all flesh are saved universalism (his reading of Luke 3:6, “All flesh will experience [or see] the salvation of the Lord”) where, for example, Hitler temporarily in purgatory is prayed for that he will be inspired to repent and have a change of heart (metanoia).  Altruistic Justice is thus just as monstrous to the retributive justice perspective as retributive justice is to altruistic justice perspective, since it is personified by a serial killer meeting one of his victim’s in heaven because the murderer repented on his deathbed.

What does a phenomenology of Justice as tsdaqah in the Torah mean as love of widow, orphan and stranger mean, and how does this push us beyond the merely retributive justice model?

Tzedakah (tsdaqah / צְדָקָה) in the Torah fundamentally means “righteousness” or “justice”—not primarily “charity” in the optional, voluntary sense common in English. It derives from the root tzedek (justice/righteousness) and refers to obligatory acts that create a just society by actively supporting the vulnerable and correcting imbalances.

This is distinct from but complementary to mishpat (often translated as judgment or retributive/procedural justice—the fair application of laws, courts, and punishment).

The Torah repeatedly commands protection and provision for these three archetypal vulnerable groups (often mentioned together with the poor and Levites).  And, it’s God’s own character: “He executes justice for the fatherless and the widow, and loves the stranger [ger], giving him food and clothing” (Deuteronomy 10:18). Israelites must imitate this.

Specific laws:

Leave gleanings in fields, olives, and vineyards for the widow, orphan, and stranger (Leviticus 19:9-10; Deuteronomy 24:19-22). Third-year tithes support them (Deuteronomy 14:28-29, 26:12). Do not pervert justice due to them or take a widow’s garment as pledge (Deuteronomy 24:17; 27:19). Oppressing them brings divine wrath (Exodus 22:21-24).

Love as action:

“You shall love the stranger as yourself, for you were strangers in Egypt” (Leviticus 19:34; Deuteronomy 10:19). This is not abstract sentiment but concrete economic and social support—ensuring dignity, food, clothing, and inclusion so they are not humiliated or excluded.

Tzedakah frames this care as justice, not supererogatory kindness. Withholding it distorts society’s moral order. The hungry neighbor isn’t lacking because of scarcity alone, but because resources are misallocated; tzedakah restores proper relation. It combines justice (obligation) with love (personal compassion and dignity-restoring action), as in Rabbi Jonathan Sacks’ framing of it as both kingly judgment and parental gift.

By contrast, retributive justice (mishpat in one key sense) focuses on fair rules, punishment proportional to wrongdoing, impartial courts, and “an eye for an eye” as measured response. It maintains order by addressing violations after they occur.

Tzedakah shifts emphasis toward distributive and restorative justice.  There is proactive equity over mere punishment: It addresses root causes of vulnerability (poverty, isolation, lack of support networks) before or beyond crimes. A society relying only on courts leaves the powerless crushed even if laws are fairly applied. Tzedakah builds flourishing by ensuring no one falls through cracks—e.g., via gleaning laws that redistribute without centralized bureaucracy.

It seeks to restore dignity, independence, and community inclusion (e.g., Maimonides’ highest levels of tzedakah enable self-sufficiency). Retribution punishes; tzedakah heals societal rifts and prevents cycles of harm.

It is an imitation of God.  Torah justice isn’t neutral or merely punitive; it has a bias toward the vulnerable because God “loves” the stranger and defends the defenseless. Pure retribution can be cold or status-quo preserving. Tzedakah demands active love and systemic concern.

Pursuing “justice, justice” (Deuteronomy 16:20) includes both mishpat and tzedakah. The latter prevents the former from becoming empty formalism (see prophets like Isaiah 1:17, Amos 5:24).

In short, tzedakah as love of widow, orphan, and stranger reframes justice as relational and constructive: a society is righteous when its weakest members are upheld with dignity, not merely when laws are evenly enforced. This moves beyond “punish the guilty” to “build a covenant community where vulnerability doesn’t lead to despair.” It remains influential in Jewish ethics and broader concepts of social justice.

Is the New Testament mandate to love enemies as more important than self a natural outgrowth of this love of widow, orphan and stranger in the Old Testament, such as dying Jesus and Stephen in Luke-Acts do not pray to save themselves, they accept their fate and anticipate the Kingdom, but for their enemies to be forgiven/saved?

