The Sacrifice of Isaac in the Religious Art of Jews and Christians: The Philosophical Antagonism of Law and Truth

Tiurina Svetlana Nikolaevna ORCID: 0009-0006-3503-6267 Postgraduate student; Aesthetics Sector; Institute of Philosophy of the Russian Academy of Sciences 109240, Russia, Moscow, Goncharnaya str., 12, building 1, 501 svetlanatyur@bk.ru

Introduction

The theme of the sacrifice of Isaac (Akeda), described in the 22nd chapter of Genesis, occupies a central place not only in the biblical narrative, but also in the religious art of Judaism and Christianity. This story, where Abraham demonstrates absolute devotion to God, willingness to sacrifice his son, and God, stopping his hand, confirms the covenant, became the basis for centuries-old theological and philosophical reflection. However, it is in the context of the religious art of late antiquity that Akeda acquires a new dimension, becoming a field of collision between two paradigms.: Law as fidelity to tradition and Truth as a radical break with it. This study focuses on the analysis of the iconography of Akeda in the Dura-Europos synagogue (III century A.D.) and the catacombs of Peter and Marcellinus (III–IV centuries A.D.), revealing through the prism of Alain Badiou's philosophy the antagonism of these categories, which determined the development of two religious traditions. The subject of the study is the iconography of the sacrifice of Isaac in the Jewish and Christian art of late antiquity, viewed through the philosophical opposition of Law and Truth. The focus is on two key monuments: the fresco from the Dura Europos synagogue (the territory of modern Syria), where Akeda is depicted in the context of preserving Jewish identity under the influence of Hellenistic Roman culture, and the paintings of the catacombs of Peter and Marcellinus in Rome, where the plot of Akeda is reinterpreted as a prophecy about the sacrifice of Christ. The analysis of these monuments makes it possible to reveal how visual symbols — the conch shell, the lamb, the poses of the characters — become carriers of theological concepts. For example, in Dura-Europos, the dynamic scene with Abraham and Isaac emphasizes the dialogue with God, whereas in the catacombs, static figures in the Orant pose (with raised arms) emphasize the sacral completeness of the sacrifice. These differences reflect a fundamental conflict: for Judaism, Akeda is a test of faithfulness to the Law, for Christianity it is a prototype of Truth that transcends the ritual framework.

The research methodology is based on the synthesis of two approaches: comparative iconographic analysis, philosophical interpretation within the framework of Alain Badiou's concept. A comparative analysis, for example, shows that the ram in Jewish art symbolizes Divine mercy, while the lamb in the Christian context refers to the atoning sacrifice of Christ. Badiou's philosophical framework, which contrasts Law (as a system of norms) and Truth (as an event that breaks the old order), helps explain why Christianity replaces specific ritual symbols with abstract allegories, while Judaism remains faithful to the original narrative.

The novelty of the research lies in several aspects. Firstly, for the first time, Akeda's iconography is analyzed through the prism of the categories of Badiou ("Law" and "Truth"), which makes it possible to reveal the metaphysical antagonism of traditions. Secondly, the emphasis on visual syncretism demonstrates how borrowings from Roman culture (the conch shell in the synagogue) are reinterpreted in Jewish art as symbols of rejection of paganism, while Christians use allegories (the lamb) to construct a new universality. Thirdly, a comparison of the monuments in the context of their creation shows that the Dura-Europos synagogue, adjacent to the Mitreum and the Christian house, reflects the dialogue of religions, while the catacombs, as a "hidden art", emphasize the gap with the "world of Law."

The preliminary conclusions of the study demonstrate that the antagonism of Law and Truth in Akeda's interpretation manifests itself on three levels: symbolic, spatial and philosophical. On a symbolic level, in Judaism, symbols (aries, conch) deepen the ritual meaning, in Christianity (lamb, orange) they replace it with a metaphysical allegory. At the spatial level, the architecture of the synagogue emphasizes dialogue with God (the dynamics of figures), the catacombs — sacred completeness (static poses of the oracle). On a philosophical level, for Judaism, Akeda is the confirmation of the Covenant, for Christianity— its fulfillment through the "event" of Christ. These conclusions allow us to rethink religious art not as a set of dogmatic images, but as a field of struggle of ideas, where each tradition defends its uniqueness.

