Seeing Scapegoats

A Third Way Beyond Violence

Reflections on John 8:1-12

In John’s Gospel, religious leaders bring before Jesus a woman “caught in the act of adultery.” The law of Moses, they remind him, prescribes stoning. But Jesus responds not with judgment, but with silence and mysterious writing in the dust. Then he offers a famous challenge: Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her” (John 8:7). Slowly, one by one, the accusers slip away, leaving the woman to live.

It’s amazing how powerful some scribbling on the ground can be. Did Jesus write their sins into the sand? Did he merely doodle? Whatever he wrote, it doesn’t really matter. In a highly charged standoff between the Pharisees and scribes, Jesus defuses the projected violence of the group and turns their attention from the woman back to themselves. No one dares throw a stone.

On the surface, the crowd is law-debating and cerebral, skilled at making speeches. They know how to play to the base and still come off looking respectable. But Jesus’ nonviolent, savvy intervention reveals their brutality. In the name of religion and law, they have caught the woman in the act of adultery, taken her from her bed, and dragged her through a crowd, presumably with little clothing. Where is the man? He is conspicuously absent. The religious leaders have their rocks at the ready, and the feeling of righteousness, mixed in with a veneer of holiness, makes them particularly dangerous.

“Now, what do you say, Jesus?” The law of Moses, in one of those bloody one-liners in Leviticus, decrees death by stoning for the adulterer. Of course, it’s a trap. They know Jesus has a soft spot for outsiders. If he takes her side, he will be disregarding the law of Moses and will appear to support adultery. Instead, Jesus gets both compassionate and strategic. He bends down, avoids eye contact—lest a glance askew turn someone off—and writes with his finger on the ground. I imagine him speaking softly, his steady nervous system helping regulate everyone around: “Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.” And no one dares. The crowd, now de-escalated and exposed in their violence, slinks away one by one.

The Scapegoat Mechanism

The woman is a scapegoat. Scapegoating is connected to the ancient religious tradition of sacrifice. In Leviticus we read: “Take the blasphemer outside the camp, and let all who were within hearing lay their hands on his head, and let the whole congregation stone him” (Leviticus 24:14). There’s a conflict in the community, and reconciliation is achieved by blood. The voice of God tells Moses to bring peace through murder.

Over time in Israelite tradition, stoning evolves into animal sacrifice. Leviticus abounds with instructions about which animals to kill and when. A day of atonement is eventually introduced as a way to make peace with God and the community. Later, the prophets critique those who favor sacrifice but forget justice: “I hate, I despise your festivals,” says Amos (5:21). In the New Testament, the story of Jesus unveils the violent mechanics of this process by showing him scapegoated by Roman and Jewish powers.

Scholars note that John eight is a later addition, not part of the earliest Gospel manuscripts. Yet it fits well within the Bible’s unfolding story of sacrifice and scapegoating.

We might think that we are far beyond the need for rams, lambs, and sin offerings today—but our entire political and cultural moment hinges on the scapegoat mechanism. We build group identity by creating enemies—and people on the margins, such as immigrants and transgender people, suffer the most.

The disturbing magic of scapegoating is that it works. By creating and attacking an enemy, the collective unites.

It’s why war and nationalism thrive together, why, as Chris Hedges’ book title says, War is a Force that Gives us Meaning.

Photo by Sean Stratton on Unsplash

An Ancient Story, A Modern Warning

A third-century Greek story illustrates the same pattern. Told by René Girard in I See Satan Fall Like Lightning (I’m adapting for readability): People in Ephesus faced a devastating epidemic and turned to a miracle worker named Apollonarius of Tyana. He said, “Take courage, for I will today put a stop to the course of the disease.” When he arrived there, he led the entire population to the city gate. He pointed to an old beggar carrying a piece of bread and clad in rags.

Appolonius told the Ephesians around him to “Pick up as many stones as you can and hurl them at this enemy of the gods.” The Ephesians were initially shocked. The beggar pleaded with them to have mercy, but the miracle worker egged them on. As soon as some began to aim at him with their stones, the beggar gave them all a sudden glance and showed that his eyes were full of fire. Then the Ephesians recognized that he was not a man, but a demon—so they intensified their stoning until their stones formed a large cairn around him. Then Apollonious instructed them to remove the stones and look at the animal that they had slain. They removed the stones, and the man had disappeared. He had taken the form of a hound the size of a lion, lying there dead as a mad dog. The city believed itself healed.

Appolinarious is celebrated in the annals of myth, in which healing the city’s epidemic and social disintegration by murdering a demon is considered his greatest deed. He brought oneness through the power of blood.

Yet, like the Pharisees and scribes, Apollonius puts the scapegoating process on full display. The different and vulnerable are no longer recognized as human; they become demons. In my country right now, we have ceased to see each other as human, which is a perilous place to be. Recovering our shared humanity and interrupting the scapegoating mechanism is our urgent task. Oneness might come for some through the power of blood, but it leaves a murderous wake. Jesus, on the other hand, undoes the scapegoating process by holding up a courageous and vulnerable mirror—and eventually his own body—back to the scapegoaters. He writes on the ground, takes the side of the victim, and reveals and finds a “third way” beyond violence.