Why Your "Lizard Brain" is Hijacking Your Faith (and How to Reclaim the Image of God)

 

The Athens of the Mind

When the Apostle Paul stood in the middle of Athens (Acts 17), he was deeply troubled by a city crowded with idols. Today, we live in a digital version of Athens. Instead of marble statues, we are surrounded by a constant flood of social media images and 24/7 news that crowds our minds. We are over-stimulated and perpetually "plugged in," sacrificing our attention at the "altars" of being busy or useful to others. Scientists describe the human brain as a high-powered antenna meant to help us survive our environment, but our internal hardware is currently overloaded by all the noise.

This feeling of constant stress is a signal that our internal system is in crisis. We often build "altars to unknown gods" by giving up who we really are just to meet the expectations of people around us. We trade our true worth for a "fake peace." When we prioritize making the group feel comfortable over following our own deep convictions, we stop listening to God and start merely reacting to the loud world around us.

The Biological Resistance: Why Change Feels Like Death

To understand why growing spiritually can feel so scary, we have to look at how our bodies are wired. There is a theory called the "Triune Brain" that describes three layers of the brain: the reptilian brain (survival), the limbic system (emotions), and the neocortex (thinking). The reptilian brain’s main job is to keep things exactly the same. It hates change.

In our churches and friend groups, this shows up as a "gut reaction" against new ideas. Think of the "frog in the pot" story: if the water temperature rises very slowly, the frog doesn't realize it’s in danger until it’s too late. Chronic anxiety works the same way in a community. Because the stress level rises so gradually, our "lizard brain" doesn't see the danger until the whole group is exhausted. Even when we are at the top of the evolutionary tree, in moments of high stress, we still react like animals facing a predator.

The "Fake Self" and the Unknown God

When boundaries get blurry, we lose our "True Self"—the part of us built on solid values and beliefs—and replace it with a "Fake Self." This version of you is negotiable. It’s the mask you wear to be accepted or to get ahead in a stressful environment.

When we look for "likes" or outside approval to feel like we are "enough," we are worshipping an "Unknown God" of productivity. We treat our souls like a problem that needs fixing rather than "sacred ground" that should be respected. Reclaiming the Imago Dei—the Image of God—means realizing that your worth is a free gift of "life and breath," not a reward you earn by making sure everyone else stays calm.

Property Lines for the Soul: The Church’s Immune System

In Acts 17, Paul mentions that God set the "boundaries" where people would live. Spiritually speaking, these aren't just lines on a map; they are property lines for the soul. Boundaries define where you end and someone else begins. They are meant to keep healthy things in and harmful things out.

A church without boundaries is like a body with an immune system problem. It accidentally attacks its strongest leaders—the ones brave enough to be different—while letting toxic behavior and irresponsibility slide in the name of being "nice." Being a "yes-person" in a stressful group isn't a spiritual gift; it's a lack of courage that lets the "weeds" take over the sacred ground of the community's mission.

Growing Through "Differentiation": From Wishbone to Backbone

The cure for this "lizard brain" hijacking is something called Differentiation of Self. This is simply the ability to remain "Me" while still being a part of "Us." It is the process of moving from a "wishbone" (always hoping others will like you) to a "backbone" of steady faith.

You can practice this differentiation of self by using the PAAOR method:

• Present: Being physically and emotionally there without losing yourself in other people’s drama.

• Aware: Knowing exactly what "pushes your buttons" emotionally.

• Accountable: Taking 100% responsibility for your own choices and emotional health.

• Open: Being willing to hear others without feeling threatened by their differences.

• Responsive: Using your "Thinking Brain" to choose a response instead of just having a "knee-jerk" reaction.

In this model, being accountable is the path to "Sanctification"—the process of being "set apart" for God. You have to be a distinct, solid person to truly serve the church.