1. Dura-Europos: The Symbolism of the Law in Jewish Art

The city of Dura-Europos, located on the eastern border of the Roman Empire, represented a unique cultural crossroads where Hellenistic, Roman and Middle Eastern traditions intertwined in a complex dialogue. This city, which M.I. Rostovtsev described it as follows: "For 600 years of its life, Dura was thus first a Greek, then a Parthian, then a Roman city. It wasn't just the owners who changed. Life, culture, art, and religion changed" ^{[4, p. 248]}, and became a place where the Jewish community, while remaining faithful to its traditions, interacted with Roman culture. The central element of the synagogue, built in the second century A.D., was a niche for storing the Torah, made in the shape of a shell — a detail borrowed from Roman architecture, but filled with a new, deeply symbolic content. In Roman homes, such shells were often framed by fountains associated with the cult of Venus, whose birth from sea foam was associated with the divine origin of imperial power. However, as L.S. Chakovskaya emphasizes, in the Jewish context, the conch shell turned into a visual metaphor for the rejection of pagan rituals, where instead of a physical offering to the deity, spiritual devotion to the One God was affirmed ^{[7, p. 144]}. This reinterpretation was not accidental — it reflected the community's desire to preserve its identity by transforming other people's symbols into tools to protect its own faith.

Above the niche for the Torah was a fresco depicting the sacrifice of Isaac, a subject that is known in the Jewish tradition as Akeda. Abraham, who held a knife over his son, and Isaac, who bowed his head in silent agreement, were presented in a dynamic composition: fluttering clothes, tense poses, sharp lines — all this created the effect of a dramatic dialogue, not a ritual action. Even the figure of Sarah, pictured at the entrance to the tent, added a personal dimension, recalling a family tragedy that turned the biblical narrative into a story of an individual test of faith. At the same time, the emptiness of the niche, devoid of any idols or images, emphasized the fundamental difference between the Jewish cult: instead of material sacrifice, devotion to an invisible God, instead of the visual embodiment of the deity, the sacred text as the center of religious life.

This contrast was especially pronounced when compared with the mithraeum, located just a few dozen meters from the synagogue. In the mithraeum, the temple of the cult of Mithras, the sacrifice of the bull was depicted as a completed act: the priest at the moment of slaughter, the blood flowing into the ritual bowl, and the figures of the adepts watching the ceremony. Even the ram entangled in the bushes, traditionally interpreted as a substitute for Isaac, served here not as a symbol of substitution, but as a reminder of the inviolability of the covenant between God and man. Thus, every detail of the fresco worked to strengthen the Law, turning art into a tool of visual theology.

Interestingly, this approach to sacred art demonstrates the fundamental difference between the Jewish tradition and the Christian one. If Christianity sees sacrifice as an event that breaks the old order, then Judaism preserves the continuity of the Law, where sacrifice is an act of confirmation, not transformation. There was no place for radical breaks in the Dura-Europos Synagogue — instead, art served as a bridge between the past and the present, between divine revelation and human experience. Even under the cultural pressure of Rome, where Hellenistic forms dominated architecture and visual language, the Jewish community was able to create a visual narrative that did not assimilate, but, on the contrary, defended its uniqueness.

This paradox — the use of alien forms to assert one's own identity — becomes the key to understanding the Jewish art of late antiquity. As M.I. Rostovtsev writes, "The problem of the origin of these paintings and mosaics illustrating the Old Testament is one of the most interesting problems in the history of art. East or Rome?" ^{[4, p. 262]}. The shell turned into a niche for the Torah, the dynamic Akeda contrasting with the static Roman frescoes, even the absence of direct allusions to the Crucifixion — all this worked to create a visual language that both fit into the Roman context and rejected its pagan essence.