The New Testament mandate to “love your enemies” (even prioritizing their forgiveness/salvation over self-preservation) represents a natural outgrowth and radical intensification of the Old Testament ethic of love for the vulnerable—such as widows, orphans, and strangers—rooted in God’s character. It extends the same principles of tzedakah (righteous justice as active care) into hostile territory, imitating God’s impartial goodness. There is therefore a tension in the bible between this God of love, and the God who does things like having the Jews annihilate peoples in a territory they are promised or eye for an eye writ large on a sinful world with the Flood.  Elsewhere I’ve tried to show Paul has both models with Jesus as a sacrifice and a moral influence death, since simply bracketing retributive justice entails the absurdity that Hitler could be dancing with his victims in heaven right now.  We see the duality of the returning prodigal son who is cast into the economy of sin/punishment judgment of the good son, and in contrast also with the love without payment perspective of the father. 

The Torah commands love and justice for the vulnerable because Israelites were once strangers/oppressed in Egypt (e.g., Exodus 22:21-23; Deuteronomy 10:18-19; Leviticus 19:33-34). This is not optional sentiment but obligatory tzedakah: provide for them, do not oppress, leave gleanings, execute justice on their behalf. It flows from imitating God, who “loves the stranger” and defends the defenseless.

This ethic already contains seeds of concern beyond the in-group.  Proverbs 25:21-22 (quoted by Paul in Romans 12:20): If your enemy is hungry, give him bread; if thirsty, give him water. This heaps “coals of fire” (blessing or conviction) and aligns with non-retaliation.

There are commands against personal vengeance or grudges (Leviticus 19:18, in the same chapter as “love your neighbor”): “You shall not take vengeance or bear a grudge… but you shall love your neighbor as yourself.”  There are also examples of aiding enemies or showing mercy (e.g., Elisha in 2 Kings 6; positive interactions with outsiders).

The Torah is realistic about enemies (wars, justice against oppressors) but pushes toward restraint, provision, and leaving judgment to God. Jesus’ teaching in the Sermon on the Mount (Matthew 5:43-48) explicitly builds on Leviticus 19:”Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be sons of your Father in heaven. For he makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the just and on the unjust.”  This mirrors God’s impartial tzedakah-like care (blessings extended to all). Loving only insiders is no better than tax collectors or Gentiles. Perfect love (v. 48) means extending covenantal concern universally.   This is a “fulfillment” of the Law (Matthew 5:17), not abolition—intensifying its trajectory toward mercy, non-retaliation (“turn the other cheek,” etc.), and enemy-good. It echoes God’s love for enemies (humanity as rebels; see Romans 5:8-10).

Jesus on the cross (Luke 23:34) says “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” He intercedes for his executioners rather than calling for judgment or self-rescue, embodying enemy-love to the end.  As a literary parallel, Stephen (Acts 7:59-60) as he is stoned says “Lord Jesus, receive my spirit… Lord, do not hold this sin against them.” Luke-Acts draws deliberate parallels between Jesus and his followers, showing this forgiving stance as the model for disciples. Stephen prioritizes his persecutors’ potential salvation over his own survival.

These scenes portray a love that absorbs violence without retaliation, seeking redemption for the “enemy” (here, persecutors acting in ignorance or opposition). It radicalizes the OT vulnerable-love by treating even active hostiles as image-bearers worthy of intercession and provision.  Both stem from imitating God’s character—compassionate justice (tzedakah/mishpat) for the powerless, extended outward. The “stranger” (ger) was often a potential or former outsider/enemy; enemy-love universalizes this.

Jesus brings the eschatological “already” of God’s rule, where mercy triumphs over judgment (James 2:13). The cross itself is the ultimate display: God in Christ reconciling enemies (Colossians 1:21-22; Romans 5).

This is not pacifism or naivety alone. It coexists with calls for justice, boundaries, and accountability (e.g., church discipline, governing authorities in Romans 13), but prioritizes forgiveness and blessing.  The OT plants the seed of active love for the marginal/other as justice; the NT waters it into full enemy-love, modeled supremely in Jesus’ self-giving death and echoed by Stephen. This doesn’t reject the Torah but brings its ethical heart to fulfillment, calling believers to reflect the Father who blesses enemies with sun and rain—and ultimately, with the gospel.

