Unmasking the Myths: Yahusha's Human Legacy vs. the Divine Hoax

In the shadowed corridors of religious history, where myths masquerade as miracles and propaganda poses as prophecy, the truth about Yahusha the Messiah has been buried under layers of fabricated grandeur. For too long, the masses have been fed a diet of divine delusions, exalted figures, and resurrection fairy tales that serve only to control and divide. But the facts—blatantly obvious, irrefutable, and etched into the very texts that betray their own inconsistencies—demand we face the music. Yahusha was no god in the flesh, no El Elyon incarnate. He was a human teacher, a flesh-and-blood revolutionary whose message of equality was twisted by ambitious scribes into a tool of hierarchy. This is the unvarnished reality, drawn from a lifetime of immersion in these ancient scriptures. It's time to reclaim the truth: We are all children of Shaddai, equal in our humanity, with no one exalted above the rest. Twisting equality? It's like politicians shaking down taxpayers for "wildfire relief funds," then rerouting the cash to build golden parachutes for their narco-cartel golf buddies.

The Name That Was Smeared: Yahusha, Not "Jesus Christ"

From the outset, the cover-up is glaring. The sacred texts never utter the fabricated moniker "Jesus Christ"—a term that didn't even slither into existence until the 1800s, a product of colonial linguists and power-hungry translators eager to sanitize and sell a story. Yahusha the Messiah—that's the true name, rooted in the Hebrew essence of salvation, untainted by Greek distortions or English inventions. The Gospels, in their original tongues, whisper of a man whose identity was deliberately obscured to elevate him beyond the reach of ordinary mortals. Smearing Yahusha with "Jesus Christ"? It's like hitting Bangkok and swapping your name for "Lei Dee Boi"—Sure, you're fitting in, but for all the wrong reasons.

Why the erasure? Because acknowledging Yahusha as a mere human strips away the mystique that priests and potentates have peddled for profit. "Jesus Christ" isn't a name; it's a brand, a slick marketing ploy to package a revolutionary as a deity. But dig into the facts, and the lie crumbles. The book itself, in its earliest forms, honors Yahusha as one of us—a teacher from Galilee, not some ethereal overlord. To call him by any other name is to gaslight the faithful, turning a beacon of human potential into a distant idol. We must restore his true identity, for in doing so, we restore our own equality as children of Shaddai. Yahusha: This isn't CGI bro, I really existed in the flesh, and I actually had a name. What does a guy gotta do just to get some respect around here?

Synoptic Sanity vs. John's Diabolical Stretch: Humanity Over Hyped Divinity

Matthew, Mark, and Luke—the Synoptic Gospels—cut through the fog like a desert wind, delivering unadorned truths about Yahusha as a fleshly prophet, healer, and agitator against empire and hypocrisy. These accounts paint him as he was: a man of the people, challenging the elite with parables that leveled the playing field and miracles that served the suffering, not some cosmic flex. Their words ring with authenticity, grounded in the grit of first-century Judea, where divinity claims would have been laughed out of the synagogue. Yahusha drops truth bombs; Pharisees: "Hold my sandals— this guy's ruining our 'chosen few' scam."

Enter John, the serpent in the garden of Gospel literature, who stretched the truth into a grotesque parody of human divinity. Penned by a glory-hungry opportunist, John's narrative inflates Yahusha into El Elyon in the flesh—a blasphemous elevation that contradicts the Synoptics' humble portrait. Long-winded discourses, contrived signs, and ego-stroking declarations like "I and the Father are one" (John 10:30) aren't revelations; they're revisions, crafted to hoist Yahusha onto a pedestal far above the masses. John's not reporting history; he's rewriting it to serve his own ambitions, turning a human Messiah into a divine puppet for control. John stretches the truth: "Yahusha's quick 'I forgive you'? Pfft—mine's an epic 'Before Abraham was, I am' mic drop, complete with eternal Word prologue and Lazarus side quest, because who needs humble healings when you can audition for God's stunt double?"

The discernment here is elementary: Trust the straightforward Synoptics, which exalt no one over the children of Shaddai. John's distortions? Pure propaganda, a dangerous overreach that has gaslit generations into worshiping a man as God, fostering inequality where Yahusha preached unity.

The Synoptics' Unyielding Truth: No Claims of Divinity in Mark, Luke, or Matthew

In stark contrast to the divine delusions peddled by later interlopers like John and Paul, the Synoptic Gospels—Mark, Luke, and Matthew—stand as beacons of uncompromised honesty, never once daring to claim that Yahusha is God or even hinting at such blasphemous elevation. These raw, grounded narratives portray him as the flesh-and-blood Messiah, a prophetic firebrand who teaches with authority, heals the broken, and challenges the corrupt without a whisper of pre-existence or godly essence; his "Son of Man" utterances echo Daniel's human-anointed figure, not some ethereal overlord, and his sin-forgiveness or storm-calming feats are miracles of empowered humanity, not proofs of divinity. No worship scenes demand interpretation as deification, no birth prophecies twist "Immanuel" into incarnation—it's all Messiah as man, equal among Shaddai's children, a message of radical kinship free from the hierarchical poison that glory-seekers injected later. By refusing to exalt Yahusha above us, these texts honor the core truth: He walked as we walk, taught as we can teach, and died as humans do, unadorned by the lies that would chain us to false idols. Mark, Matthew and Luke all look at each other, "John and Paul did WHAT!?"