1. The Catacombs of Peter and Marcellinus: The Transition to Truth in Christian Iconography

The Christian catacombs of Peter and Marcellinus, hidden underground on the outskirts of Rome, became not only a burial place for the first followers of the new faith, but also a space where a unique visual language was born, reinterpreting Old Testament stories through the prism of the New Testament. If in the Dura-Europos synagogue the sacrifice of Isaac remained a test of faith within the framework of the Law, then here, in the semi-darkness of the underground galleries, this plot turned into a prophecy about an event that, according to the philosopher Alain Badiou, "The event simply "happened" in the impersonality of the path, and what happened is a subjective sign of the event in the proper sense of the word, which is the resurrection of Christ" ^{[1, p. 11]}. The fresco depicting Abraham and Isaac, dating from the III–IV centuries A.D., demonstrates this transition.

Abraham and Isaac froze in the pose of an oracle, with their hands raised, as if frozen in timeless prayer. This static, as noted by A.m. Smith, stands in sharp contrast to the dynamic scenes of Dura-Europos: "If there the movement emphasized dialogue with God, then here the immobility of the figures symbolized the predestination of sacrifice, its timeless connection with redemption" ^{[10, p. 161]}. Next to Abraham, in a place where an angel could have been in a Jewish fresco stopping a sacrifice, a lamb is depicted — a symbol of Christ as "the Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world" (John 1:29). The firewood in Isaac's hands, neatly folded in the shape of a cross, completed this allegory, turning Akeda not just into a biblical episode, but into a visual bridge between the Old and New Testaments.

This transition from obedience to the Law to the idea of redemption was central to early Christian theology. St. John Chrysostom sees the sacrifice of Isaac as a prototype of the cross of Christ. "Therefore Christ also said to the Jews, 'Your father Abraham was glad to see my day; and he saw it, and rejoiced' (John 8:56).The lamb in the fresco is not just a symbol of substitution, like the ram in the Jewish tradition, but a sign of a radical break: the Old Testament plot ceased to be a story of individual devotion, becoming a prologue to the universal drama of salvation.

The very environment of the catacombs — the narrow corridors carved out of tuff, the faint light of oil lamps, the silence broken only by the whisper of prayers — reinforced the eschatological meaning of the images. As B.L. Kutbai notes, "the use of the hand of God as a metaphor for the divine presence reflects the general approach to symbolization for the Judeo-Christian tradition, avoiding literalness in favor of spiritual meaning" ^{[9, p. 47]}. Even the absence of a direct image of the cross (it was replaced by firewood) worked for this idea: the physical instrument of execution was hidden behind symbols that indicated its transformed essence. In this context, the Orant pose acquired a double meaning.: It was both a gesture of prayer and an anticipation of victory, where the raised hands reminded not only of suffering, but also of the coming triumph.

For A. Badiou's transformation is a classic example of the "truth procedure", in which every truth procedure removes differences and expands into infinity ^{[1, p. 59]}. In the catacombs of Peter and Marcellinus, Isaac's sacrifice is no longer a reminder of the covenant, but a starting point for a new universal truth, which, according to M.I. Rostovtsev, "Contemplating the picture, the catechumenist felt himself at the dawn of resurrection — his final hope." ^{[4, p. 264]}. The static nature of the figures, the lack of dynamics, the emphasis on symbols — all this worked not to preserve the past, but to proclaim a new world where the sacrifice of Christ abolished the need for ritual repetition.

If in the Dura-Europos synagogue art served to protect identity through the adaptation of Roman forms, then in the catacombs it became a tool of transformation, where every symbol — from the lamb to the pose of the orant — worked to create a new universal narrative. Judaism saw Akeda as the pinnacle of loyalty to the Law, Christianity as a prophecy of its abolition. Thus, the Old Testament plot, while retaining its external form, radically changed its semantics, becoming part of a story that, according to Badiou, "no longer belonged to the past, but pointed to the future" ^{[1, p. 102]}.

