Here’s the shit Christians don’t want you to know about the Book of Joel (יוֹאֵל, Yo’el, literally “YHWH is God”): this slim prophetic text, barely three chapters of agricultural catastrophe and covenantal pleading, has been so thoroughly ass-fucked by two millennia of Christian misreading that its original context—a localized ecological disaster in post-exilic Judah—has been transformed into cosmic warfare pornography for modern theocrats. The opening chapters of Joel, which describe a devastating locust plague and drought with the visceral horror of watching your entire livelihood devoured in real-time, have become the scriptural ammunition for Christian Dominionist fantasies about divine armies, apocalyptic conquest, and the subjugation of “God’s enemies.” It’s a masterclass in textual violence: take a Jewish prophet’s desperate call for communal teshuvah (תְּשׁוּבָה, “return/repentance”), strip it of its covenantal particularity, and weaponize it against the very people whose scripture you’re pillaging.

The first half of Joel—roughly 1:1 through 2:17—presents us with three interconnected movements: (1) the description of unprecedented ecological devastation (1:2-12), (2) the liturgical response demanding communal fasting and lamentation (1:13-20), (3) the Yom YHWH (יוֹם יְהוָה, “Day of the LORD”) as imminent threat (2:1-11), and (4) the urgent call to repentance before divine judgment solidifies (2:12-17). What Christians have done to this text is transform its localized, covenant-specific crisis into a universal script for religious imperialism, where Joel’s locusts become metaphors for spiritual warfare, his priestly calls for fasting become mandates for theocratic political action, and his Day of YHWH becomes a blank check for Christian supremacist bullshit.

Let’s tear this apart systematically, shall we?

The text opens with brutal simplicity: דְּבַר־יְהוָה אֲשֶׁר הָיָה אֶל־יוֹאֵל בֶּן־פְּתוּאֵל (Devar-YHWH asher hayah el-Yo’el ben-Petu’el, “The word of YHWH that came to Joel son of Pethuel”). This is standard prophetic authorization, grounding Joel’s message in divine commissioning rather than personal speculation. But here’s where it gets viscerally interesting: Joel immediately demands multi-generational witnessing.

שִׁמְעוּ־זֹאת הַזְּקֵנִים וְהַאֲזִינוּ כֹּל יוֹשְׁבֵי הָאָרֶץ הֲהָיְתָה זֹּאת בִּימֵיכֶם וְאִם בִּימֵי אֲבֹתֵיכֶם (Shim’u-zot hazqenim veha’azinu kol yoshvei ha’aretz hahayetah zot bimeikhem ve’im bimei avoteikhem): “Hear this, you elders, and give ear, all inhabitants of the land! Has such a thing happened in your days, or in the days of your ancestors?” (Joel 1:2, JPS).

The rhetorical question demands a resounding “No”—this catastrophe is unprecedented. Joel orders the transmission of this traumatic memory through generations: עָלֶיהָ לִבְנֵיכֶם סַפֵּרוּ וּבְנֵיכֶם לִבְנֵיהֶם וּבְנֵיהֶם לְדוֹר אַחֵר (Aleha livneikhem saperu uvneikhem livneihem uvneihem ledor aḥer): “Tell your children about it, and let your children tell their children, and their children the next generation” (1:3).

This is zakhor (זָכוֹר, “remember”) theology at its most raw—collective memory as covenantal obligation. The Mishnah emphasizes such transmission as the mechanism of Jewish continuity (M. Avot 1:1), the chain of tradition extending from Sinai through successive generations. But here’s the Christian fuckup: Dominionist preachers rip this out of its communal-memory context and turn it into a mandate for indoctrinating children into spiritual warfare narratives. The Seven Mountains Mandate specifically targets education as a “mountain” to conquer, using Joel’s inter-generational language to justify Christian nationalist curriculum that erases Jewish particularity while appropriating Jewish scripture.

Joel unleashes what might be the most terrifying single verse about agricultural destruction in the entire Tanakh:

יֶתֶר הַגָּזָם אָכַל הָאַרְבֶּה וְיֶתֶר הָאַרְבֶּה אָכַל הַיֶּלֶק וְיֶתֶר הַיֶּלֶק אָכַל הֶחָסִיל

(Yeter haggazam akhal ha’arbeh veyeter ha’arbeh akhal hayelek veyeter hayelek akhal heḥasil)

“What the cutting locust (gazam, גָּזָם) left, the swarming locust (arbeh, אַרְבֶּה) ate; what the swarming locust left, the hopping locust (yelek, יֶלֶק) ate; and what the hopping locust left, the destroying locust (ḥasil, חָסִיל) ate” (1:4).

These four Hebrew terms have generated massive scholarly debate. Are they four different species? Four developmental stages of the same locust? Four separate invasions? The Talmud (B. Ta’anit 6a) treats them as distinct stages of locust maturation, noting the increasing destructive capacity as they develop. The linguistic progression matters: gazam comes from a root meaning “to cut/shear,” arbeh is the standard term for locust (likely from rabah, רָבָה, “to multiply”), yelek suggests licking/consuming, and ḥasil implies total consumption/finishing.

This is serial, systematic, complete devastation. Nothing—and I mean not a fucking thing—remains. The text describes agricultural annihilation with the clinical precision of documenting genocide.

But Christians, unable to accept that Joel might simply be describing an actual ecological disaster, immediately allegorize this shit. Church fathers like Jerome spiritualized the locusts as successive waves of heretics. Modern prophecy peddlers transform them into demonic armies. Dominionist preachers see them as metaphors for cultural enemies—secularism, Islam, “woke ideology,” whatever boogeyman fills their offering plates. They cannot fathom that sometimes, the Hebrew Bible just describes really fucking terrible natural disasters without cosmic warfare implications.

