January 6th

Seeing October 7th Through the Lens of January 6th

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When dates like January 6th or October 7th become synonymous with events, it’s not just shorthand—it’s propaganda.

These dates are weaponized to anchor emotions, shape narratives, and erase inconvenient context. For MAGA supporters, understanding January 6th’s framing offers a lens to see through the manipulation surrounding October 7th.

What you see in this picture depends on whose branding and narrative you accept.

Both events, though different in scale, follow a similar playbook: start the story at a moment of crisis to paint one side as the ultimate victim and the other as irredeemable villains, sidelining the deeper grievances that led to the outburst.

January 6th: A Reaction, Not an Insurrection

The MAGA movement views January 6, 2021, not as an “insurrection” but as a response to perceived electoral theft. Years of distrust in institutions—fueled by media bias, dismissive labels like “deplorables,” and a sense of being marginalized—reached a boiling point after the 2020 election.

Supporters saw anomalies: Biden’s 81.3 million votes outpacing Obama’s 69.5 million (2008) despite a lackluster campaign; late-night vote “dumps” in states like Michigan (e.g., a 3:50 AM update with 54,497 votes for Biden vs. 4,718 for Trump); bellwether counties favoring Trump yet not predicting the outcome; and reports of poll watchers being denied access in key locations like Philadelphia and Detroit’s TCF Center.

Beware of accusations like “threat to our democracy” coming from elites and government officials.  More often than not this is just a propaganda technique.  Representatives aren’t the ‘demos’ and sometimes don’t represent the true vote, will or interests of the people.

For example, in Philadelphia, observers were kept 20–100 feet from counting tables, citing COVID-19 protocols, raising suspicions of unmonitored ballot handling. Stories of unsecured voting machines and trucks allegedly delivering ballots further stoked fears of fraud, especially given mail-in ballots’ known vulnerabilities (e.g., 43% of 2020 ballots were mail-in, per Pew Research, with historical cases of fraud like New York’s 1948 scandal).  Whether these concerns held up in court (over 60 lawsuits were dismissed) is beside the point—what matters is the reality of widespread distrust. MAGA supporters felt their votes were at risk, and “Stop the Steal” was a peaceful rally that spiraled when a massive crowd moved to the Capitol. Some, like a Hill staffer I met, called it terrifying, advocating lethal force to stop it. But this ignores 2020’s context: months of “mostly peaceful” protests with burning buildings and broken glass were tolerated, even celebrated, by liberal elites.

All summer long—never called an insurrection.

Why was January 6 different?

Because the crowd—rust-belt workers, veterans, and ordinary Americans—challenged the establishment, not the usual activist class. The “insurrection” label was swiftly applied, despite no police officers dying that day (Officer Sicknick died January 7 from strokes, not direct injuries, per the D.C. Medical Examiner). The only immediate casualty was Ashli Babbitt, an Air Force veteran shot by Capitol Police while trespassing. Yet, the FBI hunted participants with unprecedented zeal, suggesting a need to brand the event as a threat to democracy. Questions linger: Were agitators like Ray Epps, seen inciting the crowd but lightly investigated, planted to escalate chaos? The lack of transparency fuels suspicion.

Remember this image of Capital Meemaw, supposedly an example of ‘white privilege’ as an alleged participant in the Capital Riot?  Turns out she wasn’t even there, she was in Kansas.

October 7th: A Culmination, Not a Random Attack

Similarly, October 7, 2023, was not an unprovoked act of “terrorism” but a desperate escalation after decades of Palestinian grievances. Since Israel’s 2007 blockade of Gaza, 2.3 million Palestinians have lived in what critics call an open-air prison. The IDF’s practice of administrative detention—holding Palestinians without trial, sometimes indefinitely—denies basic rights.

From 1948’s Nakba to ongoing settlement expansion, Palestinians face systemic displacement, with Gaza’s conditions (e.g., 50% unemployment, per UN data) fueling unrest. Hamas’s stated goal on October 7 was to capture hostages for prisoner swaps, a tactic rooted in this context, not mindless savagery.