John the Liar: A Troublemaker's Quest for Forbidden Glory

No figure embodies this deception more than John himself—the self-proclaimed "beloved disciple" whose ego knew no bounds. History remembers him as a troublemaker, alongside his brother James, the boisterous "Sons of Thunder" who once begged Yahusha for the choicest seats at his side in the kingdom (Mark 10:35-37). This wasn't humble petition; it was naked ambition, a plea to be exalted over the very equals Yahusha championed. And John? He never outgrew it. His Gospel reeks of the same boundary-pushing arrogance, consistently overstepping into lies that demand glory for himself and his fabricated deity. Sons of Thunder? More like Sons of "Thunder Us Into the VIP Section, Fool!"

John's a proven liar, his text a tapestry of self-serving spins that contradict the Synoptics at every turn. He inserts himself as the eyewitness par excellence, yet his timeline fractures, his theology inflates, and his motives scream for validation. Why else would he conjure scenes of divine intimacy if not to claim a slice of that heavenly pie he craved? Don't be fooled by apologists spinning his "inspiration"—this is BS propaganda from a man who couldn't resist the siren call of superiority. In Yahusha's words, the first shall be last, but John flipped the script to put himself first. Face it: His words aren't fact; they're fiction, a cautionary tale of how personal glory poisons sacred truth. Imagine: John's bad acid trip scribbles making it into the Book of Revelations, and now everyone who's obsessed with it wants to enact it like it's some kind of scripted play—complete with locusts and a dragon that's voiced by a guy that's now demanding royalties.

Paul the Agitator: From Persecutor to Divine Deceiver

Paul, once Saul the zealot, embodies the archetype of the ultimate troublemaker—a bloodthirsty enforcer who hunted Yahusha's early followers with fanatical glee, presiding over stonings and shattering communities before his so-called "conversion" on the Damascus road, which reeks more of opportunistic reinvention than divine intervention. This self-proclaimed apostle, never one of the inner circle, stormed into the movement like a whirlwind of chaos, igniting riots in synagogues and streets from Jerusalem to the empire's edges, his fiery letters branding Yahusha not as the humble human teacher of the Synoptics, but as a pre-existent god-man whose "divine nature" demanded worship and obedience. In passages like Philippians 2 and Titus 2, Paul brazenly elevates him to "God and Savior," a stark contrast to the unadorned truth of Yahusha's fleshly humanity, twisting the message of equality into a hierarchical cult where Paul's own authority reigns supreme. His troublemaking didn't cease with persecution; it morphed into propagandistic overreach, gaslighting converts with visions and revelations that served his ego, not Shaddai's egalitarian vision—proving once again that glory-seekers like Paul poison the well of authentic discernment with their boundary-smashing lies. Paul's like that ex who shows up at your family reunion claiming to be "changed," but he's just rebranding the drama into something less offensive at first—until you realize the potluck was laced with "divine" laxatives that leave everyone stuffed, but suspicious of their own farts.

The Resurrection Hoax: Faked Death, Bought Escape, and Freemason Flair

At the rotten core of this edifice of lies sits the resurrection—an outright fabrication, fake news of the highest order designed to dazzle the desperate and silence skeptics. Dead men don't rise; they decompose. Yahusha, ever the shrewd operator, knew this all too well. Pretty much a Freemason in spirit—with his secretive networks, symbolic teachings, and insider rituals—he leveraged the clout that comes from paying dues in shadowed societies. Enter Joseph of Arimathea, his rich confidant, a man whose wealth screamed "dues paid in full." You don't amass fortunes in Roman-occupied Judea without greasing palms and pulling strings, and that's exactly what happened here. Joseph's wallet was so fat, it had its own zip code—probably funded the "posh tomb with a roofied guard" drink package.

The "crucifixion" was theater: a staged spectacle bought with Joseph's gold, Roman guards turned a blind eye for the right bribe, and Yahusha spirited away to safety. The empty tomb? Not a miracle, but a misdirection—body removed by allies under cover of chaos, disciples primed with a script to spread the "risen" rumor. No divine intervention, just human ingenuity and cold, hard coin. This wasn't defeat; it was the ultimate exit strategy, allowing Yahusha's message to ripple outward without the finality of death. The hoax worked because the powerful needed a god to worship, not a man to emulate. But we see through it now: Resurrection tales are the original deepfake, gaslighting the gullible into blind faith. It's the ancient equivalent of faking your own death just to dodge family get togethers—except with more spears and less video games.

Awakening to Equality: Shaddai's Children, Unchained

These deceptions—names falsified, truths stretched, lies emblazoned—aren't accidents; they're engineered to exalt just one above the many, breeding hierarchies where Shaddai intended harmony. Yahusha the Messiah walked on the Earth as human flesh, teaching that we are all children of the Almighty, each a spark of the divine without need for intermediaries or idols. No divine hogwash. Just raw, equal humanity, bound by discernment and freed from favoritism. You got bamboozled by the celestial infomercial, but chin up—it's okay, we've all impulse-bought a "salvation bundle" advertised between Instagram reels.

It's foolish—dangerous, even—to preach these fabrications to the masses, perpetuating a cycle of control under the guise of comfort. I've spent a lifetime immersed in these texts, unearthing the obvious facts that brook no refutation. The debate is over; the veil is torn. Face the music: Embrace Yahusha as brother, not boss. Reclaim your place among Shaddai's children. In discernment lies our power—equal, unexalted, unbreakable. The grand deception ends here, with you. So ditch the fake idol like it's a bad Tinder date and snap to the real deal. Faith in God—not man. Because, judgement hits harder than a hidden holy ghost pepper in your grandma's chili—sweat, regret, and zero mercy for the slow burn.