The Midrash (Midrash Tanhuma, Beshalach 12) does engage in some metaphorical reading, connecting the locusts to Israel’s enemies, but critically maintains the historical-covenantal framework: this is about Israel’s relationship with YHWH, not universal spiritual warfare. Jewish interpretation preserves particularity; Christian interpretation weaponizes universality.

Joel shifts to direct address with visceral imagery:

הָקִיצוּ שִׁכּוֹרִים וּבְכוּ וְהֵילִילוּ כָּל־שֹׁתֵי יָיִן עַל־עָסִיס כִּי נִכְרַת מִפִּיכֶם

(Haqitzu shikkorim uvechu veheililu kol-shotei yayin al-asis ki nikhrat mipikhem)

“Wake up, drunkards, and weep! Wail, all you wine-drinkers, over the sweet wine, for it is cut off from your mouths” (1:5).

The shikkorim (שִׁכּוֹרִים, “drunkards”) aren’t necessarily moral failures here—they’re emblematic of those whose entire sensory world has been upended. Wine (yayin, יַיִן) and sweet wine (asis, עָסִיס, fresh-pressed grape juice) represented celebration, joy, covenant feasting. Their absence signals social death. The verb nikhrat (נִכְרַת, “cut off”) carries covenantal freight—it’s used for being cut off from the people, excommunication, covenant breach.

Joel continues with military metaphor to describe the locust invasion:

כִּי־גוֹי עָלָה עַל־אַרְצִי עָצוּם וְאֵין מִסְפָּר שִׁנָּיו שִׁנֵּי אַרְיֵה וּמְתַלְּעוֹת לָבִיא לוֹ

(Ki-goy alah al-artsi atzum ve’ein mispar shinnav shinnei aryeh umetal’ot lavi lo)

“For a nation (goy, גּוֹי) has invaded my land, powerful and innumerable; its teeth are lions’ teeth, and it has the fangs of a lioness” (1:6).

Here’s the linguistic trick Christians miss: goy typically means “nation/people,” often used for foreign powers. Joel applies it to the locust swarm, personifying them as an invading army. This isn’t fucking prophecy about Babylon or Rome or Islam—it’s vivid description of how a locust plague actually functions. They advance like coordinated military units, they devour with predatory efficiency, they leave destruction that looks like warfare.

The result? שָׂם גַּפְנִי לְשַׁמָּה וּתְאֵנָתִי לִקְצָפָה חָשֹׂף חֲשָׂפָהּ וְהִשְׁלִיךְ הִלְבִּינוּ שָׂרִיגֶיהָ (Sam gafni leshamah ut’enati liqtzafah ḥasof ḥasafah vehishlikha hilbinu sarigeha): “It has laid waste my vines, splintered my fig trees, stripped them bare and thrown them down; their branches have turned white” (1:7).

The repetition of ḥasof ḥasafah (“stripped, stripped bare”) intensifies the image—complete denudation. The whitened branches (hilbinu, הִלְבִּינוּ, “made white”) signal death, the exposed wood bleached like bones. This is agricultural holocaust.

אֱלִי כִּבְתוּלָה חֲגֻרַת־שַׂק עַל־בַּעַל נְעוּרֶיהָ

(Eli khivtulah ḥagurat-saq al-ba’al ne’ureha)

“Lament like a virgin (betulah, בְּתוּלָה) girded with sackcloth for the husband (ba’al, בַּעַל) of her youth” (1:8).

This verse packs devastating emotional freight. A betulah who has lost her ba’al ne’ureha (“husband/master of her youth”—likely betrothed or newly married) represents promise destroyed, future obliterated. The image is a young woman in mourning sackcloth for a life that will never unfold. It’s not just loss—it’s the amputation of hope itself.

Joel then catalogs the religious crisis:

הָכְרַת מִנְחָה וָנֶסֶךְ מִבֵּית יְהוָה אָבְלוּ הַכֹּהֲנִים מְשָׁרְתֵי יְהוָה

(Hokhrat minḥah vanesekh mibeit YHWH avelu hakohanim mesharetei YHWH)

“The grain offering (minḥah, מִנְחָה) and drink offering (nesekh, נֶסֶךְ) are cut off from the house of YHWH. The priests mourn, the ministers of YHWH” (1:9).

This is the fucking crisis: the Temple cult has collapsed. Without grain and wine, there can be no minḥah (the grain offering described in Leviticus 2) or nesekh (libation offerings). The kohanim (כֹּהֲנִים, “priests”) and mesharetei YHWH (מְשָׁרְתֵי יְהוָה, “ministers/servants of YHWH”) cannot fulfill their covenantal duties. The entire sacrificial system—the mechanism by which Israel maintains relationship with YHWH—has been severed.

The Halakhah is crystal clear: offerings require specific agricultural products (M. Menahot deals exhaustively with grain offerings). Without crops, there’s no cult. Without cult, there’s no mediation. This is covenantal emergency.

Joel continues enumerating the devastation:

שֻׁדַּד שָׂדֶה אָבְלָה אֲדָמָה כִּי שֻׁדַּד דָּגָן הוֹבִישׁ תִּירוֹשׁ אֻמְלַל יִצְהָר

(Shuddad sadeh avlah adamah ki shuddad dagan hovish tirosh umlal yitzhar)

“The field is devastated, the soil mourns (avlah, אָבְלָה); for the grain is devastated, the new wine (tirosh, תִּירוֹשׁ) dried up, the oil (yitzhar, יִצְהָר) failed” (1:10).

The land itself mourns—avlah is the same root as the priestly mourning in verse 9. Creation participates in the crisis. The three staples of Mediterranean agriculture—grain (dagan, דָּגָן), wine (tirosh), and oil (yitzhar)—representing bread, celebration, and anointing, are gone. These aren’t just commodities; they’re the material basis of covenant life.