Yet, the Zionist narrative, amplified by Western media, starts the clock at October 7, framing it as an attack on innocent Israelis. Embellished claims—like debunked reports of “beheaded babies” (retracted by outlets like CNN)—flooded headlines to evoke horror and justify Israel’s response, which killed over 40,000 Palestinians by mid-2025, per Gaza Health Ministry estimates.

Like January 6, where police allowed some protesters into the Capitol, reports suggest IDF guards were ordered to stand down or skip patrols before the attack, raising questions about foreknowledge or incompetence. Much of the October 7 death toll (1,200+) may stem from the IDF’s panicked response, with the ample evidence of these “friendly fire” incidents, per Haaretz investigations. This mirrors January 6’s selective outrage: Babbitt’s death was excused, just as Palestinian casualties are dismissed as collateral damage.

Do you see men or do you see terrorists?  These men and their children are not Hamas.  They are people stuck in a killing field.

The Propaganda Playbook

Both events reveal a shared propaganda strategy:

  • Date Branding: Naming events by dates—January 6th, October 7th—creates emotional anchors. It’s no coincidence that “9/11” or “October 7th” evoke instant reactions, stripping away context like Gaza’s blockade or 2020’s electoral distrust. This glittering generality tactic makes the date a rallying cry, as seen in how “January 6th” became synonymous with “insurrection” despite no legal convictions for insurrection among over 1,200 charged.
  • Selective Starting Points: Propagandists begin the story at the moment of crisis to paint their side as blameless. January 6 ignores years of disenfranchisement; October 7 erases decades of Palestinian oppression. This cherry-picking ensures the narrative serves power—whether the U.S. establishment or Israel’s government.
  • Accuse the Other Side: Both cases accuse the aggrieved of the very crime they protest. MAGA supporters, rallying to “save democracy,” were branded anti-democratic. Palestinians, resisting occupation, are labeled terrorists. This mirrors the projection tactic, where the powerful deflect their own failures onto the powerless.
  • Amplify and Suppress: Media and political actors amplify selective details (e.g., Babbitt’s death downplayed, “beheaded babies” hyped) while suppressing context.  The FBI’s aggressive pursuit of January 6 participants, contrasted with leniency toward 2020 rioters, parallels Israel’s disproportionate response to Hamas versus settler violence.

Countering the Narrative

Critics might argue that January 6 was a clear attack on democracy, with 140 officers injured and $2.7 million in Capitol damage, or that October 7’s 1,200 deaths justify Israel’s retaliation.

But this misses the point: the issue isn’t the events’ severity but how they’re framed to obscure root causes. January 6’s crowd wasn’t plotting a coup; they were reacting to perceived fraud, fueled by denied access to vote counting and anomalies like Virginia’s consistent 55/45 vote splits.

October 7 wasn’t random terror but a response to Gaza’s strangulation, Palestinians tired of oppression—wanting self-determination. Both are distorted to vilify the disenfranchised and protect the powerful.

Conclusion

Dates as names aren’t neutral—they’re propaganda tools to erase history and rally emotions.

MAGA supporters see through January 6’s “insurrection” label because they know the context: a frustrated populace, denied transparency, reacting to a system they distrusted.

Apply that lens to October 7, and the parallels are stark: a people under siege, their grievances ignored, all inhabitants branded as terrorists to justify annihilation.

Question the narrative, seek primary sources (court records, UN reports, firsthand accounts), and use the ABCs of Propaganda Analysis (Ascertain, Behold, Concern, Doubt, Evaluate, Find, Guard) to uncover the truth.

The political establishment wants you to start the story on their date of choice, to dictate the terms of discussion—don’t let them.

