There’s an old story that goes like this:

A man is walking alone through the woods at dusk. The air is still. The light is fading. But as he walks, he keeps noticing something strange.

Tree after tree has a perfect bullseye painted on its trunk— and right in the center of every one of them is an arrow. Dead-center. Precise. Flawless.

He stops and stares. Whoever did this must be the greatest archer alive. No one shoots with that kind of accuracy every single time.

Finally, he comes across a young archer with a quiver of arrows. He asks, “Is this your work? Did you really hit every one of those targets?”

The archer nods.

The man is amazed.

“How are you so accurate? How can anyone shoot with such perfect aim?”

The archer shrugs, almost confused by the question.

“It’s simple,” he says. “I shoot the arrow first… and then I walk over and paint the bullseye around it.”

How the Target Got Painted

This story is obviously an allegory— a symbolic representation of the way many Christians learned to read the Hebrew Scriptures. The way they’ve learned to read it is misleading… because it distorts the very word that their G-d gave.  They were shown the arrow first— the story of Jesus— and then handed a set of targets drawn neatly around it.

The effect? Well, every verse suddenly looked prophetic. Every poem looked predictive. Every promise looked like a coded preview.

But if you scrape away the paint— if you let the arrow stand where it actually lands— you begin to see something more honest and more profound.

Seeing the Text Without the Circles

When you strip away the painted targets, something shifts.

You stop looking for hidden predictions… and you start hearing the Hebrew Scriptures in their own voice. A voice that’s older than Christianity. Older than Greek philosophy. Older than every framework that came later.

A voice that speaks straight to the heart of the human condition— fear, justice, responsibility, failure, redemption, identity. A voice Jesus, himself, would have worshipped in his lifetime.

And if you listen closely, you notice something else:

The G-d in these pages—the One Christians call “the Father”— is fully present without anyone standing between Him and the people who call on Him.

There’s no intermediary controlling access. No figure filtering the conversation. No spiritual go-between required to make the relationship work.

Just the Source, and the human being reaching toward Him.

Direct. Immediate. Uncomplicated.

That alone should make anyone stop and wonder.

Christians already believe they’re praying to this very same G-d— not a different one, not a shadow of Him, but this One: the G-d of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.

So if you believe in that G-d… if you talk to Him, trust Him, cry out to Him— then isn’t it worth hearing His story as He told it?

Not through circles drawn later. Not through interpretations layered on top. Not through meanings bent to match a conclusion. Just the raw text, in the raw voice of the One you call Father.

What Opens Here

If you’re willing to set down the painted targets—just for a moment— and look at the arrow where it truly landed, you might also feel something unexpected:

A pull. A curiosity. A sense that there’s a layer beneath everything you were taught, a deeper root system you never got to see.

And once you feel that, you’re ready for the next step— the question that has shaped two thousand years of misunderstanding:

Before You Read Our Story Through Yours

When Christians open the Hebrew Scriptures, they often assume they already know the plot. They’ve been taught since childhood that every line, every symbol, every odd detail is whispering one name. They aren’t doing this intentionally—it’s simply the lens they inherited.

But lenses can both sharpen and distort.

So let me ask, gently, but honestly:

What if the Hebrew Scriptures have been doing something far bigger, far older, and far more complicated than most people ever had the chance to see?

Not in opposition to Christianity—just… independently. In their own identity. In their own rhythm.

The truth is, most Christians have never encountered the Hebrew Bible this way. Jewish communities hold it, argue with it, wrestle with it, and return to it generation after generation.

But Christians were never shown that there is another way to hear these words.

So this isn’t a correction as much as it is an invitation.

So try to take a step back for a moment, to loosen the grip on the assumptions you were given—and if you can do this, you may begin to see something extraordinary:

The Hebrew Scriptures are not a prequel. They’re not a silent outline waiting to be filled in. They’re not a shadow of a later theology. They are the lived record of a covenant—between G-d and a people who are still here.