הֹבִישׁוּ אִכָּרִים הֵילִילוּ כֹּרְמִים עַל־חִטָּה וְעַל־שְׂעֹרָה כִּי אָבַד קְצִיר שָׂדֶה

(Hovish ikkarim heililu koremim al-ḥittah ve’al-se’orah ki avad qetzir sadeh)

“The farmers (ikkarim, אִכָּרִים) are dismayed, the vinedressers (koremim, כֹּרְמִים) wail over the wheat and the barley, for the harvest of the field is destroyed” (1:11).

Even the most basic grains—ḥittah (חִטָּה, “wheat”) and se’orah (שְׂעֹרָה, “barley”)—are gone. The qetzir (קְצִיר, “harvest”) that structures the entire agricultural year has been avad (אָבַד, “destroyed/perished”). The verb avad carries existential weight—it’s not just crop failure but dissolution of being.

הַגֶּפֶן הֹבִישָׁה וְהַתְּאֵנָה אֻמְלָלָה רִמּוֹן גַּם־תָּמָר וְתַפּוּחַ כָּל־עֲצֵי הַשָּׂדֶה יָבֵשׁוּ כִּי־הֹבִישׁ שָׂשׂוֹן מִן־בְּנֵי אָדָם

(Hagefen hovishah vehat’enah umlelah rimmon gam-tamar vetappuaḥ kol-atzei hasadeh yaveshu ki-hovish sason min-benei adam)

“The vine withered, the fig tree languishes; pomegranate, palm, and apple tree—all the trees of the field dried up. Yes, joy (sason, שָׂשׂוֹן) has dried up from the children of humanity” (1:12).

The catalog expands to fruit trees—pomegranate (rimmon, רִמּוֹן), date palm (tamar, תָּמָר), apple/citrus (tappuaḥ, תַפּוּחַ). The final line devastates: sason (joy/gladness) itself has withered (hovish, הֹבִישׁ) from humanity. Emotional and spiritual life follows agricultural collapse.

Joel now shifts from description to prescription, commanding priestly action:

חִגְרוּ וְסִפְדוּ הַכֹּהֲנִים הֵילִילוּ מְשָׁרְתֵי מִזְבֵּחַ בֹּאוּ לִינוּ בַשַּׂקִּים מְשָׁרְתֵי אֱלֹהָי כִּי נִמְנַע מִבֵּית אֱלֹהֵיכֶם מִנְחָה וָנָסֶךְ

(Ḥigru vesifdu hakohanim heililu mesharetei mizbeaḥ bo’u linu vasaqqim mesharetei elohai ki nimna mibeit eloheikhem minḥah vanesekh)

“Gird yourselves and lament, O priests! Wail, O ministers of the altar! Come, spend the night in sackcloth, O ministers of my God! For grain offering and drink offering are withheld from the house of your God” (1:13).

The triple imperative—gird (ḥigru), lament (sifdu), wail (heililu)—demands total liturgical mobilization. The priests must wear saqqim (שַׂקִּים, “sackcloth”), the coarse garment of mourning and penitence, and maintain overnight vigil. This isn’t casual prayer; it’s crisis intervention.

The verb nimna (נִמְנַע, “withheld/prevented”) suggests not just absence but active withholding—either by circumstance or divine will. The offerings haven’t just failed; they’ve been prevented from reaching YHWH’s house.

קַדְּשׁוּ־צוֹם קִרְאוּ עֲצָרָה אִסְפוּ זְקֵנִים כֹּל יֹשְׁבֵי הָאָרֶץ בֵּית יְהוָה אֱלֹהֵיכֶם וְזַעֲקוּ אֶל־יְהוָה

(Qadshu-tzom qir’u atzarah isfu zeqenim kol yoshvei ha’aretz beit YHWH eloheikhem veza’aqu el-YHWH)

“Sanctify a fast! Proclaim an assembly (atzarah, עֲצָרָה)! Gather the elders, all the inhabitants of the land, to the house of YHWH your God, and cry out to YHWH!” (1:14).

This is the Halakhic response to national crisis. Qadshu-tzom (קַדְּשׁוּ־צוֹם, “sanctify a fast”) means declaring a communal fast day with full ritual protocol. An atzarah is a sacred assembly, a gathering for urgent collective prayer (similar to yom kippur protocols). The Mishnah (M. Ta’anit) outlines precisely such fast-day procedures for drought and catastrophe, including public gathering, communal confession, and sustained petition.

The verb za’aq (זָעַק, “cry out”) is stronger than simple prayer—it’s desperate, urgent crying out, the kind Moses does at the Red Sea (Exodus 14:15), the kind Israel does in Egyptian slavery (Exodus 2:23). This is existential petition.

Here’s where Christians fuck it up entirely: they strip this of its communal, covenantal framework and turn it into individual “spiritual warfare” shit. Dominionist prayer movements use Joel’s language to organize political rallies disguised as religious gatherings, where “fasting and prayer” becomes code for Christian nationalist organizing. The Seven Mountains Mandate specifically appropriates this “sacred assembly” language to mobilize church conquest of governmental, educational, and media “mountains.” They’ve transformed Joel’s crisis response into a playbook for theocratic power grabs.

אֲהָהּ לַיּוֹם כִּי קָרוֹב יוֹם יְהוָה וּכְשֹׁד מִשַּׁדַּי יָבוֹא

(Ahah layyom ki qarov yom YHWH ukheshod mishadday yavo)

“Alas for the day! For the Day of YHWH (Yom YHWH, יוֹם יְהוָה) is near; it comes like devastation (shod, שֹׁד) from Shaddai (Shadday, שַׁדַּי)” (1:15).