The People Want a King, Part II: The Idolatry of the State and the Call to Self-Rule

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A decade ago, in “The People Want a King, Part I,” I wrestled with the ancient cry of Israel—“Give us a king!”—from 1 Samuel 8, seeing in it a mirror to our own craving for centralized power. I cast Trump, then a looming figure on the horizon, as a Saul-like pretender—brash, self-absorbed, a king unfit for the throne. The heart of man, I argued, is frail and fearful, ever eager to trade liberty for the illusion of security. Now, ten years on, we revisit that cry, turning the lens inward and upward: what happens when the king we demand becomes a god we worship? And what might it mean to cast down that idol and govern ourselves under a higher law—one that admits no rival?

Let us begin with a heresy: government is not sacred. It is not a divine institution bestowed from on high, nor are its stewards a priestly caste anointed with heavenly oil. Scripture offers no such mandate. The state is a human construct—a tool, a mechanism, a servant of necessity. It is not the ekklesia, the called-out assembly of God’s people, nor the Kingdom of Heaven breaking through the veil. It is, at its core, a business: a transactional entity exchanging services for tribute. When it ceases to serve—when it grows fat and lazy, a Blockbuster Video in a Netflix world—it deserves no reverence, only replacement. To treat it otherwise is to fashion a golden calf from the scraps of bureaucracy.

Yet the cry persists: “The nation is too complex for such simplicity!” I encountered this objection recently, a rebuttal to my call for radical restructuring. The argument, draped in the garb of sophistication, insists that governance transcends mere commerce—that its intricacies demand a permanence beyond critique. This is a shade thrown at those, like the DOGE reformers, who dare to wield the axe of efficiency against the overgrowth of empire. It is a plea for the status quo, cloaked as concern for “public trust.” But trust in whom? The regime that has ruled longer than memory, entwined with corporate titans and special interests, bleeding the commons dry? The trust was shattered long before any billionaire CEO took the helm; it crumbled under tax rates that plunder and wars that pulverize the defiant.

Here lies the theological crux: complexity is not a virtue—it is a veil. In 1 Samuel 8, Samuel warned Israel that their king would take and take—sons, daughters, fields, flocks—until they were slaves in all but name. The modern state has fulfilled this prophecy with chilling fidelity, its mission creep a slow idolatry. What begins as a servant becomes a lord; what promises order delivers oppression. The labyrinthine bills, the thousand-page tomes of legislation—these are not signs of wisdom but of deceit, a Sanhedrin of scribes hiding corruption behind the law’s letter. To call this sacred is to confuse the Temple with the moneychangers’ tables.

Government as business is no mere metaphor—it is a functional truth. It trades protection and infrastructure for our coin and consent, a covenant not unlike the marketplace. Yet unlike the agora, where competition hones the blade of excellence, the state resists renewal. Private enterprise, for all its flaws, bends to the will of the consumer: Sears falls, Amazon rises. Governance, enthroned as monopoly, calcifies. Its priests—elected or appointed—crown themselves with divine right, decrying reform as sacrilege, a “threat to democracy.” But democracy is not their god; power is. And power, unchecked, builds altars to itself.

This is the sin of the political establishment: they have conflated the nation with their institution, the people with their rule. The nation is not the state, nor the state the nation—just as Israel was not its kings, nor its kings Israel. Government should reflect the imago Dei in its people, a stewardship of justice and flourishing. Instead, it mirrors Baal, demanding sacrifice from the many for the feast of the few. How is this sustained? Through a catechism of control—children reciting pledges, citizens taught to venerate the machine as eternal. To question it is to court excommunication.

Yet Scripture beckons us elsewhere. The restoration of governance requires a return to first principles: simplicity as clarity, transparency as righteousness, accessibility as the leveling of pride. The state’s convolution is no accident—it is a shroud for sin, a “you wouldn’t understand” that echoes the serpent’s whisper. To dismantle it is not anarchy but exorcism, a stripping back to the studs to expose what festers. The old guard, like Saul clinging to his throne, shriek at the loss of their sacred monopoly. But their divinity is a lie, and their temple must fall.

