Ned Lud

Parade, Protest & Projectile

We are urgently called—by custom, media, or the relentless churn of the day—to witness. Witness the parade. Witness the war. Witness the ticker inching past news of missiles, of cities ravaged, of another speech delivered from behind the mirrored glass and barbed wire.

But what if the watching itself is the cage?

Trump's June procession was no mere celebration; it was a summoning. Steel beasts, polished and paraded, were made to look holy. Flags snapped like whips in military time. The president, grinning like a butcher over a pig, waved from atop the altar of the Empire. And across the nation, something ancient stirred—not in the marble halls, but in the calloused hands and sleepless eyes of the working folk.

Two thousand fires ignited across the land—not literal but lived. Protests blossomed like wildflowers through concrete. They were not orchestrated by a party nor funded by a brand. These were the building blocks of an ancient language: bodies in the street, signs raised like weapons, chants in sync with the heart's rebellion.

Meanwhile, across the fractured surface of Earth, another machine sputtered and lurched into action. Iran and Israel are entwined in their violent cycle of fire. Missiles ascended like curses and descended like iron hymns. Cities blinked under electric doom. It wasn't the first volley, and it won't be the last, but change is inevitable.

The modern world no longer runs on coal or steam—it still runs, and we are the grease. This is a time of parades meant to pacify, protests intended to be forgotten, and projectiles that always find flesh. But perhaps beneath this grinding, we hear echoes of another time. When folk didn't just watch the Machine—they struck it.

This essay is a litany to that strike, a remembrance, a reckoning, a Ludditic gospel for the age of drones and demagogues.

Trump's Parade as Beast-Procession: Revelations in Real Time

It was not tanks but idols. They rolled through the streets.

They came thundering down Pennsylvania Avenue on a June day so thick with deceit you could chew it. Iron hulks, bristling with guns, cameras, sensors—death dealers dressed up as circus floats. But it wasn't a parade. It was a procession. And what they paraded wasn't pride. It was dominion.

John the Revelator once saw beasts rise from the Earth and sea—horned, crowned, devouring. He said the people would marvel at the Beast and cry, "Who is like the Beast? Who can wage war against it?" And now, here in the Empire's capital, that question gets asked not in scripture but in budget meetings. Because the Beast does not crawl, it contracts. It invoices. It surveils.

And Trump—call him what you like, but know him by what he blesses. He stood not as a statesman but as a high priest of the Machine. He offered sacrifice to the drone, the gunship, the billion-dollar contract. And like Jesus in the temple, the people should have overturned the tables. But instead, a chorus of bankers and generals sang his praises while the looms of Lockheed Martin spun gold from blood. The only thing absent today was a Chinese Bible infomercial.

Daniel dreamt of kingdoms made of iron and clay—empires fragile at their base, built on pretense and prophecy. And here we are, watching a country dressed like Rome and run like Babel. Our leaders speak of freedom while building digital chains. They promise peace while selling missiles. They offer jobs and give us data farms, prisons, and endless war.

What was on parade in Washington was not strength—it was fear made visible—the kind of fear that needs tanks to feel sovereign, the type that measures power in megatons and missile locks. America and Israel are the military-industrial-technical Machine, fully awakened and publicly baptized. Defense contractors in bespoke suits. AI surveillance tools cloaked in "public safety." Biometric scanners blessed by the Department of Homeland Security. The Machine isn't governance. The "Parade" is the Revelation of Fear.

And I saw a great dragon, having ten horns and seven heads... and he made war against the saints, and prevailed not.

The saints, in this age, are not crowned with halos. They carry signs. They sleep in tents outside detention centers. They blow the whistle and lose their jobs. They stand in front of tanks with nothing but skin and dignity. And when Trump presides over this martial parade, he doesn't just glorify the Machine—he legitimizes it. He makes the slaughter seem holy.

Where are the Daniels who dream outside the castle walls? Where are the prophets who will name the Beast, not just the politics?

What stood before us was not just one man. It was a machinery of death cloaked in patriotism. It was algorithms deciding drone strikes. It was Silicon Valley minting new surveillance platforms for border patrols and predictive policing. Amazon was selling cloud servers to the Pentagon while workers urinated in bottles because of the lack of bathroom breaks.

It was the marketplace in the temple all over again. Only now are the tables made of fiber-optic cable and blood-coded software. Instead of coins, they trade in metadata and mayhem.

This Machine does not serve us. It devours. And the parade was not its birth—it was its consecration.

Did you hear the rustling during the parade? Invisible tumbleweeds were rolling past Trump's folly, some of the dead, dry weeds catching under the tanks, tomorrow's trash. Is that not how all tanks end up, with pockets of dirt and grass and tumbleweeds sprouting from the rusted visages of yesterday's wars?

The 2,000 Protests: Luddites Reborn in the Temple of Empire

When the parade of war machines rolled through D.C., it was not just a show but a summoning. A tribute to Empire. But just as Pharaoh's kingdom crumbled under Moses' defiance, so too did the streets erupt with protest. These were not just acts of rebellion—they were acts of prophecy.