Here’s the theological bombshell: the Yom YHWH isn’t some distant eschatological event—it’s fucking imminent. The phrase qarov yom YHWH (“near is the Day of YHWH”) appears in multiple prophets (Isaiah 13:6, Ezekiel 30:3, Obadiah 15, Zephaniah 1:7), always denoting divine judgment. But Joel’s innovation is connecting it directly to present ecological catastrophe.

The wordplay shod mishadday creates sonic resonance between “devastation” (shod) and the divine name Shadday (often translated “Almighty,” but etymologically obscure—possibly from shadad, שָׁדַד, “to devastate”). The destruction comes from the very source of blessing. This is covenant reversal—the God who promised fertility now brings sterility, the God of abundance now brings famine.

Joel continues with visceral witness:

הֲלוֹא נֶגֶד עֵינֵינוּ אֹכֶל נִכְרָת מִבֵּית אֱלֹהֵינוּ שִׂמְחָה וָגִיל

(Halo neged eineinu okhel nikhrat mibeit eloheinu simḥah vagil)

“Is not the food cut off before our very eyes, joy (simḥah, שִׂמְחָה) and gladness (gil, גִיל) from the house of our God?” (1:16).

The rhetorical question demands acknowledgment: “You’ve fucking seen it yourselves!” The food is nikhrat (“cut off”) neged eineinu (“before our eyes”)—this is eyewitness testimony, not prophetic speculation. And the emotional consequence: simḥah vagil (joy and gladness) are severed from YHWH’s house. Without food, there’s no feast. Without feast, there’s no celebration. Without celebration, there’s no communal joy. The entire affective structure of covenant life collapses.

עָבְשׁוּ פְרֻדוֹת תַּחַת מֶגְרְפֹתֵיהֶם נָשַׁמּוּ אֹצָרוֹת נֶהֶרְסוּ מַמְּגֻרוֹת כִּי הֹבִישׁ דָּגָן

(Avshu ferudot taḥat megrefoteihem nashammu otzarot nehersumammegurot ki hovish dagan)

“The seed (perudot, פְרֻדוֹת) shrivels under the clods; the storehouses are desolate, the granaries are demolished, for the grain has failed” (1:17).

Even the seed stock—next year’s planting—has shriveled (avshu, עָבְשׁוּ, from avash, “to dry up/wither”). The agricultural cycle has been interrupted at its source. Otzarot (אֹצָרוֹת, “treasuries/storehouses”) are nashammu (נָשַׁמּוּ, “desolate/devastated”), and mammegurot (מַמְּגֻרוֹת, “granaries”) are nehersus (נֶהֶרְסוּ, “torn down/demolished”). Without stored grain, structures become unnecessary—or perhaps they’ve physically collapsed from disuse.

The animal world shares the crisis:

מַה־נֶּאֶנְחָה בְהֵמָה נָבֹכוּ עֶדְרֵי בָקָר כִּי אֵין מִרְעֶה לָהֶם גַּם־עֶדְרֵי הַצֹּאן נֶאְשָׁמוּ

(Mah-ne’enḥah vehemah navokhu edrei vaqar ki ein mir’eh lahem gam-edrei hatzon ne’shamu)

“How the beasts groan! The herds of cattle are bewildered, for they have no pasture; the flocks of sheep also suffer” (1:18).

The verb navokhu (נָבֹכוּ, “bewildered/confused”) applied to cattle (edrei vaqar, עֶדְרֵי בָקָר) is devastating—even animals recognize the rupture in natural order. There’s no mir’eh (מִרְעֶה, “pasture/grazing land”). Even sheep, hardier than cattle, ne’shamu (נֶאְשָׁמוּ, “suffer/bear guilt”)—a verb typically applied to human guilt bearing.

Joel concludes this section with personal petition:

אֵלֶיךָ יְהוָה אֶקְרָא כִּי אֵשׁ אָכְלָה נְאוֹת מִדְבָּר וְלֶהָבָה לִהֲטָה כָּל־עֲצֵי הַשָּׂדֶה

(Eleikha YHWH eqra ki esh akhlah ne’ot midbar velehavah lihatah kol-atzei hasadeh)

“To You, YHWH, I cry! For fire has consumed the pastures of the wilderness, and flame has burned all the trees of the field” (1:19).

The prophet himself models za’aqah (crying out). Fire (esh, אֵשׁ) and flame (lehavah, לֶהָבָה) suggest either literal wildfire following drought or metaphorical description of total consumption. The ne’ot midbar (נְאוֹת מִדְבָּר, “pastures of the wilderness”) are consumed—even marginal grazing land burns.

גַּם־בַּהֲמוֹת שָׂדֶה תַּעֲרֹג אֵלֶיךָ כִּי יָבְשׁוּ אֲפִיקֵי מָיִם וְאֵשׁ אָכְלָה נְאוֹת הַמִּדְבָּר

(Gam-bahamot sadeh ta’arog eleikha ki yavshu afiqei mayim ve’esh akhlah ne’ot hammidbar)

“Even the beasts of the field cry out (ta’arog, תַּעֲרֹג) to You, for the watercourses are dried up, and fire has consumed the pastures of the wilderness” (1:20).

Animals themselves ta’arog—a verb of longing/panting (used in Psalm 42:2, “As a deer pants for water”). The afiqei mayim (אֲפִיקֵי מָיִם, “watercourses/stream beds”) are yavshu (יָבְשׁוּ, “dried up”)—complete hydrological failure. This is total systems collapse: botany, zoology, hydrology, all breaking down simultaneously.

Chapter 2 opens with urgent imperative:

תִּקְעוּ שׁוֹפָר בְּצִיּוֹן וְהָרִיעוּ בְּהַר קָדְשִׁי יִרְגְּזוּ כָּל־יֹשְׁבֵי הָאָרֶץ כִּי־בָא יוֹם־יְהוָה כִּי קָרוֹב

(Tiq’u shofar betziyyon vehariyu vehar qodshi yirgezu kol-yoshvei ha’aretz ki-va yom-YHWH ki qarov)

“Blow the shofar (שׁוֹפָר) in Zion! Sound the alarm on My holy mountain! Let all inhabitants of the land tremble, for the Day of YHWH is coming—it is near!” (2:1).