There is a great scholarly discussion now about whether Jesus’ death was random, a sin payment, or a catalyst to inspire repentance in Jesus’ enemies because of his forgiving innocence?  Jesus’ party were armed and got violent at the arrest, so it seems unlikely it was thought by his followers Jesus was supposed to die.  Ehrman thinks Jesus’s death was soon reinterpreted as a sacrifice by his followers when some of them thought they saw Jesus after his death, whatever that meant (e.g., onlookers thought they witnessed Caesar after his death in a comet).  Luke 3:6 says all flesh will experience the salvation of the lord, and this is the same word Paul uses for the appearances of Jesus, and that God revealed Jesus “in him.”  If the world ought to be punished for turning on Jesus (like the citizens trying to rape Lot’s angels), his death as substitutionary atonement makes sense, but also as moral influence guilt catalyzing.  This makes sense of the contrary images of sin as payment substitutionary atonement in Romans contrasting with the evil Sin entity later in Romans whose spell needs to be broken with a Moral influence cross.

Ehrman suggests Paul in Romans starts off by talking about sin as transgression, but then switches and talks about Sin as a demonic entity. Apocalyptic thinking saw evil not just the Jews failing to obey but actual demonic forces were in charge that God would soon overthrow, e.g., I think of how Satan entered Judas.

Ehrman’s description is broadly accurate and reflects a well-established scholarly reading of Paul’s theology in Romans (especially chapters 5–8), though it involves some interpretive nuances.

Paul does use “sin” (Greek hamartia) in multiple senses. Early in Romans, he emphasizes sin as transgression—human disobedience, idolatry, and moral failure that incurs guilt and God’s wrath (e.g., Romans 1:18–32; 2:12–16; 3:9–20, 23). All people, Jew and Gentile, are accountable for their actions.

Starting especially around Romans 5 and intensifying in 6–8, Paul personifies Sin as a cosmic, enslaving power—a quasi-demonic force or tyrant that entered the world through Adam (5:12), reigns over humanity (5:21; 6:12), enslaves people (6:6, 16–17), dwells in them (7:17, 20), deceives and kills (7:11), and pays “wages” of death (6:23). Humans are sold under it (7:14), and even the Law, though good, is co-opted by Sin to increase trespass and expose helplessness.

Romans 5:12–21: Sin and Death as reigning powers introduced by Adam, contrasted with the reign of grace/righteousness through Christ.

Romans 6: Believers have “died to Sin” and been freed from slavery to it; they must not let Sin “reign” in their bodies.

Romans 7:7–25: Dramatic personification—Sin seizes opportunity through the commandment, revives, deceives, and kills. Paul (or the “I”) is captive to the “law of sin” in his members despite delighting in God’s law with his mind.

Romans 8: Liberation comes through the Spirit; the power of Sin is broken.

This is not mere metaphor. Paul treats Sin (and Death) as active agents in an apocalyptic cosmic drama—hostile powers opposed to God that hold the world in bondage until defeated by Christ.

This fits perfectly with Second Temple Jewish apocalyptic thought, which Paul (a former Pharisee) inhabited. In this worldview, the present age is dominated by evil forces (Satan, demons, principalities, powers—see also Ephesians 6:12, though deutero-Pauline).

God will soon intervene to overthrow them and establish his kingdom.

Sin is not just individual acts but a pervasive force tied to the fallen order.

The example of Satan entering Judas (Luke 22:3; John 13:27) illustrates the same broader pattern: external/supernatural evil forces influencing or possessing humans, common in apocalyptic literature. Paul himself links Christ’s death/resurrection to victory over cosmic powers (e.g., 1 Corinthians 15; Colossians 2:15, though the latter may be deutero-Pauline).

Scholars like Rudolf Bultmann and many others have long noted Paul’s personification of Sin as a power to which humans are enslaved.

Ehrman’s framing aligns with this (and with his own writings on Paul’s “participationist” model of salvation, where believers participate in Christ’s victory over these powers through baptism and faith).