3. Badiou's Philosophy: The Law vs. Truth
The concept Alain Badiou, described in his work "The Apostle Paul: The Justification of Universalism", offers a key to understanding the antagonism between Jewish and Christian art in the interpretation of the sacrifice of Isaac. For Badiou, the Law is a system of established norms, traditions, and rituals that maintain the existing order, whereas Truth is born through an event — a radical break with this order, creating a new universality. This philosophical dualism is vividly embodied in the contrast between the Dura-Europos Synagogue and the catacombs of Peter and Marcellinus, where the same biblical story takes on opposite meanings.

In the Jewish tradition, as the Dura-Europos fresco shows, the sacrifice of Isaac remained within the Law. The dynamic composition, depicting the moment of the highest tension between Abraham's will and divine intervention, emphasized dialogue as the basis of the relationship between man and God. Here, according to D. According to J. Ellsner, "the sacrifice was not a completed act, but a test of faith," confirming the inviolability of the covenant ^{[8, p. 122]}. Even the ram in the bushes, traditionally interpreted as a substitute for Isaac, was interpreted not as a cancellation of the sacrifice, but as a reminder of faithfulness to the contract with God. This approach, as noted by A. The Bucket reflects the essence of the Law: "For Paul, Christ is an event heterogeneous to the law, surpassing any prescription — grace needs neither concepts nor rituals" ^{[1, p. 34]}.

Christianity, on the contrary, turned Akeda into an event that breaks down previous structures. In the catacombs of Peter and Marcellinus, the static figures of Abraham and Isaac, their pose of an oracle, a lamb instead of an angel — all this worked to create a new truth, which, according to Badiou, "does not integrate into the old order, but rewrites it" ^{[1, p. 62]}. While in Judaism Isaac's sacrifice remained a story of obedience, in Christianity it became a prophecy of Christ's sacrifice. Badiou calls this transition from Law to Truth the "truth procedure," a process where art, faith, and thought work together to create a new reality that negates previous limitations.

Interestingly, the very visual language of the catacombs reflects this gap. Unlike the Jewish synagogue, where the conch shell and dynamic figures served as adaptations of Roman forms, Christian symbols — the lamb, the wood-cross, the orant pose — denied the very possibility of compromise with the pagan world. In Christian iconography, the Lamb was not a substitute, but a victor, whose sacrifice negated the very necessity of the ritual. This corresponded to Badiou's idea that the truth does not complement the law, but replaces it, offering a universal path beyond ethnic, cultural or religious boundaries.

The example from Paul's epistles helps to understand this conflict more deeply. The apostle, whom Badiou calls the "philosopher of events," rejected the Mosaic Law, arguing that faith in Christ makes circumcision, sacrifice, and other rituals unnecessary (Galatians 5:6). This radical break, according to Badiou, became the foundation of Christian universalism.: "Paul regards all converts as truly faithful, regardless of their origin" ^{[1, p. 14]}. In the catacombs, this idea was embodied through symbols: the lamb as Christ, the cross as victory, the pose of the oracle as hope for resurrection.

However, breaking with the Law did not mean completely rejecting it. As emphasized by E. According to Kessler, Christianity "reinterpreted the Old Testament, rather than rejecting it" ^{[3, p. 55]}. Abraham and Isaac remained a link, but their story was now read through the lens of the New Testament. For example, the firewood in Isaac's hands, resembling a cross, served not only as an allusion to Golgotha, but also as a symbol of continuity: from the sacrifice of Abraham to the sacrifice of Christ. Badiou calls this dialectical approach—the preservation of form while radically changing content—"the fidelity of a declaration," since truth is a process, not an epiphany. ^{[1, p. 10]}.

The role of the catacombs as a space reflecting this transition cannot be overestimated. The underground galleries, hidden from the eyes of the Roman authorities, became a "laboratory" where a language capable of expressing the invisible was formed. The lamb and the cross were not just symbols — they were visual manifests of hope that spoke of victory over death. For Badiou, this corresponds to the essence of the event: the truth is always born on the periphery, in areas of exclusion, where the old order is losing its force.