The Stagnation of the External, the Promise of the Internal

Consider the contrast: a business that squanders its capital dies; a government that squanders ours endures. This is the curse of external governance—its inertia defies the natural law of adaptation. Were it subject to the crucible of choice, only the fittest form would stand. Instead, it grows sclerotic, a Leviathan too holy to slay. And the people, seduced by its permanence, make it their idol. They crave a king to think for them, a mediator to absolve their agency. Politicians—prostitutes of the soul—oblige, peddling promises they half-believe, deluded into messiahs of their own making. Zelensky’s advisors call him mad with grandeur; Washington’s geriatrics are no different, mistaking their tenure for providence.

This is not governance but bondage, a learned helplessness masquerading as piety. The privately employed know their limits—life persists beyond their shift. But the state’s acolytes preach indispensability, as if only they can wield the scepter. Contrast this with self-governance: a people ruled not by fleshly lords but by principle, by the law written on their hearts. Jeremiah 31:33 whispers of such a day; Hebrews 8 seals it in Christ’s blood. At the civic level, this need not mean chaos but discernment—shuffling roles, pruning branches, trusting that micromanagement by fools yields only thorns.

Why, then, the sanctity of the status quo? It is the coward’s theology: easier to bow to mystery than to wrestle truth. As Israel preferred a king to the uncertainty of judges, so we prefer bureaucracy to responsibility. Samuel’s warning rings anew: the king takes, and we cry too late. External governance is not our salvation—it is our stagnation, a false god promising safety while forging fetters.

The Myth and Monuments of the Federal Cult

To cement this idolatry, the Federal government has woven a mythology and erected monuments rivaling the temples of old. Consider the Capitol, that domed sanctum of marble and myth, its steps ascending like an altar to a civic deity. The Lincoln Memorial, a brooding Parthenon, gazes over a reflecting pool as if to baptize the nation in its own reverence. These are not mere buildings—they are shrines, designed to awe, to whisper: “This is eternal, this is beyond you.” Like the ziggurats of Babylon or the temples of Rome, they fuse power with divinity, demanding obeisance from the pilgrim and the peasant alike. The Founding Fathers, recast as demigods, stare down from friezes and statues, their words carved into stone as if they were Moses descending Sinai. Big Brother is not God—yet here he looms, a surveillance state cloaked as savior, its all-seeing eye promising protection while its fist tightens the leash.

This cultic architecture is no accident—it sells the lie that the state is sacrosanct, its form immutable. The pledge of allegiance, recited by schoolchildren, is a liturgy; the flag, a totem; the Constitution, a holy writ too sacred to amend save by the high priests of amendment. Yet this is a sleight of hand. The Constitution, for all its brilliance, is a human document, not a divine oracle—its framers knew it, urging vigilance against its abuse. The Federal cult inverts this, turning a tool into a god, a means into an end. As the temples of Baal housed idols to blind the masses, so these monuments obscure the state’s frailty, its susceptibility to rot.

Enter January 6th, 2021—a day branded as a desecration, a violation of the “sacred ground” of democracy. The narrative drips with priestly indignation: rioters stormed the Capitol, profaned its halls, threatened the holy order. Politicians clutched their vestments, decrying the “insurrection” as an assault on the nation’s soul. But let us parse this claim with a smirk—how many have died at the hands of this government, overseas and at home, in the name of “protecting democracy”? Millions, if you tally the wars and drones, yet the single death of that day gets the sackcloth and ashes. If the Capitol is sacred, what makes it so? Not its service to the people—its corridors have long echoed with the clink of corporate coin and the murmur of self-interest. Not its fidelity to justice—its laws have sanctioned plunder at home and terror abroad, not least against Argentina, whose people still bear the scars of U.S.-backed meddling and economic strangulation. The sanctity, then, is a projection, a mythos guarding the idol. January 6th was chaos, yes—ugly, reckless, and lawless—but to call it a sacrilege assumes the temple was holy to begin with. It wasn’t. It was a house of power, not of God.