In the same way, Moses defied Pharaoh's idols in Egypt, today's protesters stand against the modern gods of the Empire: the military-industrial complex, the surveillance state, and the market that profits from war. Washington, a Suburb of Tel Aviv, is Babel reborn, but instead of bricks, it is built on bombs, drones, and data. The Empire's towers are high, but as the Bible shows, even the tallest towers are brought low when the people rise.

Jesus overturned the money changers' tables to clear the temple and remind the people that commerce has no place in the sacred. Similarly, the protesters are not simply rejecting the parade; they are rejecting the machinery of death and control. They are the modern-day prophets, calling out the idolatry of war, surveillance, and corporate greed.

Jeremiah, Isaiah, and Amos—they, too, stood against the powers that oppressed the people, and they were scorned for it. These modern-day Luddites face similar scorn: They are smeared, incarcerated, and ignored by those in power. But like Christ carrying the cross, they bear the weight of resistance. Their protest is not just rebellion but a deeper sacrifice, standing against a system that would rather crush them than listen.

The protests are more than a rejection of Trump's pageantry—they are a declaration: the Machine will not stand. These are the Luddites of today, breaking the idols, turning over the tables, and calling us back to a world where the sacred and the just are not drowned out by the roar of war machines.

Israel and Iran: Fire from the Altar of Empire

When nations went to war in the ancient world, they sacrificed their sons and daughters to the gods of power. Today, the ritual is the same, though the gods have changed: now they are the machines of death, the bombs, and drones traded in the name of security and sovereignty. Israel and Iran, two nations bound in perpetual strife, have become the altar upon which the Empire sacrifices its victims.

The missiles fired between them are not just weapons—prayers, cries for power, and dominion over the land and the people. The Book of Ezekiel speaks of nations that set their hearts on bloodshed and destruction. These missiles, launched with precision and intent, are the new arrows of the Empire—sent not to liberate but to reinforce the power of the few over the many. And as these missiles fall, they fulfill the prophecy of war as ritual, a sacrifice not to God but to the idols of the Empire—oil, influence, and control.

The blood of the innocent fuels this ritual, and the prayers go unanswered. Like ancient kingdoms, Israel and Iran offer themselves to the gods of war—trading bombs instead of blessings and missiles instead of mercy. Each strike is a loud, sacrificial cry, echoing the violence of ancient kings but with no more sense of redemption than the warriors of Babel who sought to build their towers to the heavens.

Yet, as the prophets of old saw, there is no future in bloodshed. Ezekiel's lament warns that nations who make war for power, without justice, will fall into ruin. And so, too, will the missiles of Israel and Iran—fired in the name of security—ultimately lead them both to destruction. Their war is not one of survival but of self-destruction, a perpetual cycle of sacrifice to the idols of the Empire.

The Empire of Machines: A Luddite Rebellion and the Voices of the Dead

The Empire, as it stands today, is a machine that grinds the poor into dust while turning the gears of war and control. It is a machine built on surveillance, militarism, and profit, running smoothly as long as the people remain blind and docile. But there is a reckoning coming.

The Luddites saw the Machine coming—saw it as a monster that would steal their livelihoods and lives. They smashed the looms, rejecting the lie of progress that sought to replace human hands with iron claws. Today, that Machine is far more advanced, yet its goal remains to replace humanity with machinery. From drones to data, surveillance cameras to military contracts, the Machine churns forward, and those who stand in its way are crushed underfoot.

In the Bible, the Tower of Babel was a monument to human arrogance—a structure that sought to reach heaven without regard for the people it trampled beneath. The people of Babel thought they could build a tower tall enough to rival the divine, but God scattered them, shattering their pride. This is the story of Empire—of every Empire that has ever risen and fallen. It is built on the labor of the many and the greed of the few, and it will crumble when the people awaken.

Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. saw the Empire for what it truly was: a system of militarism, racism, and materialism. He understood that the war in Vietnam was not just about one country; it was about the global Empire that America was building, one bomb at a time. Today, King would see that same Empire—this time, not just in Vietnam, but in the Middle East, Africa, and all the places where war is fought in the name of power and profit. He would see the rich grow richer, the poor grow poorer, and the Machine of Empire grind.

And the Dead Kennedys? They would be howling in anger at the same Empire they railed against in their punk anthems. They would see Trump's parade and laugh bitterly, knowing it was nothing new. It's the same Empire, just repackaged in a new form. The corporations still control the government, the military-industrial complex still profits from death, and the people—those who could be fighting back—are kept pacified by the spectacle of the state. The Dead Kennedys would call it out: You can't kill the poor and still call it democracy.

But the Luddites, King, and the Dead Kennedys all share one thing in common: they were rebels against a corrupt system that was born to dehumanize. And they understood that the true revolution is not simply about rejecting the Machine but creating something new. They were not against progress—they were against progress that comes at the expense of the people. They were not against change—they were against change that strips us of our humanity.