Basically, Moral Influence is the idea of seeing ourselves in our shared humanity in the ones who turned on sinless, Davidic heir God’s agapetos Jesus, torturing and murdering him rather than celebrating and accepting him, which makes conspicuous our sin nature and catalyzes metanoia/repentance that boots out the demonic entity Sin because you become an inhospitable residence for Sin.  It’s like enjoying a plate of BBQ wings when an animal cruelty video comes on inspiring Veganism.  When Satan left and Judas regained control, he committed suicide out of remorse, although Paul seems to know nothing of one of the 12 being absent and so Judas is likely a literary fiction representing “The Jews,” which is what the names means- etymologically and symbolically, the name “Judas” can (and historically has) been linked to “the Jews” in a figurative or representative sense.

Price comments:

All critics recognize the seed of the last supper story in Psalm 41:9, “Even my bosom friend, in whom I trusted, who ate my bread, has lifted his heel against me.” Frank Kermode has traced (pp. 84-85) the logical process whereby the original, entirely and abstractly theological claim that Jesus had been “delivered up” (paredoqh, Romans 4:25) has been narratized. From God having “handed over” his son for our sins grew the idea that a human agent had “betrayed” him (same Greek word). For this purpose, in line with anti-Jewish polemic, a betrayer named Judas was created. His epithet “Iscariot” seems to denote either Ish-karya (Aramaic for “the false one)” or a pun on Issachar, “hireling” (Miller, p. 65), thus one paid to hand Jesus over to the authorities. Much of the Last Supper story is taken up with this matter because of the mention of the betrayer eating with his victim in Psalm 41.

It is interesting to see how Matthew embellishes the enigmatic figure and fate of Judas. First, he knows the precise amount Judas was paid, 30 silver pieces. He knows this from Zechariah 11:11b (“And they weighed out as my wages thirty shekels of silver.”) How does he know that Judas returned the money, throwing it into the Temple treasury, and that the priests decided to use it to buy the potter’s field? The Syriac version of Zechariah reads: “Then the LORD said to me, ‘Cast it into the treasury, this lordly price at which I was paid off by them. So I took the thirty shekels of silver and cast them into the treasury in the house of the LORD.” The Hebrew of the same verse reads: “”Cast it to the potter, etc.” How does Matthew know Judas hanged himself? That was the fate of David’s traitorous counsellor Ahithophel (2 Samuel 17:23), whom scribal tradition took to be the subject of Psalm 41:9, which the gospels applied to Judas (Helms, p. 106).

I’d like to finish with Buckley considering phenomenology and Caputo, disclosing and describing what appears, the religious phenomena.

I am claiming that aesthetic experience is structurally similar to religious experience; or rather, the experience of truth in religious life is analogous, perhaps even inextricably linked, with the truth experienced and revealed in a work of art.  Zlomislic, Marko; DeRoo, Neal. Cross and Khôra: Deconstruction and Christianity in the Work of John D. Caputo (Postmodern Ethics Book 1) (p. 270). Pickwick Publications, an Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers. Kindle Edition.

So too the psychotic paranoid experiences a world of beings saturated with conspiracy.

On the one hand, the relation is intrinsic and necessary; without the signs there would be no experience of the sacred and this is why we are filled with indignation when something disgraceful happens to them. On the other hand, the relation is extrinsic and rather arbitrary and contingent because we can give no intrinsic or rational foundation to the fact that some symbols have a certain efficacy and others leave us indifferent (or, that at different times, something meaningful, has become meaningless—the fervent prayer now empty, the beautiful ritual now farce, the heart-lifting music now a drone). Derrida has taught us that no philosophical theory can protect us from this threat; and even deconstruction is powerless to prevent the painful loss and suffering that is endured in the ebbing of meaning from a previously venerated religious tradition.  Zlomislic, Marko; DeRoo, Neal. Cross and Khôra: Deconstruction and Christianity in the Work of John D. Caputo (Postmodern Ethics Book 1) (p. 272). Pickwick Publications, an Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers. Kindle Edition

We might think the example of eternal return where the holiness of a favorite gospel song is wiped away and replaced with irritating-ness simply by playing it on repeat 20 times in a row.  The numinous/holiness is not any more real than the conspiracy-saturatedness the schizophrenic encounters, however real it may feel, but is rather a trick of the mind creating weight where there is none, like a tourist experiencing Niagara Falls as a wonder of the world, whereas for the local resident it’s mere background scenery, or even noise pollution.

I’ll try to finish off the Caputo anthology next time.