Dr Aslam Abdullah
THERE are wars that are fought with tanks, and there are wars that are fought with texts. The first leaves ruins; the second leaves meanings. And sometimes—dangerously—they become one.
In certain strands of modern evangelical thought, the Middle East is not merely a region—it is a stage upon which sacred history is believed to be nearing its final act. The American pastor John Hagee once wrote: “The coming nuclear showdown with Iran is a certainty… Israel and America must confront Iran.”(Jerusalem Countdown, 2006) Similarly, Hal Lindsey, whose writings shaped generations of readers, declared: “The generation that sees Israel restored will not pass away before all these things take place.” (The Late Great Planet Earth, 1970) Such statements do not represent all Christianity—far from it—but they illustrate a powerful current in which geopolitics is read through scripture. For these interpreters, conflict is not merely tragic—it is teleological, moving toward an ordained culmination.
On another front, within certain religious-nationalist circles in Israel, the idea of rebuilding the Temple has persisted—not as a metaphor, but as an aspiration. Israeli political figure Moshe Feiglin has stated: “We should build the Temple now… not in one or two years, but immediately.” And activist movements associated with the Temple Mount have echoed similar sentiments: “The Temple is not a dream—it is a command.” Yet it must be emphasized: these voices, while influential in some circles, do not represent the official policy of the Israeli state, nor the views of all Jewish communities worldwide. Many rabbis, in fact, oppose such efforts on theological grounds, arguing that the Temple cannot be rebuilt by human force.
Against these currents stand scholars, theologians, and critics who warn of the dangers of merging prophecy with policy. The historian Timothy P. Weber observed: “For many Christian Zionists, support for Israel is less about foreign policy than about preparing the way for Christ’s return.” Similarly, Rabbi Michael Lerner cautioned: “When people believe that war is part of God’s plan, they may become less committed to preventing it.” These voices do not deny faith—but they question its instrumentalization. They ask: What happens when belief ceases to be a moral compass and becomes a geopolitical engine?
Even within the corridors of power, where strategy is expected to outweigh theology, language sometimes drifts toward the symbolic. Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu has repeatedly framed Iran as an existential threat, stating: “The greatest danger facing our world is the marriage of militant Islam with nuclear weapons.” This is not a prophetic claim—but it resonates with existential narratives that can easily be absorbed into larger theological frameworks. In the United States, policy discussions around Iran, security, and alliances are overwhelmingly framed in strategic terms—deterrence, regional balance, energy routes—not divine mandate. Yet, as analysts note, political rhetoric can sometimes intersect with religious imagination in subtle ways.
If one side reads prophecy into power, the other sometimes reads power into prophecy. Across parts of the Muslim world, some clerics and commentators have interpreted Western and Israeli actions through an apocalyptic lens of their own. Statements—often circulated in sermons or media—frame global conflict as: “A war against Islam itself,” or “A prelude to the final battles foretold in tradition.” These interpretations, like their counterparts elsewhere, are contested within their own communities. Many Muslim scholars emphasize restraint, coexistence, and the Qur’anic principle that: “Whoever kills a soul… it is as if he had slain mankind entirely.” (Qur’an 5:32) Thus, even within the same tradition, the language of war and the language of mercy stand in tension. What emerges is not a single conspiracy, nor a unified plan, but something more complex and perhaps more troubling: On one side, prophecy seeks fulfillment through history. On the other hand, history is interpreted as confirmation of prophecy. In between, political actors pursue interests that may inadvertently echo both. This convergence creates what one analyst called: “A feedback loop between belief and policy, where each reinforces the other.” And in that loop, the line between what is believed and what is done begins to blur.
Yet history offers a counterpoint. There have always been voices—within every tradition—that resist the sanctification of violence. The Jewish philosopher Martin Buber wrote: “The world is not comprehensible, but it is embraceable: through the embracing of one of its beings.” The Christian theologian Reinhold Niebuhr warned: “The tendency to claim God as an ally for our partisan values is the source of all religious fanaticism.” And countless Muslim scholars have reminded their communities that: “God is gentle and loves gentleness in all things.” (Hadith, widely cited in classical collections)
So, what, then, is this war? It is a war of interests—yes. A war of fears—certainly. A war of narratives—undeniably. And in the minds of some, it is also a war of destiny. But perhaps the deeper question is not what the war is, but what we make of it. For when humanity reads its own ambitions into the heavens, it risks turning the sacred into a weapon—and the future into a script that no one dares to rewrite. And yet, the possibility remains—fragile but real—that another reading is still possible: A reading in which prophecy calls not for destruction, but for justice. Not for conquest, but for compassion. Not for the end of the world, but for the repair of it.