The rebels must stand in the face of this Empire. Just as the prophets of old called out against the idolatry of kings and emperors, so too must we call out against the modern idols: the corporations, the war machine, and the surveillance state. The rebellion begins not with weapons but with a vision of a world where the people control the means of production, where the machines are dismantled, and where humanity reigns, not in service to profit but to each other.

The Final Judgment: From Prophecy to Protest, the Profiteers of War Will Face the Fire

As the nation turns its eyes to the streets—where police on horseback charge, tear gas clouds the air, and the sharp sting of rubber bullets hits flesh—it becomes impossible to ignore the terrible spectacle of state violence, now in full force. The Marines and National Guard were federalized for this purpose, standing at the ready like an occupying army, prepared to quash resistance with the full weight of their might. The response to protests has escalated, not with dialogue, but with weapons of oppression, for the war profiteers who feed on death know the true enemy now: the people.

The stage is set. The war is here. But this is not a war between nations—it is a war between Empire and humanity. And the battle is being fought on the streets, in the temples of power, and the people's hearts. It is a war where the profit of war is the only currency, and the blood of the poor is the price.

Psalm 94:20-21 (KJV)

"Shall the throne of iniquity have fellowship with thee, which frameth mischief by a law? They gather themselves together against the soul of the righteous, and condemn the innocent blood."

A New Exodus: The Draft Card Burning of Our Time

In the Old Testament, when the people of Israel faced the wrath of the Pharaoh, Moses stood before the Empire, declaring a divine rebuke: "Let my people go!" The Pharaohs of the world today, the kings of war, do not ask the people to work, to labor for the glory of God—but to die for the glory of the Empire. Their temples are built not of stone but of oil, bombs, and military contracts.

The prophets of old railed against such kings—Jeremiah, Isaiah, Amos—all warned the people that those who "sow iniquity, reap vanity." They condemned false power, and like Jesus casting out the money changers, they overturned the tables of the profiteers. The prophets spoke against the gods of war, the merchants who made gold from suffering.

The draft card burnings of the 1960s were not simply acts of defiance; they were prophetic protests—a rejection of the idolatry of war. In the flames of those cards, the young men who burned them saw a vision of what the world could be without the weight of imperial violence. They said, "No, we will not serve your Empire. We will not kill in your name." It was an act of rebellion against the false gods of war, just as Moses and the prophets of the Old Testament defied the imperial powers of their time.

Today, as we face the militarization of our streets, as rubber bullets are fired and the National Guard is called in, the question must be asked: Who will burn the draft card now? Who will reject the war machine for what it is: the modern golden calf, built upon bloodshed, surveillance, and profit?

War Profiteers and the False Prophets of the Empire

As the streets fill with fire and fury, it is not just a fight for justice—it is a confrontation with the war profiteers. Those who sit in their glass towers, selling death as a commodity, are no different from the money changers in the temple. Jesus denounced them for turning God's house into a den of thieves, and today, we must condemn the modern-day thieves who profit from the endless wars abroad and the violence at home. The weapons they sell, the soldiers they send to die, the prisons they fill—all are part of an empire that thrives on the broken bodies of the people.

In the New Testament, John the Revelator spoke of the coming judgment when the merchants of the Earth—the sellers of souls—would be cast down. Their Empire, built on the destruction of humanity, would fall, and with it, their false power. In Revelations, John describes a world where the beasts of the Empire are overthrown, and the righteous inherit the Earth. Today, the Beast wears the uniform of police and military, and it controls the weapons and the walls. The righteous must stand against it, as David stood against Goliath, not with weapons, but with the truth.

The Call for Judgment: Breaking the Chains

As rubber bullets fly and tear gas clouds the air, it is easy to lose sight of the vision. But the prophets did not stumble when they were overwhelmed by power. They saw beyond the smoke and the fury. Ezekiel spoke of the dry bones that would rise again—bones that represented the people, lost and scattered, who would one day be gathered back together.

The people, like the bones, are scattered. They are divided by race, class, and geography. But their rebellion—their call to the altar—will not be denied. They must reject the idols of war, just as the Israelites rejected the golden calf. The call now is not just to protest—to reject the Empire's call to service, to burn the cards that bind us to the Machine. Draft card burning was once a rejection of war. Today, it must be a rejection of the Empire itself. We must burn the cards that bind us to the Machine of control—whether they are the weapons of war, the chains of surveillance, or the contracts that fuel oppression.

It is time to break the chains. Just as Moses led his people out of Egypt, so must we lead ourselves out of this Empire of violence and profit.

Revelation 18:4-5 (KJV)

"And I heard another voice from heaven, saying, Come out of her, my people, that ye be not partakers of her sins, and that ye receive not of her plagues. For her sins have reached unto heaven, and God hath remembered her iniquities."

Parade, Protest, and Projectile: Trump's Militarized Spectacle and the Israel–Iran Missile Gambit

###

© 2025 Ned Lud