The shofar blast in Zion (Tziyyon, צִיּוֹן) signals either war or liturgical assembly (Numbers 10:9 prescribes shofar for both). The parallel imperative hariyu (הָרִיעוּ, “sound alarm/raise war cry”) intensifies urgency. On har qodshi (הַר קָדְשִׁי, “My holy mountain”)—Jerusalem, YHWH’s dwelling place—the alarm must sound.

The response: yirgezu (יִרְגְּזוּ, “tremble/quake”) kol-yoshvei ha’aretz (כָּל־יֹשְׁבֵי הָאָרֶץ, “all inhabitants of the land”). This trembling is both physical (earthquake) and existential (dread). And why? Ki-va yom-YHWH ki qarov: “For the Day of YHWH is coming—it is near!” The repetition hammers home imminence.

Joel then describes this Yom YHWH with apocalyptic imagery:

יוֹם חֹשֶׁךְ וַאֲפֵלָה יוֹם עָנָן וַעֲרָפֶל כַּשַּׁחַר פָּרֻשׂ עַל־הֶהָרִים עַם רַב וְעָצוּם כָּמֹהוּ לֹא נִהְיָה מִן־הָעוֹלָם וְאַחֲרָיו לֹא יוֹסֵף עַד־שְׁנֵי דּוֹר וָדוֹר

(Yom ḥoshekh va’afelah yom anan va’arafel kashaḥar parus al-heharim am rav ve’atzum kamohu lo nihyah min-ha’olam ve’aḥarav lo yosef ad-shenei dor vador)

“A day of darkness (ḥoshekh, חֹשֶׁךְ) and gloom (afelah, אֲפֵלָה), a day of clouds (anan, עָנָן) and thick darkness (arafel, עֲרָפֶל)! Like blackness (shaḥar, שַׁחַר) spread upon the mountains: a people (am, עַם) great and powerful; their like has never been from of old, nor will be again after them through the years of all generations” (2:2).

The fourfold description of darkness—ḥoshekh, afelah, anan, arafel—creates overwhelming obscurity. These terms escalate: ḥoshekh is basic darkness, afelah suggests deep gloom, anan is cloud cover, and arafel is the thick darkness associated with divine presence at Sinai (Exodus 20:21). This Day brings Sinai-level theophanic terror.

The simile kashaḥar parus al-heharim is grammatically odd—shaḥar usually means “dawn,” but here parallels darkness. Most scholars read it as “blackness” (from a different root) spreading like dawn over mountains—an inversion where darkness advances like light usually does.

The am rav ve’atzum (“great and powerful people”) is unprecedented—kamohu lo nihyah min-ha’olam (“their like has never been from of old”). This isn’t hyperbole; it’s theological claim: this agent of divine judgment surpasses all previous agents in power and scope.

Joel now describes this am with military precision fused to ecological devastation:

לְפָנָיו אָכְלָה אֵשׁ וְאַחֲרָיו תְּלַהֵט לֶהָבָה כְּגַן־עֵדֶן הָאָרֶץ לְפָנָיו וְאַחֲרָיו מִדְבַּר שְׁמָמָה וְגַם־פְּלֵיטָה לֹא־הָיְתָה לּוֹ

(Lefanav akhlah esh ve’aḥarav telalhet lehavah kegan-eden ha’aretz lefanav ve’aḥarav midbar shemamah vegam-pleitah lo-hayetah lo)

“Before them fire consumes, behind them flame blazes. Before them the land is like the Garden of Eden, but after them a desolate wilderness (midbar shemamah, מִדְבַּר שְׁמָמָה); nothing escapes them” (2:3).

The Gan Eden (גַּן־עֵדֶן, “Garden of Eden”) reference is devastating—the land was paradisiacal, now it becomes midbar shemamah (“desolate wilderness”). The doubling shemamah (from shamem, שָׁמֵם, “desolate/appalled”) intensifies desolation. And the final clause: vegam-pleitah lo-hayetah lo (“and also escape/remnant was not to it”)—absolutely nothing survives.

כְּמַרְאֵה סוּסִים מַרְאֵהוּ וּכְפָרָשִׁים כֵּן יְרוּצוּן

(Kemar’eh susim mar’ehu ukhefashim ken yerutzun)

“They look like horses (susim, סוּסִים), they gallop like war-horses (parashim, פָרָשִׁים)” (2:4).

Locusts, when swarming, do resemble cavalry from a distance. The comparison to parashim (mounted cavalry) emphasizes speed, coordination, and military efficiency. This isn’t random infestation—it’s organized assault.

כְּקוֹל מַרְכָּבוֹת עַל־רָאשֵׁי הֶהָרִים יְרַקֵּדוּן כְּקוֹל לַהַב אֵשׁ אֹכְלָה קָשׁ כְּעַם עָצוּם עֱרוּךְ מִלְחָמָה

(Keqol markavot al-rashei heharim yeraqedun keqol lahav esh okhlah qash ke’am atzum arukh milḥamah)

“Like the rumbling of chariots (markavot, מַרְכָּבוֹת) they leap on the mountaintops, like the crackling of a flame consuming stubble, like a powerful people arranged for battle” (2:5).

Three similes stack up: chariot rumble, fire crackling through stubble (qash, קַשׁ), and an army arukh milḥamah (עֱרוּךְ מִלְחָמָה, “arranged for battle/in battle formation”). The sound of millions of locust wings does resemble distant chariots. Their consumption of dry vegetation crackles like wildfire. And their organized advance mirrors military deployment.