Learning from Conflict: Clarity Over Comfort

We often think conflict means something is wrong spiritually. However, history shows that conflict, when handled with our "Thinking Brain," actually creates clarity. Take our famous namesake Martin Luther. He had a massive public disagreement with his mentor, Andreas von Karlstadt. Karlstadt was Luther’s "Academic Papa"—the man who gave him his doctorate.

Their fight wasn't just about theology; it was a struggle for independence. Luther had to separate himself from his "Papa" to find his own voice. This painful process helped Luther move past the "lizard brain" urge to simply win an argument and instead use his "Thinking Brain" to define the core truths of Grace. When handled well, conflict is a fuel for spiritual growth.

Conclusion: The Courage to Be God’s Offspring

Your reptilian brain is a great tool for staying alive, but it’s a terrible tool for defining your worth. In the book of Acts, some people called Paul a "babbler"—and that’s exactly what your survival instincts are when they try to tell you who you are. You aren't defined by how useful you are to others or how well you please a stressed-out system.

You are defined by the "Divine Breath" within you. You are God's offspring. Reclaiming your identity takes the courage to treat your soul as sacred ground and refusing to let your animal instincts drive your spiritual life.

The question is: Are you merely reacting to survive, or are you responding from the sacred ground of who you truly are?

The Gold Reveal: More Beautiful for Having Been Broken

In the house where I grew up, my mother had a set of china that was the pride and joy of our dining room, particularly on special days like Easter. It wasn’t an expensive inheritance or something she bought at a high-end department. My mom actually collected it, piece by piece, from the inside of laundry soap boxes.

By the time she was done, she had eighteen full place settings. Now, if you took this plate to an appraiser, they’d tell you it wasn't "valuable" in the way the world usually counts value. It was just simple ceramic. But to me and my family, this china is priceless. It represents years of my mother’s hard work, her care for our family, and the hundreds of meals we shared around our table.

I still remember the day I broke one of the large serving pieces. I can still hear that sharp, sickening crack as it hit the floor. My heart just sank. I felt an immediate rush of shame—the feeling that I had ruined something that could never be replaced. In my head, that piece was now "trash" because it was no longer perfect. I tossed the shards, pretending it never happened. Because, in our world, once something is broken, we usually think its story is over. 

That feeling of a world shattering—of something precious falling apart—is exactly where the Easter story begins. It doesn't start with a celebration, but in a graveyard, in the dark, with a broken heart.

Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene went to the tomb and saw that the stone had been removed from the entrance. So she came running to Simon Peter and the other disciple, the one Jesus loved, and said, “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we don’t know where they have laid him!”

So Peter and the other disciple started for the tomb. Both were running, but the other disciple outran Peter and reached the tomb first. He bent over and looked in at the strips of linen lying there but did not go in. Then Simon Peter arrived and went into the tomb. He saw the strips of linen lying there, as well as the cloth that had been wrapped around Jesus’ head. The cloth was still lying in its place, separate from the linen. Finally the other disciple, who had reached the tomb first, also went inside. He saw and believed. (They still did not understand from Scripture that Jesus had to rise from the dead.) Then the disciples went back to where they were staying.

Now Mary stood outside the tomb crying. As she wept, she bent over to look into the tomb and saw two angels in white, seated where Jesus’ body had been, one at the head and the other at the foot. They asked her, “Woman, why are you crying?” “They have taken my Lord away,” she said, “and I don’t know where they have laid him.” At this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not realize that it was Jesus. He asked her, “Woman, why are you crying? Who is it you are looking for?”

Thinking he was the gardener, she said, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will get him.” Jesus said to her, “Mary.” She turned toward him and cried out in Aramaic, “Rabboni!” (which means “Teacher”). Jesus said, “Do not hold on to me, for I have not yet ascended to the Father. Go instead to my brothers and tell them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’” Mary Magdalene went to the disciples with the news: “I have seen the Lord!” And she told them that he had said these things to her.