A comparison with modern interpretations shows that the conflict between Law and Truth remains relevant. For example, Rav Ezriel Tauber points out that in the Jewish tradition, the Akeda is often interpreted as a symbol of loyalty, and the akeda forms a direct link between Abraham and his descendants ^[5]. This dialogue, according to Badiou, confirms that Truth is not static — it requires constant reinterpretation in new historical contexts.

Thus, Badiou's philosophy allows us to see in early Christian art not just a set of symbols, but a manifestation of an event — a rupture that transformed sacred history. If the Dura-Europos Jewish synagogue preserved its identity through fidelity to the Law, then the catacombs of Peter and Marcellinus became a space where the Truth, in Badiou's words, "the process of truth interrupts repetition" ^{[1, p. 8]}. In this context, Isaac's sacrifice is no longer the end of history, but the beginning of a new one, where even death becomes a step towards resurrection.

4. Aesthetics of sacrifice: from ritual to symbol

A comparative analysis of Jewish and Christian art in the context of the sacrifice of Isaac reveals a fundamental difference in the understanding of the sacred: if the Jewish tradition emphasizes fidelity to the Law through the preservation of the ritual structure, Christianity makes a radical break, transferring the sacrifice to the plane of symbolic Truth. This transition is associated with an "event" that cannot be reduced to the order of Law, and it is art that becomes the field where this confrontation is visualized.

In the Jewish art of late antiquity, symbols do not cancel the ritual, but deepen its meaning, linking the past and the present. Even the borrowing of the Roman shell motif above the niche for the Torah is being rethought: from an attribute of the cult of Venus, it turns into a symbol of "spiritual sacrifice", opposed to pagan offerings. The dynamics of the figures — Abraham clutching a knife, Isaac bowing his head— do not so much depict action as model a dialogue with the Divine. However, this inner turn does not negate the Law, but deepens it, confirming the immutability of union with God. Even the emptiness of the niche where the Torah is kept symbolizes the transition from the material to the spiritual within the framework of tradition, which contrasts with the Christian filling of the sacred space with images and allegories.

The Christian interpretation of Akeda in the catacombs of Peter and Marcellinus radically transforms the aesthetics of the victim. If in Jewish art the ram is a reminder of God's mercy, then in the Christian context the lamb becomes a prophetic symbol referring to the crucifixion of Christ. As A.M. Smith writes, "the firewood in Isaac's hands is a prototype of the cross, and his submission is an anticipation of Christ's sacrifice" ^{[10, p. 161]}. The static poses of Abraham and Isaac in the oranth pose (with raised arms) emphasize not the dialogue, but the sacred completeness of the event: the sacrifice has already been completed in metaphysical terms, and the earthly action becomes only a reflection of heavenly truth. E. Kessler draws attention to the fact that Christianity sees in Akeda not a "test of faith", but a "prototype of redemption", which entails a shift in emphasis from obeying the Law to accepting Grace ^{[3, p. 69]}. Badiou calls this transition from ritual to symbol a "truth procedure" that "breaks historical continuity, creating a new universality" ^{[1, p. 15]}. For example, in the paintings of the catacombs, the lamb is depicted next to the altar, which refers to the Eucharist, a key Christian rite where sacrifice becomes not a bloody ritual, but a spiritual communion.

Interestingly, Jewish art avoids direct parallels with the future Temple, while Christian artists actively use allegories. As L.S. Chakovskaya notes, there are no images of the destruction of the Temple in Dura-Europos, which underlines "the hope for its restoration within the framework of the Law" ^{[7, p. 13]}. On the contrary, Christians, according to Irenaeus of Lyon, saw in the Old Testament sacrifices "the shadow of the future", and in the New Testament — "the fulfillment of promises" ^{[2, p. 491]}. This reflects philosophical antagonism: for Judaism, the Law is a living tradition that requires observance, for Christianity it is a stage overcome by the event of the Crucifixion. Badiou emphasizes that Paul, rejecting "righteousness from the Law" (Romans 3:21), proclaims "faith as the basis of a new universality," which can visually be embodied in replacing specific ritual scenes with abstract symbols. For example, in the catacombs, the cross is never depicted directly — it is replaced by a lamb or an anchor, which, according to A.m. Smith, reflects "an allegorization strategy that avoids literalism" ^{[10, p. 159]}.

