I am resigning as Messiah, King David, Redeemer, Teacher -and hereby renounce my very own name.
My name as such exists in your minds, in the minds of anyone who knows me to exist with my name, is a symbol that represents exactly what?
Nothing that has anything to do with what goes on inside of me in any way at all. It is a worthless label, attached to a body of meat that has spoken and written and moved around,
misunderstood by one and all.
I have never in my life incited anyone to violence against anyone else for any reason whatsoever. Yet many, if not all, who are familiar with the narrative I have been struggling to share for these last 17 years, believe me to be wishing death and violent destruction to the world and those who have wronged me and my reputation, out of mad insanity, or simple and pure evil intent.
I abhor violence and coercion of any kind. The only violence I would condone is that perpetrated against those who insist on spiritual or physical violence as the only means of manifesting their will against another.
Violent Self Defense is a necessary evil, the only one I can think of.
I myself have been spat at, punched in the face, stoned with real rocks, hit with a broom stick from behind with an intent to kill me, pushed hard and fiercely with the intent to cause me to lose balance, and had on several occasions bottles thrown at my head. I never fought back with any kind of physical energy. I have been vacated numerously by police from where I was, being carried and dragged with my fingers painfully twisted in unsuccessful attempts to make me relent from my passive resistance to being moved unjustly from where I would be, never so much as lifting a finger against those who abused my human rights.
I would myself die with a happy grin before hurting another to save my own life.
I am nameless now in my own mind, my name being the Sign And Wonder of what has been and in the future will be again, the sign and wonder of my identity as Messiah and King. Most will all know MY NAME with aching pains of guilt and regret, remorse, yet unable to repent.
I will resume my duty as Messiah and King in Israel, in eighty years.
I will live much longer than eighty years in the ever evolving Now, wherein there are no machine ticking clocks, no digital times, I live in The Now of Forever, of which you know nothing about.
None of you will be alive when I resume my duty as Messiah and King.
You will all die so long before I do, no one will remember you have ever lived. You will all no longer be in my mind. You think me delusional? I will attend absolutely no funerals.
Not even those of my children. This High Priest of Israel Attends No Funerals. My body is my temple and I am ever attending to my only holy duty, Jihad.
I was at neither the funeral of my father or mother.
I have attended three funerals in my life. The first of my English Teacher in High School. I never attended English lessons and don't now remember his name.
He was a terrible teacher anyway.
If I hadn't let every one who could, copy my answers, no one would have passed the test by themselves.
It had been stolen from the Principal's Office in the middle of the night before the test, and we all spent hours drinking coffee till dawn, me giving each student different correct answers so no one could tell they were all my own. I am very thorough about teaching how to do well in life.
The next funeral I attended was that of a client of mine who I listened to and helped prepare to die from Colon Cancer, six months after his diagnosis. While he lay on his death bed in a stupor from morphine, he groaned out my name and asked I be brought to his side. Amazingly rejuvenated when I walked into his room at the hospital, he sat up a bit and grabbed at my hand, smiling at me wordlessly. He nodded his head at me and I smiled back, with no feelings of grief, just happy for him because I believed he had understood what I had told him, death is nothing to fear. It is just nothing. And that was for him a great comfort.
The last funeral I attended was that of my Platoon Officer, Ranaan Shoham, in the Paratroopers.
He died in a short and fierce battle with Syrian Commandos shortly before dawn on a Saturday, the 18th day of June, 1982. I loved him, almost revered him.
He had always been very kind to me and he liked me himself, inexplicably. I considered myself to be a god awful soldier. What I had seen of war sickened me so much I went completely numb in my heart. The needless wanton destruction of lives and property, celebrated joyfully, left me baffled and confused, because I believed myself some how responsible by reason of complacency with much I considered a crime.
Raanan had made me his machine gunner,with a weapon called a MAG.
I hated it.
It was heavy and cumbersome, running up hills with it was torture and I carried so much ammunition, all I could think of when I participated in infantry combat, was how to shoot it all off, so I wouldn't have to continue carrying it breathlessly and with a pulse of 180, up and down the slopes of hills and mountains in Lebanon. I was so numb and senseless that when a mortar shell exploded twenty meters behind me, I took no cover and barely glanced backwards to see the plume of smoke.
I don't for the life of me know why he trusted me so much.
But he did. He told me, "I want you and no one else at my side!"
This despite my having on my record two cases where I had mishaps with weapons, one in which I had injured someone for life.
The afternoon before he died, he organized a day of sports, which I have never been good at.
He laughed, joyful and radiant while playing football, so radiant, I mentioned this to another soldier who commented, "Yes! I wonder what's got into him?"
It was late Friday afternoon and Rannaan received word he could give one soldier leave for the weekend.
