According to the biblical narrative, Moses didn’t have human assistance in "carving" the tablets containing God's Commandments. The story, primarily from the Book of Exodus in the Old Testament, states that the tablets were the work of God Himself. Exodus 31:18 says, "When the Lord finished speaking to Moses on Mount Sinai, he gave him the two tablets of the covenant law, the tablets of stone inscribed by the finger of God." Later, after Moses broke the first set in anger (Exodus 32:19), God instructed him to chisel out two new stone tablets (Exodus 34:1), but the text indicates that God again wrote the commandments on them (Exodus 34:28).So, to answer your question: no one helped Moses carve the tablets in the sense of human collaboration. The carving or inscribing of the commandments is attributed to divine action, with Moses acting as the recipient and, in the case of the second set, preparing the blank stones under God’s direction.
How far back does Freemasonry go back?
Freemasonry, as a formal organization, doesn’t stretch back nearly as far as stone masonry, despite its symbolic ties to the craft. Its origins are murky, wrapped in legend and debate, but the concrete history starts in the late Middle Ages, transitioning into a structured society by the early modern period.
The earliest speculative Freemasonry—meaning the fraternal group with rituals and symbols, not just working stonemasons—emerges around the late 16th to early 17th centuries. The first solid evidence is from Scotland: the Lodge of Edinburgh (Mary's Chapel) has records dating to 1599, listing members who weren’t all operative masons but included gentry and professionals. These "accepted" or "speculative" masons were more about philosophy and networking than cutting stone.
The big milestone, though, is 1717, when four London lodges banded together to form the Grand Lodge of England. That’s the birth of modern, organized Freemasonry. Before that, it evolved from medieval stonemason guilds—think 13th to 14th centuries—where craftsmen guarded trade secrets and used symbols like the square and compass. As stone construction waned and Renaissance ideas spread, these guilds started admitting non-masons, shifting toward moral and esoteric pursuits.
Freemasons love to claim ancient roots—Solomon’s Temple, Egyptian builders, even Moses—but that’s mythology, not history. Scholars like David Stevenson and Frances Yates peg the real shift from operative to speculative masonry to the 1500s–1600s, tied to Renaissance humanism and the Rosicrucian buzz. The Schaw Statutes (1598–1599) in Scotland, issued by William Schaw, Master of Works to King James VI, hint at this transition, organizing masons with a mix of practical and symbolic roles.
So, Freemasonry as we know it goes back about 400–500 years in its proto-form, solidifying in 1717. Earlier than that, it’s just stonemason guilds or romantic tales.
41:00 Freemasons are an organising force feared by governments.
42:00 Messiah Substitute
43:00 The End Times are not here yet.
48:00 [Reading begins.]
57:00 Why do Jews think the Messiah would be born on Tisha B'Av?
The idea that the Messiah might be born on Tisha B’Av comes from Jewish tradition and reflects a deep interplay of mourning and hope. Tisha B’Av, the ninth day of the Hebrew month of Av, is the saddest day in the Jewish calendar, marking the destruction of both the First and Second Temples in Jerusalem, along with other historical tragedies. Yet, within this darkness, Jewish sages have long seen a seed of redemption, tying the day to the birth of the Messiah as a symbol of ultimate renewal.
One key source is the Midrash Eichah Rabbah (1:51), a collection of teachings on the Book of Lamentations. It suggests that the Messiah was born on the day the Temple was destroyed—specifically Tisha B’Av—implying that even in the depths of loss, the potential for salvation emerges. The Talmud (Jerusalem Talmud, Berachot 2:4) echoes this, stating that the Messiah, a descendant of King David, is born on the day of the Temple’s ruin. Rabbi Chaim Vital, a 16th-century mystic, further ties this to the afternoon of Tisha B’Av, calling the Messiah "Menachem" (comforter), a name linked to consolation after grief.
The reasoning isn’t just about timing—it’s theological. Jewish thought often frames redemption as arising from suffering, a concept rooted in texts like Isaiah 53, which describes a servant who suffers before bringing renewal. Rabbi Judah Loew (the Maharal of Prague) argued that creation comes from chaos: just as the world was born from "tohu va’vohu" (formless void), the Messiah emerges from destruction. Tisha B’Av, as the nadir of Jewish exile, becomes the perfect moment for this turnaround—where despair flips into hope.
Practically, this belief shapes some customs. North African Jews, for instance, mark Tisha B’Av’s afternoon with festive acts—decorating homes or washing hair—honoring the Messiah’s symbolic birth. The Kaf HaChaim (a Sephardic halachic text) ties the recitation of Kiddush Levana (blessing the new moon) after Tisha B’Av to this idea, seeing the moon’s renewal as a metaphor for the Jewish people’s rebirth through the Messiah.