The aesthetics of Christian art is based on overcoming materiality. If in the Dura-Europos synagogue the emptiness of the niche reminds of the invisible presence of God, then in the catacombs the void is filled with symbols indicating the transcendent. For example, the lamb depicted next to Abraham is not part of the narrative of Genesis — it is a deliberate intrusion of the metaphysical into the historical. Christianity rethinks Akeda through the prism of soteriology, where every action of the Old Testament becomes a step towards Golgotha. This approach, according to Badiou, corresponds to the logic of an "event" that cannot be deduced from the existing order. Even the firewood in Isaac's hands, which in the Jewish tradition symbolize readiness for sacrifice, in Christian art turn into an allusion to the cross, thereby linking the two Covenants into a single theological narrative.

At the same time, the Jewish interpretation does not disappear, but continues to develop within its own paradigm. For example, the midrash emphasizes that Isaac voluntarily ascended the altar, which reinforces the theme of consciously following the Law. In Christianity, the voluntary sacrifice of Christ becomes proof of its redemptive power. This contrast between volunteerism as the fulfillment of the Law and volunteerism as its overcoming reflects the depth of antagonism. As Badiou notes, "truth is entirely subjective", it is born in "devotion to the event", and not in "following the rules" ^{[1, p. 10]}. Christian art, by placing the lamb in Akeda's composition, visualizes this devotion, while Jewish art remains faithful to the original plot, avoiding allegorical additions.

It is important to note that both traditions use symbols, but for different purposes. In Judaism, symbols (the conch shell, the ram, and the Torah niche) serve as reminders of the Covenant, linking the community to the past. In Christianity, symbols (lamb, cross, fish) become signs of a new truth that transcends ethnic and ritual boundaries. L.S. Chakovskaya points out that in Dura-Europos, synagogue murals were focused on "embodying the memory of the Temple," while Christian catacombs reflected "the expectation of the Kingdom of Heaven" ^{[7, p. 13]}. This difference correlates with Badiou's philosophical categories: Law appeals to the fidelity of tradition, Truth to the revolution of the spirit.

Thus, the aesthetics of sacrifice in the two traditions becomes a metaphor for their theological differences. Jewish art, even using Hellenistic forms, remains within the framework of the Law, emphasizing the continuity of the covenant. Christianity, by recoding Old Testament plots, creates a symbolic language where Isaac's sacrifice turns into a prototype of an event that reverses the previous order. This conflict between memory and transfiguration, between fidelity and separation, continues to define the dialogue between Judaism and Christianity, reflected in every stroke of religious art.

Conclusion

The study of the iconography of the sacrifice of Isaac (Akeda) in the context of Jewish and Christian religious art of late antiquity reveals not only theological, but also philosophical contradictions between the two traditions. These contradictions, expressed through the categories of Law and Truth, become the key to understanding the deep antagonism that continues to define the dialogue between Judaism and Christianity.

In the Dura-Europos Jewish synagogue, the Akeda plot becomes a visual manifesto of loyalty to the Law. Every element of the fresco — from the dynamics of the figures of Abraham and Isaac to the symbolism of the shell above the niche for the Torah — emphasizes the inseparability of the covenant with God. The conch shell, borrowed from the Roman cult of Venus, is reinterpreted here as a sign of "spiritual sacrifice" opposed to pagan rituals. The image of the ram replacing Isaac is interpreted not as a cancellation of the sacrifice, but as a confirmation of the Divine promise. Symbols in Jewish art deepen the ritual, connecting the past with the present, but do not cancel it. Thus, the Law here is not a set of rules, but a living tradition that requires inner harmony and devotion. Isaac's sacrifice is a test of faith, not its formal fulfillment, which emphasizes the priority of spiritual dialogue over ritual action.