מִפָּנָיו יָחִילוּ עַמִּים כָּל־פָּנִים קִבְּצוּ פָארוּר

(Mippanav yaḥilu ammim kol-panim qibtzu fa’rur)

“Before them peoples writhe; all faces gather pallor (pa’rur, פָארוּר)” (2:6).

The verb yaḥilu (יָחִילוּ, “writhe/be in anguish”) suggests labor pains or mortal agony. Kol-panim qibtzu fa’rur is difficult—fa’rur might mean “blackness” or “glow” (scholars debate). Most likely: faces drain of color, turning pale or ashen with terror.

כְּגִבּוֹרִים יְרֻצוּן כְּאַנְשֵׁי מִלְחָמָה יַעֲלוּ חוֹמָה וְאִישׁ בִּדְרָכָיו יֵלֵכוּן וְלֹא יְעַבְּטוּן אֹרְחוֹתָם

(Kegibbborim yerutzun ke’anshei milḥamah ya’alu ḥomah ve’ish bidrahhkav yeleikhun velo ye’abbetun orḥotam)

“They run like warriors (gibborim, גִּבּוֹרִים), they scale walls like soldiers (anshei milḥamah, אַנְשֵׁי מִלְחָמָה). Each keeps to his own course; they do not swerve (ye’abbetun, יְעַבְּטוּן) from their paths (orḥotam, אֹרְחוֹתָם)” (2:7).

Gibborim are elite warriors (like David’s mighty men). These locusts exhibit military discipline: ish bidrakha yeleikhun (“each man in his ways goes”)—individual cohesion within collective advance. They don’t ye’abbetun (from avat, עָבַט, “to take pledge/change course”)—no deviation, no retreat.

וְאִישׁ אָחִיו לֹא יִדְחָקוּן גֶּבֶר בִּמְסִלָּתוֹ יֵלֵכוּן וּבְעַד הַשֶּׁלַח יִפְּלוּ לֹא יִבְצָעוּ

(Ve’ish aḥiv lo yidḥaqun gever bimesillato yeleikhun uv’ad hashelaḥ yippelu lo yivtza’u)

“They do not jostle one another; each advances in his column (mesillatho, מְסִלָּתוֹ). They plunge through defenses without breaking ranks (lo yivtza’u, לֹא יִבְצָעוּ)” (2:8).

The phrase ish aḥiv lo yidḥaqun (“each his brother they do not push”) emphasizes coordinated movement—no friendly-fire chaos. Gever bimesillato (“mighty man in his highway/column”) suggests regimented advance. Even when encountering shelaḥ (שֶׁלַח, “weapon/missile”), they lo yivtza’u (from batza, בָּצַע, “cut off/break”)—their formation holds.

Anyone who’s witnessed a locust swarm knows this description is scientifically accurate: they maintain direction, don’t collide, and penetrate any barrier. Joel’s genius is recognizing that this natural phenomenon mirrors—and therefore can represent—divine military action.

בָּעִיר יָשֹׁקּוּ בַּחוֹמָה יְרֻצוּן בַּבָּתִּים יַעֲלוּ בְּעַד הַחַלּוֹנִים יָבֹאוּ כַּגַּנָּב

(Ba’ir yashoqu baḥomah yerutzun babattim ya’alu be’ad haḥallonim yavo’u kagannav)

“They rush upon the city, they run upon the wall, they climb into the houses; through the windows they come like a thief (gannav, גַּנָּב)” (2:9).

Urban invasion: ba’ir yashoqu (“in the city they run about”), baḥomah yerutzun (“on the wall they run”), babattim ya’alu (“into the houses they climb”). Locusts infiltrate every space. The simile kagannav (“like a thief”) captures the violation—unexpected, unwanted, unstoppable intrusion.

לְפָנָיו רָגְזָה אֶרֶץ רָעֲשׁוּ שָׁמָיִם שֶׁמֶשׁ וְיָרֵחַ קָדָרוּ וְכוֹכָבִים אָסְפוּ נָגְהָם

(Lefanav ragazah eretz ra’ashu shamayim shemesh veyareaḥ qadaru vekokhavim asfu nogham)

“Before them the earth quakes, the heavens tremble. Sun and moon are darkened, and the stars withdraw their brightness (nogham, נָגְהָם)” (2:10).

Cosmic disruption: eretz ragazah (“earth quakes/trembles”), shamayim ra’ashu (“heavens tremble”). The luminaries—shemesh (sun), yareaḥ (moon), and kokhavim (stars)—qadaru (קָדָרוּ, “grow dark”) and asfu nogham (“gather/withdraw their brightness”). This is creation-unmaking language, echoing the darkness of Exodus plagues (10:21-23) and eschatological imagery in Isaiah 13:10.

Is this literal (solar eclipse, dust storms obscuring sky) or metaphorical (cosmic sympathy with terrestrial disaster)? Jewish interpretation tends toward the latter: the Midrash Tanchuma understands celestial darkening as creation mourning human/covenantal failure. Christian interpretation, however, rips this into literal end-times prophecy, turning Joel’s contextual crisis language into universal eschatological script.

וַיהוָה נָתַן קוֹלוֹ לִפְנֵי חֵילוֹ כִּי רַב מְאֹד מַחֲנֵהוּ כִּי עָצוּם עֹשֵׂה דְבָרוֹ כִּי־גָדוֹל יוֹם־יְהוָה וְנוֹרָא מְאֹד וּמִי יְכִילֶנּוּ

(Va-YHWH natan qolo lifnei ḥeilo ki rav meod maḥanehu ki atzum oseh devaro ki-gadol yom-YHWH venora meod umi yekhilenu)

“YHWH utters His voice before His army (ḥeilo, חֵילוֹ), for vast indeed is His host (maḥanehu, מַחֲנֵהוּ), powerful is the one who executes His word (oseh devaro, עֹשֵׂה דְבָרוֹ). For great is the Day of YHWH and very terrible—who can endure it (mi yekhilenu, מִי יְכִילֶנּוּ)?” (2:11).