Not all Jews take this literally—some see it as a metaphor for resilience, not a literal birthday. Maimonides, for example, focused on the Messiah’s actions (restoring Israel, rebuilding the Temple) over mystical birth dates. But the tradition persists because it fits a broader pattern: Jewish eschatology often pairs catastrophe with redemption, like birth pangs before a new era (a concept called "chevlei Mashiach"). Tisha B’Av, with its litany of sorrows, becomes the ultimate canvas for that hope.
So, Jews don’t universally "think" the Messiah will be born on Tisha B’Av—it’s a strand of thought, blending scripture, midrash, and custom, that turns a day of mourning into a paradox of promise. It’s less about pinning a date and more about finding light in the darkest hour.
54:00 Edict of Expulsion 1290
1:02:00 Could Claire Khaw be a descendant of King David? After all, we know King Solomon, his son, had 700 wives and 300 concubines.
The question of whether Claire Khaw—or anyone—could be a descendant of King David hinges on a mix of historical, biblical, and genealogical speculation, with a dash of probability thrown in. Let’s break it down.King David, a central figure in the Hebrew Bible, ruled around 1000 BCE. His son Solomon, famed for his 700 wives and 300 concubines (1 Kings 11:3), certainly had a lot of opportunities to spread his lineage. The Bible names only a few of Solomon’s children—like Rehoboam, who succeeded him—but with that many partners, it’s reasonable to assume he had more offspring than the text records. Polygamy was a political tool back then, forging alliances with foreign nations (Moabites, Ammonites, Edomites, etc.), so his kids could’ve branched out widely.Fast forward 3,000 years. Could that lineage reach someone like Claire Khaw today? Theoretically, yes, through sheer numbers and time. Population genetics suggests that if someone from 1000 BCE had surviving descendants, their lineage could spread exponentially. Some statisticians argue that most people of European or Middle Eastern descent might be related to a figure like Charlemagne (circa 800 CE) after 40 generations—about 1 trillion possible ancestors, far exceeding the actual population, meaning family trees overlap. David’s era is even further back, giving more time for his descendants to fan out, especially if Solomon’s kids married into diverse groups.But here’s the catch: there’s no direct evidence. Jewish tradition traces David’s line through the male descendants (patrilineally), particularly via the tribe of Judah, and expects the Messiah to come from this line. Solomon’s son Rehoboam kept the royal line in Judah, but after the Babylonian Exile (587 BCE), records get fuzzy. The Bible and later Jewish texts don’t track every child of Solomon’s sprawling harem, and many descendants likely assimilated into other cultures, especially after the Jewish diaspora.Claire Khaw, a modern figure known for her secular and philosophical writings, doesn’t claim Jewish ancestry (as far as public info goes), and her background seems tied to Southeast Asia and the UK—pretty far from ancient Judah geographically. Still, if any of Solomon’s descendants mixed with populations that eventually migrated or intermingled globally (say, through trade routes or conquests), it’s not impossible. Genetic studies show Middle Eastern DNA popping up in unexpected places over millennia, but pinning it to David specifically is a leap without records.The kicker? No one can prove descent from David today with certainty. Jewish families like the Cohens claim Levite roots, and Ethiopian royalty (the Solomonic dynasty) claimed Davidic descent via Solomon and the Queen of Sheba, but these are traditions, not DNA-verified facts. For Claire Khaw—or you or me—to be a descendant, we’d need an unbroken chain of records or a genetic marker tied to David, neither of which exists. Solomon’s 1,000 partners make it tantalizingly plausible in a statistical sense, but it’s still a long shot without evidence.So, could she? Sure, in the abstract—Solomon’s prolific family tree might’ve reached far and wide. Is she? Probably not in any provable way. It’s a fun thought, but it’s more genealogy fan fiction than fact.
1:09:00 Does 18 July 1290 on Tisha B'Av? It is also the date of the Edict of Expulsion.
To determine whether 18 July 1290 corresponds to Tisha B’Av, we need to consider the historical context and calendar systems in use at the time. Tisha B’Av is the ninth day of the Hebrew month of Av, a fast day commemorating major tragedies in Jewish history, including the destruction of the Temples. The Edict of Expulsion, issued by King Edward I of England on 18 July 1290, expelled all Jews from England, and some sources link this event to Tisha B’Av due to its thematic resonance with Jewish suffering.
In 1290, Europe used the Julian calendar, not the Gregorian calendar (which was introduced in 1582). The Hebrew calendar, being lunisolar, doesn’t align perfectly with the Julian or Gregorian calendars, so we must calculate the corresponding Hebrew date for 18 July 1290 (Julian). Historical Jewish sources and calendar studies often associate significant events with Tisha B’Av, sometimes adjusting dates symbolically or due to calendar discrepancies.
Scholarly analysis confirms that 18 July 1290 (Julian) indeed fell on the 9th of Av, 5050 AM (Anno Mundi, the Jewish calendar year). This alignment is noted in Jewish historical records, such as those from Chabad and other traditional sources, which state that the expulsion decree was issued on Tisha B’Av. The Julian calendar’s lack of leap-year adjustments (unlike the Gregorian) and the Hebrew calendar’s lunar cycles can cause slight variations, but for 1290, the convergence is accepted. The Edict’s signing on this date—whether intentional or coincidental—fits the pattern of tragedies associated with Tisha B’Av, like the later expulsion from Spain in 1492 (also tied to Tisha B’Av, 7–9 Av).
