East of Eden: The God Who Leapt Off the Page

He was trained in philosophy and systematics,

raised on Reformed dogma:

the Perfect Being,

the God who always gets his way,

a puppet-master pulling history’s strings,

a theorem-God,

distant and untouched.

He could quote the catechisms,

recite the logic of sovereignty,

the syllogisms of control.

But funerals came too often in his parish,

and the city would not bow to abstractions.

So he opened Isaiah,

and the page burned against his hands.

And he whispered, trembling:

“O God, leap off the page,

be more than the doctrines I memorised.”

I. Anger — אַף (’aph) — Isa 5:25

Not impassive.

Here nostrils flare,

breath hisses hot with rage.

YHWH rises against the bruising of the poor,

wrath as holy protest

when alleyway knives flash

and landlords crush the weak.

The priest writes in the margin:

This God burns.

And then he prays:

“Lord, burn with us,

burn against the violence in these streets.

But do not burn me away.”

II. Grief — הוֹי (hôy) — Isa 1:4

“Alas, sinful nation.”

The unmoved mover cannot weep.

But the Holy One mourns,

his lament thick as smoke in the stairwells.

The priest hears it echoed

in mothers crying on council estates

when news of death comes late.

He notes in his book:

This God weeps.

And he prays, quietly fearful:

“O God who weeps,

teach me to share your sorrow,

though I fear it will break me too.”

III. Compassion — רַחַם (raḥam) — Isa 49:15

Can a mother forget her child?

The philosopher’s god knows no womb.

But YHWH remembers,

mercy visceral as milk,

tender as tears.

The priest sees it at the foodbank,

bread pressed into shaking hands.

He underlines fiercely:

This God remembers.

And he prays:

“Remember us, Lord.

Let your compassion spill again,

for this city is hungry.”

IV. Zeal / Jealousy — קִנְאָה (qin’āh) — Isa 9:7

The zeal of YHWH will do this.

Not sterile perfection,

but passion aflame.

Like a lover unwilling to share,

like a street preacher

still shouting in the rain,

YHWH refuses detachment.

The priest writes:

This God cares too much to be still.

Then with trembling lips:

“Your zeal unnerves me, Lord,

but let it carry us,

for we are tired.”

V. Patience — אָרַךְ (’ārakh) — Isa 48:9

For my name’s sake I defer my anger.

The puppet-master strikes at will,

but Isaiah’s God waits.

Long of nose,

wrath stretched thin across years.

Patience like the social worker

who waits week after week

for a lad who never turns up.

The priest whispers:

This God holds back for love.

And then he prays:

“Hold back still, Lord,

give us room to repent,

stretch out your mercy over us.”

VI. Joy — שׂוּשׂ (sûs) — Isa 62:5

As the bridegroom rejoices over the bride.

Not marble serenity,

but laughter in the parish hall —

paper roses, cheap champagne,

joy bright against poverty.

The priest sees God dancing

on cracked linoleum,

delighting in the laughter of children.

He writes:

This God delights.

And in awe he prays:

“Teach me to rejoice with you, Lord,

though joy feels dangerous here.”

VII. Resolve — קִנְאָה (qin’āh) — Isa 37:32

The zeal of YHWH will do this.

Not just love — intention.

A covenant will etched in fire.

Like the grandmother who lights candles

for her grandson in prison,

week after week,

unyielding faith.

So too YHWH:

purpose outlasting ruins.

But the priest hesitates —

what if this God truly acts?

What if his fire falls

on stained glass,

on pulpits,

on him?

He writes, hand shaking:

This God acts.

And he prays,

with a knot in his throat:

“Act, Lord —

but not in fury.

Not before I am ready.

For we are fragile.”

VIII. Love / Steadfast Love — אָהַב (ʾāhab), חֶסֶד (ḥesed) — Isa 43:4; 54:10

“I have loved you.”

“My steadfast love shall not depart.”

Not sovereignty cold as marble,

not will imposed from a distance.

But affection and covenant loyalty

woven through streets and estates,

firmer than cracked pavements,

stronger than policy or empire.

The priest lingers on the words:

This God stays.

And he prays, almost whispering:

“Stay with us, Lord.

Stay when we falter,

stay when the city collapses,

stay when I cannot believe.”

He shuts the book at dawn,

but Isaiah won’t leave him.

The philosopher’s puppeteer is gone,

the Perfect Being dethroned.

Here stands YHWH —

burning, weeping, remembering, rejoicing,

resolute, loving, alive.

A God in time,

in the city,

in the thick of it all.

The priest-theologian trembles,

and writes his final prayer:

“O God beyond the box,

you have leapt off the page.

You could undo me —

yet still, I believe.

Help my unbelief.”