A covenant that survived exiles, empires, persecutions, fire, famine, and worse. A covenant still spoken, still studied, still chanted, still lived.

And if you approach it with openness—not suspicion, not defensiveness, just honest curiosity—something inside might stir.

You’ll start to hear the text speak in its own voice—ancient, raw, direct, and very much alive.

You’ll begin to see that this story has weight and purpose all its own. That it stands upright on its own foundation. That it was never waiting for someone else to complete it.

And when you realize that… without losing anything, you gain clarity.

This is not about winning an argument. It’s about honoring the integrity of a story older than Christianity itself— a story still unfolding, still sacred, still breathing.And, if you let it, that realization will open doors you didn’t know were locked.

And it might just deepen your own faith in the process.

The Hebrew Language Doesn’t Work Like Greek

If you’ve made it this far— if you’ve allowed even a sliver of curiosity to open— then here’s where the ground really starts to move beneath your feet.

Because before you can understand what the Hebrew Scriptures say, you have to understand the language they speak in. And Hebrew… does not think like Greek. Does not see like Greek. Does not build meaning the way Greek builds meaning.

Hebrew is a language of earth and breath. Greek is a language of categories and abstractions.

Put simply:

Hebrew is lived.

Greek is theorized.

That difference alone can change everything.

Hebrew Moves Like Life Moves

In Hebrew, words are built from roots— three letters that form a living cluster of meanings, like branches rising from the same trunk.

One root can mean breath, spirit, wind, direction, movement. Not because Hebrew is vague, but because Hebrew sees all these things as connected. And when you read the text in Hebrew, you feel that connection under your skin. It moves through you.

But Greek? Greek splits everything apart. Categorizes. Defines. Pins things down like specimens on a table. Greek wants precision through separation. Hebrew wants depth through relationship.

So the moment you translate… everything shifts.

Examples That Change the Entire Frame

Take the word nefesh.

Christians are taught it means “soul.” A floating, immortal essence.

But in Hebrew, nefesh means a living being — your throat, your breath, your hunger, your life-force. It’s physical. It’s visceral. It’s you in motion.

Or ruach. Often translated as “spirit.” But in Hebrew? Wind. Breath. Energy moving. It’s what fills your lungs. What rattles the desert tents. What stirs life into dry bones. Not a ghost. A force.

Or Torah. Christians hear “law.” Restrictions. Legalism. Burden. But in Hebrew, Torah is instruction. Guidance. Direction. A path for how to walk. Not a cage. A compass.

Or the word kavod. Translated as “glory.” But in Hebrew, kavod means weight. Substance. Gravity. Something you can feel in the room when truth enters and everything shifts a little.

When Greek categories replaced these Hebrew currents, the meanings didn’t just get “translated”— they got transformed. And Christians inherited those transformed meanings without ever knowing what they replaced.

This Is Why the Targets Don’t Match

Once you see how differently Hebrew and Greek operate, you understand why the painted bullseyes look so convincing.

The Greek lens turned poetry into prophecy. Metaphor into prediction. Symbol into code. Human struggle into cosmic drama. And Christians were handed those meaning as if the Hebrew text had always said them.

But it didn’t.

Hebrew wasn’t trying to predict the future. It was trying to shape the present.

It wasn’t trying to outline a savior. It was forming a people.

It wasn’t trying to create a divine intermediary. It was trying to teach direct responsibility before G-d, before each other, before the world.

Once you let Hebrew be Hebrew— earthy, concrete, relational, rooted— you realize how far from home the Greek interpretations drifted.

Not necessarily maliciously, or intentionally… but inevitably.

You cannot take a language of breath and soil and force it through a philosophical filter without losing the pulse.

Why This Matters

Why does this matter?

If the G-d you pray to is the G-d of the Hebrew Scriptures, the G-d of Jesus, then the closer you get to the original language, the closer you get to His actual voice.