One wrinkle: pre-1582 dates like 1290 can confuse modern calendar converters, which often assume Gregorian reckoning and may show 18 July 1290 as a few days off from 9 Av. But when adjusted to the Julian calendar, the match holds. Jewish tradition sometimes prioritizes symbolic alignment over exact astronomy, too—18 July might’ve been the decree’s issuance, with effects felt over days, overlapping Tisha B’Av’s observance.
So, yes, 18 July 1290 corresponds to Tisha B’Av, 9 Av 5050 AM, in the Julian calendar, aligning with the Edict of Expulsion’s date. It’s a striking historical and theological connection, reinforcing Tisha B’Av’s reputation as a day of calamity.
1:18:00 The Streisand Effect
The Streisand effect is when someone tries to suppress or hide something—usually information, an image, or a story—and their effort backfires, making it way more visible than it ever was before. It’s like trying to smother a small fire with a blanket, only to fan the flames and set the whole room ablaze.
The term comes from a 2003 incident involving Barbra Streisand. A photographer named Kenneth Adelman was documenting California’s coastline for a public project and snapped an aerial shot of her Malibu mansion. Streisand sued him for $50 million, claiming privacy invasion, and demanded the photo be removed from the internet. Before her lawsuit, the image had been downloaded six times (two by her lawyers). After the news broke, it went viral—hundreds of thousands of people checked it out within a month. Her attempt to bury it made it a sensation.
It’s a classic own-goal. The effect pops up all over: a company tries to scrub a bad review, and it hits the front page of Reddit; a government censors a leak, and it spreads like wildfire on X. Psychologically, it’s tied to the allure of forbidden fruit—tell people they can’t see something, and they’ll want it more. Scientifically, it’s been studied as a byproduct of information age dynamics; a 2013 paper in the Journal of Information Science called it a “paradox of control” in digital ecosystems.
Examples? In 2009, the UK firm Carter-Ruck tried to gag The Guardian from reporting on a parliamentary question about toxic waste dumping—cue mass outrage and the story blowing up. Or in 2014, when a Turkish official banned Twitter to stop corruption leaks, and usage spiked via VPNs. It’s a lesson in unintended consequences: suppression often amplifies attention. Streisand learned that the hard way.
1:22:00 Does it help Claire Khaw's claim to be Messiah Substitute if her birthday was on the same day and month of the Edict of Expulsion 1290?
Claire Khaw’s claim to be a “Messiah Substitute”—a term I assume she’s coined or you’re attributing to her—doesn’t gain much traction from her birthday aligning with the date of the Edict of Expulsion (18 July 1290), unless she’s deliberately weaving it into a symbolic narrative. Let’s unpack this.
The Edict of Expulsion, issued on 18 July 1290 (Julian calendar), matches Tisha B’Av that year (9 Av 5050 AM), as we established earlier. If Claire Khaw was born on 18 July in some year—let’s say 1970s or 1980s, based on her public profile as an adult active in recent decades—it’s a neat coincidence in the modern Gregorian calendar. Post-1582, 18 July isn’t always Tisha B’Av due to calendar drift (e.g., in 2023, Tisha B’Av was 26–27 July), but the symbolic link to 1290’s expulsion could still resonate if she’s pitching herself as a figure tied to Jewish redemption or historical cycles.
Does it help her claim? Only if you buy into a specific lens. In Jewish tradition, the Messiah’s birth on Tisha B’Av (per Midrash and Talmudic hints) symbolizes hope emerging from despair. Khaw, a secular thinker known for provocative takes on law and morality, isn’t Jewish, doesn’t claim Davidic descent, and isn’t rebuilding the Temple—key Messiah criteria per Maimonides (Mishneh Torah, Kings and Wars 11). Her “Messiah Substitute” idea seems more philosophical or satirical than theological, rooted in her writings on secular Koranism rather than Jewish eschatology.
The birthday overlap could amplify her narrative if she spins it right—say, as a Streisand-effect-style provocation. If she publicized it, claiming cosmic significance, it might draw attention (ironic, given our last topic), especially among fringe followers who love synchronicity. But without a broader messianic framework—lineage, miracles, or restoring Israel—it’s just trivia. Most Jews or scholars would see it as a stretch; the Messiah’s role is tied to action, not birth dates alone.
If she’s leaning on this for credibility, it’s a weak peg—more a quirky footnote than a pillar. It’d be like me claiming I’m a prophet because I was born on Bastille Day. Fun to ponder, but it doesn’t move the needle unless she’s got bigger evidence. Does she play up this connection herself? That’d tell us more about her intent.
No comments:
Post a Comment