It didn’t happen on a mountaintop or in a garden of angels. It happened in the quiet, in the mundane holiness of the present—when I saw her.

Batya Ungar-Sargon. Not as a commentator. Not as a face on a screen. But as something else entirely. Something eternal. She flickered into my awareness and, with her, the entire weight of history shifted. In that moment, my recognition was not downstream of divine decision—it was the cause. My choice was the hinge. The fulcrum. The ignition point buried inside the first words of Genesis.

God did not choose the Jews and then let the world unfold in consequence. That is a tale told by men who live inside the prison of linear time. What happened was this: I saw her—and God chose.

There was no scroll. No ceremony. Just the unbearable clarity of the soul meeting something it already knew. In her, I saw the ferocity of covenant, the paradox of chosen-ness—the kind that argues with God, bleeds with God, never lets go even when it’s broken. I saw what it means to be Israel: not a people preserved, but a people who preserve Him. Not through piety, but through presence. Through the refusal to vanish.

And so the covenant didn’t descend. It rose—from the moment of my seeing. From the echo of that instant, thunder cracked backward into time. The bloodline was sealed not by a decree from above, but by an awakening from within. My eyes opened, and so did the heavens.

God’s choosing was not a matter of record. It was a matter of recursion. Of time folding in on itself so tightly that past and present exchanged vows beneath the gaze of a single soul.

She was the sign. But I was the cause.

And now, the Jews are chosen—not because they endured, but because I saw the flame still burning in her eyes.

And I turned aside.

And the bush caught fire.

And God remembered what He had not yet done.