You don’t have to reject anything. You simply start recognizing the difference between: the text,

and the story that was later told about the text.

And that recognition doesn’t weaken faith.

It deepens it.

Not a Prologue — A Covenant

When the paint fades, you begin to see that the Hebrew Scriptures aren’t a prequel. They aren’t a waiting room. They aren’t the setup for a later act.

They are a covenant— stubborn, fierce, intimate, and ongoing.

A covenant built on:

• justice and responsibility,
• compassion and consequence,
• return and repair,
• the dignity of human choice,
• and the immediacy of a relationship with G-d that requires no interpreter.

This covenant isn’t unfinished. It isn’t obsolete. It isn’t waiting for someone else to complete it.

It is alive. It is continuous. It is the same covenant Christians assume they’re inheriting— but most have never actually encountered on its own terms.

What “Messiah” Really Means in Hebrew

Here’s where everything turns—quietly, but completely.

If you’ve followed the thread so far… if you’ve seen how the painted targets were drawn… if you’ve begun to feel the difference between Hebrew breath and Greek theory…then you’re ready for the next truth:

The word “Messiah” doesn’t mean what Christians were taught it means. Not even close.

They were told it was prophecy. They were told it was promise. They were told it was the centerpiece of the entire Bible.

But that’s only because the bullseye was drawn after the arrow.

So let’s step back— not in judgment, but in clarity.

Let’s look at the word itself.

Mashiach — The Hebrew Word Behind the English One

The English word “Messiah” comes from the Hebrew mashiach.

And mashiach does not mean:

•a divine being

•a savior of souls

•a cosmic sacrifice

•G-d in human form

•a mediator between humanity and G-d

•someone who abolishes commandments

•someone who dies for the sins of the world

None of that is Hebrew. None of that comes from the Tanakh. None of that existed in Jewish thought.

The word mashiach means one thing: Anointed. That’s it. Oil poured on the head as a sign of appointment. A choosing for a specific, earthly task. Nothing mystical. Nothing supernatural. Nothing cosmic. Nothing divine. Just a human being— usually a king, sometimes a priest, occasionally a prophet— set apart for leadership. That’s how the Hebrew Scriptures use the word every single time.

Not once does it mean “savior of the world. Not once does it mean “divine incarnation.” Not once does it mean “to die and rise for sins.” Those ideas came later— in a different language, in a different religious world, with a completely different set of expectations.

Why This Matters More Than People Realize

If the word changes, the expectation changes. If the expectation changes, the target changes. And when the target changes, the entire reading of the Hebrew Scriptures reshapes itself around something they never said.

So Christians were taught: “Mashiach = Jesus.” But in Hebrew, the word doesn’t point there. It never pointed there.

Which means…

All the so-called “prophecies” that seem to fit the Christian story only fit because the target was drawn around the arrow afterward.

That’s the moment the forest changes. That’s the moment the painted bullseyes start to peel off the bark. That’s the moment clarity begins to take root.

Not to tear anything down.

But to show something older, deeper, and more grounded.

Something Hebrew.

The Hebrew Messiah Is Earth-Bound, Not Heavenly

The Hebrew mashiach is:

•a king who restores righteous governance

•a leader who protects the people

•someone who brings justice and peace in the real world

•a figure who rebuilds, repairs, returns, restores

Not someone who abolishes Torah. Not someone who alters the covenant. Not someone who redefines G-d. Not someone who mediates access to the Father.

In the Hebrew Scriptures, mashiach is not a savior from sin. He’s a restorer of national wholeness, justice, and dignity. Nothing about that requires divinity. Nothing about that involves dying and rising. Nothing about that involves blood sacrifice. Those ideas were added centuries later by people reading the text through Greek categories and painting circles around a story that had already been told.

Where This Brings Us

If you believe in the G-d of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob— if you speak to Him, trust Him, cry out to Him— then understanding the Hebrew meaning of His words isn’t a threat to your faith.