The Christian art of the catacombs of Peter and Marcellinus makes a radical break with this paradigm. Akeda is reinterpreted as a prototype of the sacrifice of Christ, where the lamb, the firewood and the pose of the oracle become allegories of the New Testament. The firewood in Isaac's hands symbolizes the cross, and his submission is the voluntary sacrifice of Christ. This shift from the literal to the symbolic also reflects a philosophical shift. While in Judaism Isaac's sacrifice remains within the Law, in Christianity it becomes a breaking point where the Old Testament gives way to the New.

The philosophy of Alain Badiou allows us to understand this antagonism more deeply. Analyzing the epistles of the Apostle Paul, Badiou sees in them a rejection of the "righteousness of the Law" (Rom. 3:21) in favor of the "universality of faith." This gap, in his opinion, creates a new subjectivity based on devotion to an "event" — in this case, the Resurrection of Christ. Catacomb art, which replaces specific ritual scenes with abstract symbols (lamb, anchor, fish), becomes a visual embodiment of this universality. Allegory allows Christianity to avoid literalism, translating the sacrifice into the plane of spiritual communion. As A. Fricken writes, "the nature of their beliefs, hopes and aspirations is revealed, the innermost sides, the most intimate features of their extraordinary moral state are revealed" ^{[6, p. 2]}. At the same time, Jewish art, even in the conditions of Dura-Europos cultural syncretism, remains faithful to the narrative, avoiding allegories that could to blur the uniqueness of the Covenant.

The aesthetics of sacrifice thus becomes a metaphor for two paths.: For Judaism, it is the path of fidelity, where ritual and symbol serve as a reminder of the unchanging covenant; for Christianity, it is the path of transformation, where the symbol destroys previous structures, revealing a new truth. For example, in the Christian catacombs, the lamb depicted next to Abraham does not belong to the original plot, but intrudes into it as a sign of the future. This intrusion turns the Akeda into a "soteriological narrative" where every action of the Old Testament leads to Golgotha. Jewish art, on the other hand, avoids such allusions in order to preserve the purity of the original narrative. In the midrash, which emphasizes the voluntariness of Isaac, the emphasis is on observing the Law, not on overcoming it.

The modern meaning of this antagonism remains relevant. In both theology and interreligious dialogue, Akeda continues to be a point of tension. For Judaism, it symbolizes absolute trust in God within the framework of the Covenant, for Christianity, it is an anticipation of sacrifice that cancels the need for ritual Law. This conflict of interpretations reflects a broader philosophical dispute between tradition and innovation, between memory and transformation. Christianity, with its emphasis on universality, offers a model that transcends ethnic and ritual boundaries, while Judaism preserves the uniqueness of the chosen people.

However, both approaches, despite their antagonism, demonstrate amazing resilience in art. The murals of Dura-Europos and the catacombs of Peter and Marcellinus, created during the era of cultural and religious upheavals, have become not only monuments of faith, but also evidence of philosophical struggle. They remind us that religion is not only a system of dogmas, but also a language of symbols capable of expressing the deepest metaphysical contradictions.

The prospects for further research may include a comparative analysis of other biblical subjects (for example, the exodus from Egypt or Ezekiel's visions) in Jewish and Christian art in order to identify common patterns of interpretation. It is also interesting to see how medieval and modern art reinterprets the Akeda, preserving or transforming its symbolism. In addition, the philosophical framework proposed by Badiou can be applied to other religious traditions where the clash of Law and Truth plays a key role (for example, in Islam or Buddhism).

In conclusion, the sacrifice of Isaac remains not only a key theme of religious art, but also a powerful metaphor for the eternal dialogue between fidelity to tradition and the pursuit of the transcendent. This plot is interpreted differently in Judaism and Christianity: in one case, it confirms the inviolability of the Law, in the other, it becomes a symbol of a radical break and transition to a new spiritual vision.

The difference in interpretation of this event highlights the fundamental antagonism of the two religious systems, each of which retains its uniqueness. Despite attempts to unite these views, they continue to exist in a tense dialogue, where Law and Truth interact not as opposites, but as complementary forces in search of the sacred. Art reflecting this conflict turns not only into historical evidence, but also into a space for understanding the differences and points of contact between religious traditions.