This verse theologizes the entire sequence: the locust swarm is ḥeilo (YHWH’s army), His maḥaneh (camp/host). The one executing (oseh, “doing/making”) His davar (דָּבָר, “word/thing”) is atzum (עָצוּם, “powerful/mighty”)—whether referring to the collective swarm or a singular leader within it.

The rhetorical question mi yekhilenu (“who can endure/contain it?”) expects the answer: no one. The verb yakhil (from khul/yakhol, כּוּל/יָכֹל) means both “endure” and “contain”—no one can withstand or comprehend this Day.

After the terrifying description of the Yom YHWH, Joel pivots to hope—but only through radical teshuvah:

וְגַם־עַתָּה נְאֻם־יְהוָה שֻׁבוּ עָדַי בְּכָל־לְבַבְכֶם וּבְצוֹם וּבְבְכִי וּבְמִסְפֵּד

(Vegam-attah neum-YHWH shuvu adai bekhol-levavkhem uvetzom uvevekhi uvemisped)

“Yet even now—oracle of YHWH—return to Me (shuvu adai, שֻׁבוּ עָדַי) with all your heart (bekhol-levavkhem, בְּכָל־לְבַבְכֶם), with fasting, with weeping, and with mourning” (2:12).

Vegam-attah (וְגַם־עַתָּה, “yet even now”) is the hinge of hope: despite everything, return (shuvu) is possible. Shuv (שׁוּב) is the quintessential Hebrew term for repentance—not merely “turn” but “return,” implying restoration to prior relationship. The modifier adai (עָדַי, “to Me”) personalizes it—return to YHWH, not just to religious practice.

Bekhol-levavkhem (“with all your heart”) echoes the Shema (Deuteronomy 6:5): “Love YHWH your God with all your heart (bekhol-levavkha).” This return must be total, engaging the lev (לֵב, “heart”)—the seat of will, thought, and emotion in Hebrew anthropology.

The triple accompaniment—tzom (צוֹם, “fasting”), bekhi (בְּכִי, “weeping”), misped (מִסְפֵּד, “mourning/lamentation”)—specifies liturgical and emotional response. These aren’t optional pietistic gestures; they’re the physical and affective dimensions of teshuvah.

וְקִרְעוּ לְבַבְכֶם וְאַל־בִּגְדֵיכֶם וְשׁוּבוּ אֶל־יְהוָה אֱלֹהֵיכֶם כִּי־חַנּוּן וְרַחוּם הוּא אֶרֶךְ אַפַּיִם וְרַב־חֶסֶד וְנִחָם עַל־הָרָעָה

(Veqir’u levavkhem ve’al-bigdeikhem veshuvu el-YHWH eloheikhem ki-ḥannun veraḥum hu erekh appayim verav-ḥesed veniḥam al-hara’ah)

“Rend your hearts and not your garments! Return to YHWH your God, for He is gracious (ḥannun, חַנּוּן) and compassionate (raḥum, רַחוּם), slow to anger (erekh appayim, אֶרֶךְ אַפַּיִם), and abounding in steadfast love (rav-ḥesed, רַב־חֶסֶד), and relents from punishment (niḥam al-hara’ah, וְנִחָם עַל־הָרָעָה)” (2:13).

This verse is fucking theological dynamite. Qir’u levavkhem ve’al-bigdeikhem: “Rend your hearts, not your garments.” Tearing garments (qara begadim, קָרַע בְּגָדִים) was standard mourning practice (Genesis 37:29, 2 Samuel 1:11). Joel demands internalization: external ritual without internal transformation is worthless. The lev (heart) must be torn—a violent metaphor for complete reorientation of will and being.

The motivation clause recites YHWH’s character using the “Thirteen Attributes” formula from Exodus 34:6-7: ḥannun veraḥum (“gracious and compassionate”), erekh appayim (“long of nostrils/slow to anger”), rav-ḥesed (“abundant in covenant loyalty”). These attributes ground the possibility of teshuvah—YHWH’s character makes return possible.

The final phrase, veniḥam al-hara’ah (“and relents concerning the evil/disaster”), is controversial. The verb naḥam (נָחַם) in Niphal can mean “repent” or “relent”—does God “repent” of planned punishment? The Talmud (B. Rosh Hashanah 17b) wrestles with this, concluding that God’s attributes of mercy can overcome strict judgment when humans genuinely return. God’s hesed (חֶסֶד, “covenant loyalty/loving-kindness”) isn’t arbitrary niceness; it’s covenantal commitment to relationship despite breach.

מִי יוֹדֵעַ יָשׁוּב וְנִחַם וְהִשְׁאִיר אַחֲרָיו בְּרָכָה מִנְחָה וָנֶסֶךְ לַיהוָה אֱלֹהֵיכֶם

(Mi yodea yashuv veniḥam vehish’ir aḥarav berakhah minḥah vanesekh la-YHWH eloheikhem)

“Who knows? He may turn and relent (yashuv veniḥam, יָשׁוּב וְנִחַם), and leave a blessing behind Him: grain offering and drink offering for YHWH your God” (2:14).

Mi yodea (מִי יוֹדֵעַ, “Who knows?”) acknowledges divine freedom—humans cannot manipulate God’s response. The verb yashuv (יָשׁוּב, “He may turn”) is the same root as human teshuvah: when humans return (shuvu), God may turn (yashuv). The result would be berakhah (בְּרָכָה, “blessing”) replacing curse, specifically restoration of agricultural fertility enabling minḥah vanesekh (grain and drink offerings)—the cult can resume.

This isn’t prosperity gospel bullshit; it’s covenant theology. Blessing flows from covenantal relationship, not mechanical quid pro quo.