It’s a return to the Source.

And once you understand what mashiach actually means, you see clearly: The Hebrew Scriptures weren’t predicting Jesus. They weren’t whispering his name. They weren’t sending secret signals across time.

They were speaking their own truth in their own language for their own covenant with their own people.

Jesus isn’t hidden in the Tanakh.

He was written in afterward.

And that doesn’t diminish anything. It just means the arrow was there first— and the target came later.

So Now What?

At this point, if you’re Christian and you’re actually still listening, there’s probably a question forming somewhere between your chest and your throat:

“Okay… so what am I supposed to do with this? Does this mean I’m supposed to become   Jewish?”

I’m not here to hand you a new label. I’m not recruiting. I’m not trading one team jersey for another.

What I am doing is putting a mirror in front of your faith and asking you to look at what it’s actually built on.

Not the feelings. Not the music. Not the memories. The structure.

Because once you see that the targets were painted after the arrows, you really only have three honest options:

1.Ignore it and go back to business as usual.

You can push this down. Tell yourself it doesn’t matter. Decide that the comfort of what you already know is worth more than the cost of rethinking it. People do this all the time. It’s human.

But understand: that’s not faith. That’s avoidance.

2.Try to bend the Hebrew Scriptures back around your existing beliefs.

You can double down. You can hunt for new “proofs,” new patterns, new ways to keep Jesus in texts that weren’t talking about him. But at that point, you’re not listening to the Scriptures. You’re using them. You’re the archer, painting fresh circles.

3.Or… you can get honest.

You can say, “If the Hebrew words don’t mean what I was told, then I want to know what they do mean. Even if that takes me somewhere I didn’t plan to go.”

That third path is the only one that leads to integrity.

Does that mean you should become Jewish?

No.

It means you should become truthful.

What Honesty Actually Looks Like

Honesty doesn’t demand that you change your culture, your community, or your friendships.

Honesty only demands that you stop pretending the Hebrew Scriptures say something they don’t.

It looks like: asking, in the presence of that G-d: “What do You want me to do with this truth?”

Not what your pastor wants. Not what your denomination wants. Not what your social circle expects.

What does He want from you, now that you know?

That’s between you and Him.

Some People Will Walk Different Roads

Let’s be real about this too.

•Some Christians, when they see all this clearly, do end up leaving Christianity and walking toward Judaism.

•Some stay where they are but stop forcing Jesus into the Hebrew text, and they build a more honest, stripped-down faith.

•Some don’t know where they stand yet, but they refuse to lie to themselves ever again about what the Tanakh does and doesn’t say.

I’m not here to script your ending.

I’m here to pull the painted targets off the trees and say: “This is where the arrow actually landed. Look at it. Don’t look away.”

What you do after that—that’s your responsibility before G-d.

The One Thing You Can’t Do Anymore

If you’ve really heard any of this, there’s only one thing you can’t do in good conscience:

You can’t keep saying, “The Hebrew Bible clearly predicts Jesus,” as though nothing you just learned exists.

You can’t keep treating Jewish objections as stubbornness or blindness.

You can’t keep pretending the language, the history, the covenant, and the context don’t matter.

From here on out, if you cling to the old narrative, you’ll know exactly what you’re doing: You’ll be walking back into the woods, looking at the arrows, and choosing—knowingly—to repaint the bullseyes.

You’re free to do that. G-d doesn’t stop you from choosing comfort over truth.

But if you’re tired of that… If something in you would rather stand shivering in the cold with what’s real, than stay warm in a lie… Then this is your turning point.

Not “become a Jew.” Not “stay a Christian.” Something deeper:

Become someone who cares more about what’s true than about being right.

And if you can do that— really do that— then whatever comes next, you’ll be walking it with your eyes open, before the same G-d Jesus knew.

And that, more than any label, is what actually matters.

Amen.