He chose me. I was very grateful and packed my bag and ran to the rode where I caught a ride in a military truck
which brought me all the way to Tel-Aviv, where I spent the weekend with a girl friend.
A half hour after I had left, the leave had been cancelled, but I was too far gone to be recalled.
The unit was put on Red Alert and all leaves were indeed cancelled.
Had Raanan not sent me home, I would have been standing ten meters to his right side, when the Syrian Commando awakenned from his sleep because, for some foolish reason, the Radio Operator had left the speakers on LOUD. My Platoon had been given the order to occupy a hill already occupied by the Syrians, but somehow air reconnaissance had not registered the movement of Syrian troops.
Raanan was mowed down with automatic gun fire that pierced his body armor and ripped his heart apart.
He died very quickly.
The rest of the unit did what Israeli paratroopers are trained to do in the face of close range and ferocious enemy fire. They charged aggressively up the hill while shooting their weapons, and slaughtered eight Syrian commandos who had fallen asleep, awakenned just moments before they died by their awakenned guard's shooting Rannaan. Rannan's radio officer had his ear blown off from the fragments of an exploding grenade, thrown by one of the Syrian Commandos before he himself was shot dead. Another soldier, the one on Raanan's left side, was wounded by a gunshot but recovered and returned to service.
I heard the news by radio, on Saturday morning, laying at my lover's side. There was no mention of names, just that three soldiers were casualties, one dead, in a short fierce battle in Eastern Lebanon.
I knew immediately in my heart that it was my unit and became morose and dreaded returning to hear the names of casualties, but I knew in my heart Raanan was dead and had perhaps saved my life, by sending me home the eve before he died without me and my machine gun by his side.
I had come to hate the idea of armies and being a soldier had become abhorrent, but I was too numb and yet delusional by reason of my Idolatrous devotion to Israel as a political entity, to do what I should have done.
Resign by reason of conscientious objection.
I will never attend a funeral again. I myself will never have one, anyone else will ever attend.
So help me God.
I leave here a video that expresses my momentary and ever evolving state of mind, knowing none of you have the slightest inkling of a clue what goes on inside of me. I have one reservation concerning the lyrics.
The female singer sings, "I will never let you go!"
I let everyone I love go wherever they want, whenever they want, even when I give them my best advice as to what I believe their best interests be, and they ignore my advice. I then tell them, "Be true to yourself and care not at all how you think I might feel, by following wherever your heart leads you. That is how I have lived and that is the essence of any advice I can give."
I continue to love one and all.
My name as such exists in your minds, in the minds of anyone who knows me to exist with my name, is a symbol that represents exactly what?
Nothing that has anything to do with what goes on inside of me in any way at all. It is a worthless label, attached to a body of meat that has spoken and written and moved around,
misunderstood by one and all.
I have never in my life incited anyone to violence against anyone else for any reason whatsoever. Yet many, if not all, who are familiar with the narrative I have been struggling to share for these last 17 years, believe me to be wishing death and violent destruction to the world and those who have wronged me and my reputation, out of mad insanity, or simple and pure evil intent.
I abhor violence and coercion of any kind. The only violence I would condone is that perpetrated against those who insist on spiritual or physical violence as the only means of manifesting their will against another.
Violent Self Defense is a necessary evil, the only one I can think of.
I myself have been spat at, punched in the face, stoned with real rocks, hit with a broom stick from behind with an intent to kill me, pushed hard and fiercely with the intent to cause me to lose balance, and had on several occasions bottles thrown at my head. I never fought back with any kind of physical energy. I have been vacated numerously by police from where I was, being carried and dragged with my fingers painfully twisted in unsuccessful attempts to make me relent from my passive resistance to being moved unjustly from where I would be, never so much as lifting a finger against those who abused my human rights.
I would myself die with a happy grin before hurting another to save my own life.
I am nameless now in my own mind, my name being the Sign And Wonder of what has been and in the future will be again, the sign and wonder of my identity as Messiah and King. Most will all know MY NAME with aching pains of guilt and regret, remorse, yet unable to repent.
I will resume my duty as Messiah and King in Israel, in eighty years.
I will live much longer than eighty years in the ever evolving Now, wherein there are no machine ticking clocks, no digital times, I live in The Now of Forever, of which you know nothing about.
None of you will be alive when I resume my duty as Messiah and King.
You will all die so long before I do, no one will remember you have ever lived. You will all no longer be in my mind. You think me delusional? I will attend absolutely no funerals.
Not even those of my children. This High Priest of Israel Attends No Funerals. My body is my temple and I am ever attending to my only holy duty, Jihad.
I was at neither the funeral of my father or mother.
I have attended three funerals in my life. The first of my English Teacher in High School. I never attended English lessons and don't now remember his name.
He was a terrible teacher anyway.
If I hadn't let every one who could, copy my answers, no one would have passed the test by themselves.