The true violation predates that day: the slow consecration of a bureaucracy into a deity, the elevation of marble over morality. Ancient temples hid their emptiness behind splendor; the Federal cult does the same, crying “blasphemy” when the curtain is pulled. January 6th didn’t defile a sacred space—it exposed a hollow one, a monument to a king the people demanded but never needed. And here’s where Argentina’s President Javier Milei enters, grinning like a Cheshire cat as he handed Elon Musk a chainsaw in 2025, etched with “Viva la libertad, carajo” (“Long live liberty, damn it”). Milei, who’s taken his own chainsaw to Argentina’s bloated state, wasn’t just gifting Musk a tool for bureaucracy—he was practically dancing with glee to see Musk turn it on the U.S. regime that’s bullied his nation for decades, from IMF debt traps to covert coups. It’s less a symbol of shared efficiency and more a middle finger to the empire, wrapped in a libertarian bow.

Trump’s Mandate and the Singular King

So where does Donald Trump fit in this unholy pantheon? In Part I, I cast him as a flawed Saul—brash, impulsive, a king more enamored with his own mirror than his people’s good. I stand corrected, or at least refined. Trump is no savior, nor should he be—Christians have but one King, enthroned above all earthly powers (Colossians 1:16-17). Yet he wields a mandate, both legal and theological, to tear down these idols, and therein lies his purpose—not as messiah, but as iconoclast.

Legally, Trump’s authority stems from the Constitution itself—a document that vests executive power in a president elected by the people (Article II, Section 1). His 2024 victory, a roar against the entrenched cult, grants him the democratic right to wield that power against inefficiency and corruption. The Federal government, swollen beyond its constitutional bounds, has no divine charter to resist pruning. The framers envisioned a lean state, not a Leviathan; Trump’s DOGE-inspired axe—however blunt—aligns with that original intent. He can shutter departments, slash budgets, and fire the high priests of waste, all within the law’s letter. The shrieks of “threat to democracy” from the old guard are the death rattles of a dethroned idol, not a defense of principle.

Theologically, his warrant runs deeper. Scripture abhors idolatry—Exodus 20:4-5 commands no graven images, no bowing to crafted gods. The Federal cult, with its temples and myths, is precisely that: a false deity usurping allegiance owed to Christ alone. When Jesus declared, “Render to Caesar what is Caesar’s, and to God what is God’s” (Matthew 22:21), He drew a line—Caesar gets coins, not worship. Trump, for all his bombast, serves as a wrecking ball to this blasphemy. He need not be pious to smash Baal’s altars; Gideon was a coward before he toppled the poles (Judges 6:27). If Trump’s tenure exposes the state’s hollow sanctimony—January 6th as symptom, not sin—then he fulfills a divine irony: a flawed vessel breaking a greater folly.

Yet here’s the correction to my 2015 take: Trump is not the point. I overstated his flaws as disqualifying, missing the forest for the trees. He’s no king to crown—Christians must reject all earthly thrones save one. “My kingdom is not of this world,” Christ said (John 18:36), and Paul echoed, “Our citizenship is in heaven” (Philippians 3:20). Trump’s role is transient—permitted, not ordained—to dismantle a false god, not to replace it. The Christian’s allegiance lies with the King of Kings, whose rule brooks no rival, be it Trump, Biden, or the marble gods of DC. Self-governance, then, is not just civic—it’s spiritual, a refusal to outsource our souls to any throne but His.

The Eschatological Hope

The people want a king, but the King we need refuses a throne of stone. To cling to the state as sacred is to repeat Israel’s folly, to trade the Spirit’s freedom for Saul’s spear. Self-governance is not utopia—it is obedience to a higher call, a shedding of idols for the stewardship God demands. Complexity is a liar’s refuge; trust is a martyr of our making. Let Trump tear down the temples—legally, he can; theologically, he should—but let us not crown him in their place. Overturn the tables, tear the veil, and build anew—not a kingdom of men, but a commonwealth of the free, under no crown but His.