Joel repeats the call for communal gathering with expanded scope:

תִּקְעוּ שׁוֹפָר בְּצִיּוֹן קַדְּשׁוּ־צוֹם קִרְאוּ עֲצָרָה

(Tiq’u shofar betziyyon qadshu-tzom qir’u atzarah)

“Blow the shofar in Zion! Sanctify a fast! Proclaim an assembly!” (2:15).

This repeats 1:14 but now with heightened urgency—the Yom YHWH is even closer. The response must be immediate.

אִסְפוּ־עָם קַדְּשׁוּ קָהָל קִבְצוּ זְקֵנִים אִסְפוּ עוֹלָלִים וְיֹנְקֵי שָׁדָיִם יֵצֵא חָתָן מֵחֶדְרוֹ וְכַלָּה מֵחֻפָּתָהּ

(Isfu-am qadshu qahal qibtzu zeqenim isfu olalim veyonqei shadayim yetze ḥatan meḥedro vekhallah meḥuppatah)

“Gather the people, sanctify the congregation (qahal, קָהָל)! Assemble the elders, gather the children, even infants at the breast! Let the bridegroom (ḥatan, חָתָן) leave his chamber and the bride (kallah, כַּלָּה) her canopy (ḥuppah, חֻפָּה)!” (2:16).

This is total communal mobilization. Everyone—zeqenim (elders), olalim (young children), yonqei shadayim (infants nursing at the breast)—must participate. Even those in the midst of the most joyous life transition—the ḥatan and kallah on their wedding night—must interrupt celebration for communal petition.

The Halakhah typically exempts newlyweds from certain obligations (M. Berakhot 2:5 discusses groom’s exemptions). Joel revokes even these exemptions—the crisis is that severe.

בֵּין הָאוּלָם וְלַמִּזְבֵּחַ יִבְכּוּ הַכֹּהֲנִים מְשָׁרְתֵי יְהוָה וְיֹאמְרוּ חוּסָה יְהוָה עַל־עַמֶּךָ וְאַל־תִּתֵּן נַחֲלָתְךָ לְחֶרְפָּה לִמְשָׁל־בָּם גּוֹיִם לָמָּה יֹאמְרוּ בָעַמִּים אַיֵּה אֱלֹהֵיהֶם

(Bein ha’ulam velamizbeaḥ yivku hakohanim mesharetei YHWH veyo’meru ḥusah YHWH al-ammekha ve’al-titten naḥalatkha leḥerpah limshol-bam goyim lammah yo’meru va’ammim ayyeh elohehem)

“Between the vestibule (ulam, אוּלָם) and the altar, let the priests, the ministers of YHWH, weep and say: ‘Spare (ḥusah, חוּסָה) Your people, YHWH! Do not make Your heritage (naḥalatkha, נַחֲלָתְךָ) a mockery (ḥerpah, חֶרְפָּה), a byword (mashol, מָשָׁל) among the nations (goyim, גּוֹיִם). Why should they say among the peoples, “Where is their God (ayyeh elohehem, אַיֵּה אֱלֹהֵיהֶם)?”’” (2:17).

The priestly intercession occurs bein ha’ulam velamizbeaḥ (“between the vestibule and the altar”)—the most sacred liturgical space in the Temple, where only priests could stand. Their petition contains three elements:

This is sophisticated covenant theology: Israel’s fate is bound up with YHWH’s honor. Their destruction isn’t just their problem—it’s God’s public relations crisis. The Psalms frequently use this argument (Psalms 42:10, 79:10, 115:2). It’s not manipulation; it’s appealing to the stakes of covenant relationship for both parties.

Throughout this first half of Joel, we see repeated motifs that Christian Dominionism has weaponized for theocratic conquest theology:

The fuckery is complete: a Jewish prophet’s call for communal repentance in response to agricultural disaster becomes a Christian supremacist playbook for cultural conquest. They’ve turned locusts into storm troopers, priests into political operatives, and covenant crisis into holy war.

The first half of Joel presents ecological catastrophe within covenantal framework. The text demands recognition that Israel’s fate is tied to their covenant relationship with YHWH, mediated through the land itself. When that relationship fractures, fertility becomes famine, blessing becomes curse, joy becomes mourning. The response isn’t warfare against enemies—it’s teshuvah, communal return to YHWH with “rent hearts.”

Christians read Joel while refusing its Jewish particularity. They can’t stomach that this is about Israel, Judah, Jerusalem, the Temple cult, Torah covenant. So they universalize it into end-times drama where they’re the heroes conquering God’s enemies. They weaponize Joel’s locusts, militarize his metaphors, and politicize his petitions.

The Jewish reading honors the text’s historical crisis while recognizing its recurring pattern: covenant breach → judgment → repentance → restoration. This pattern isn’t about universal conquest; it’s about particular relationship between YHWH and Israel.

Joel’s locusts aren’t coming for secular humanists or Muslims or “cultural Marxists.” They already came for ancient Judah. The text preserves that traumatic memory and the liturgical response that saved them. Christians who weaponize Joel against others have missed the entire fucking point: the call to shuvu (“return”) is for those in covenant relationship, not a mandate to force others under your theological boot.

References

JPS Hebrew-English TANAKH. Jewish Publication Society, 1999.

Steinsaltz, Adin. The Talmud: The Steinsaltz Edition. New York: Random House, 1989-.

Charles, R.H., ed. The Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha of the Old Testament. 2 vols. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1913.

Robinson, James M., ed. The Nag Hammadi Library in English. 4th ed. Leiden: Brill, 1996.

Marshall, Alfred. The Interlinear Greek-English New Testament. 4th ed. Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2012.

Kelly, J.N.D. Early Christian Doctrines. 5th ed. London: A&C Black, 1977.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​