It had been stolen from the Principal's Office in the middle of the night before the test, and we all spent hours drinking coffee till dawn, me giving each student different correct answers so no one could tell they were all my own. I am very thorough about teaching how to do well in life.
The next funeral I attended was that of a client of mine who I listened to and helped prepare to die from Colon Cancer, six months after his diagnosis. While he lay on his death bed in a stupor from morphine, he groaned out my name and asked I be brought to his side. Amazingly rejuvenated when I walked into his room at the hospital, he sat up a bit and grabbed at my hand, smiling at me wordlessly. He nodded his head at me and I smiled back, with no feelings of grief, just happy for him because I believed he had understood what I had told him, death is nothing to fear. It is just nothing. And that was for him a great comfort.
The last funeral I attended was that of my Platoon Officer, Ranaan Shoham, in the Paratroopers.
He died in a short and fierce battle with Syrian Commandos shortly before dawn on a Saturday, the 18th day of June, 1982. I loved him, almost revered him.
He had always been very kind to me and he liked me himself, inexplicably. I considered myself to be a god awful soldier. What I had seen of war sickened me so much I went completely numb in my heart. The needless wanton destruction of lives and property, celebrated joyfully, left me baffled and confused, because I believed myself some how responsible by reason of complacency with much I considered a crime.
Raanan had made me his machine gunner,with a weapon called a MAG.
I hated it.
It was heavy and cumbersome, running up hills with it was torture and I carried so much ammunition, all I could think of when I participated in infantry combat, was how to shoot it all off, so I wouldn't have to continue carrying it breathlessly and with a pulse of 180, up and down the slopes of hills and mountains in Lebanon. I was so numb and senseless that when a mortar shell exploded twenty meters behind me, I took no cover and barely glanced backwards to see the plume of smoke.
I don't for the life of me know why he trusted me so much.
But he did. He told me, "I want you and no one else at my side!"
This despite my having on my record two cases where I had mishaps with weapons, one in which I had injured someone for life.
The afternoon before he died, he organized a day of sports, which I have never been good at.
He laughed, joyful and radiant while playing football, so radiant, I mentioned this to another soldier who commented, "Yes! I wonder what's got into him?"
It was late Friday afternoon and Rannaan received word he could give one soldier leave for the weekend.
He chose me. I was very grateful and packed my bag and ran to the rode where I caught a ride in a military truck
which brought me all the way to Tel-Aviv, where I spent the weekend with a girl friend.
A half hour after I had left, the leave had been cancelled, but I was too far gone to be recalled.
The unit was put on Red Alert and all leaves were indeed cancelled.
Had Raanan not sent me home, I would have been standing ten meters to his right side, when the Syrian Commando awakenned from his sleep because, for some foolish reason, the Radio Operator had left the speakers on LOUD. My Platoon had been given the order to occupy a hill already occupied by the Syrians, but somehow air reconnaissance had not registered the movement of Syrian troops.
Raanan was mowed down with automatic gun fire that pierced his body armor and ripped his heart apart.
He died very quickly.
The rest of the unit did what Israeli paratroopers are trained to do in the face of close range and ferocious enemy fire. They charged aggressively up the hill while shooting their weapons, and slaughtered eight Syrian commandos who had fallen asleep, awakenned just moments before they died by their awakenned guard's shooting Rannaan. Rannan's radio officer had his ear blown off from the fragments of an exploding grenade, thrown by one of the Syrian Commandos before he himself was shot dead. Another soldier, the one on Raanan's left side, was wounded by a gunshot but recovered and returned to service.
I heard the news by radio, on Saturday morning, laying at my lover's side. There was no mention of names, just that three soldiers were casualties, one dead, in a short fierce battle in Eastern Lebanon.
I knew immediately in my heart that it was my unit and became morose and dreaded returning to hear the names of casualties, but I knew in my heart Raanan was dead and had perhaps saved my life, by sending me home the eve before he died without me and my machine gun by his side.
I had come to hate the idea of armies and being a soldier had become abhorrent, but I was too numb and yet delusional by reason of my Idolatrous devotion to Israel as a political entity, to do what I should have done.
Resign by reason of conscientious objection.
I will never attend a funeral again. I myself will never have one, anyone else will ever attend.
So help me God.
I leave here a video that expresses my momentary and ever evolving state of mind, knowing none of you have the slightest inkling of a clue what goes on inside of me. I have one reservation concerning the lyrics.
The female singer sings, "I will never let you go!"
I let everyone I love go wherever they want, whenever they want, even when I give them my best advice as to what I believe their best interests be, and they ignore my advice. I then tell them, "Be true to yourself and care not at all how you think I might feel, by following wherever your heart leads you. That is how I have lived and that is the essence of any advice I can give."
I continue to love one and all.
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