Over the last several weeks, we’ve been talking a lot about the "wilderness." Whether we’ve been here every Sunday or just navigating the ups and downs of life, we all know what the wilderness feels like. It’s that place of exhaustion, of fear, and of wondering if the broken pieces of our lives - or of our world - can ever really be put back together. 

At the very beginning of this Lenten season, on Ash Wednesday, we did something symbolic: we took a piece of pottery and shattered it right here. We didn't sweep it up immediately, but sat with its brokenness, acknowledging that in this life, things break. Dreams break. Health breaks. Relationships break. Cultures break. 

And for the last forty days, those shards have been out of sight. In the "wilderness" of the mending process, there is often a long period of silence. It’s the time when the glue is drying, when the Master is working in the quiet, and when it feels like nothing is happening at all. We often mistake that silence for abandonment. We think that because we are still in pieces, God has just moved on.

But while we were waiting, that broken piece was undergoing a transformation through an ancient Japanese art called Kintsugi.

Kintsugi literally means "to join with gold." It’s a tradition that teaches us that mending something doesn't mean we must hide damage. Most of us try to live with "invisible" repairs—we want to look like we’ve never struggled, like the floor never met the china. But Kintsugi is based on a refusal to discard.

In our "throwaway" culture, we get rid of what is cracked. I did that with that broken piece of my mom’s china. But, in kintsugi, a master mender doesn't see trash in the shards, but a history worth honoring. They don't use clear glue to disguise the fracture; they use gold to highlight it. They make the history of the break the most beautiful part of the vessel, because a piece that has been broken and mended is more resilient than one that was never tested at all.

This vessel has been mended to look transformed. The cracks are no longer signs of shame; they are seams of gold. When we begin to look at God as a Master Artist, we begin to understand that the broken parts of our lives aren't the end of the story—they are actually the exact spot where God begins to build something beautiful and new.

On that early Easter morning in the garden, we see this process happening - not to a vase, but to a person.

Mary Magdalene stands at that tomb as a shattered vessel. Completely crushed by her grief. When she finally looks into the tomb, she sees signs that something has clearly changed—the empty space, the head cloth "rolled up in a place by itself,” and the two angels seated at both ends of the tomb. But an empty tomb and folded linens, and even two angels cannot mend a broken heart. They are just evidence, perhaps, of a miracle, but they aren't the Mender himself.

Mary is still in pieces until she hears a voice. Jesus stands before her and speaks one word: "Mary."

In calling her name, Jesus starts the mending process of her life. That one word is the "gold" that flows into the cracks of her heart. By speaking her name, He isn't just proving He is alive; He is stepping into her broken history to begin the work of making her whole.

Mary’s brokenness doesn't just vanish; it is transfigured. She becomes the first person to see the ultimate "Gold Reveal." When she looks at Jesus, she doesn't see a man who has erased the last three days. She sees that the wounded human being—the one who was broken on the cross—is the wounded human being now glorified.

Just like the gold seams in the Kintsugi pottery, the scars on His hands and His side are still there, but they aren't signs of defeat anymore. They are the most luminous, beautiful part of who He is. He is the Master Mender who carries His own mended history into the light.

This is the story of redemption. Of our redemption. Not some mechanical process or a concept we have to figure out; but a living relationship that begins the moment He calls your name.

Today is the "Gold Reveal."

If you’re here today and you feel like the pieces of your life aren’t quite fitting together—look at Mary. We spend so much of our energy trying to convince the world that we are unbreakable. We hide our regrets, we mask our grief, and we try to glue ourselves back together with clear, invisible adhesive so no one can see the cracks.

But the Gospel tells us that we don't have to live that way. God is a Maker, not a factory. A factory wants everything to look identical, sterile, and interchangeable. But a Maker looks at a shattered person and sees a masterpiece in the making. God doesn't love you in spite of your history. God loves you with your history. The gold only exists because there was once a crack. The light can only shine through because there was once a break.

The story, though, doesn’t end in the garden. When Jesus mends Mary, He doesn't tell her to stay at the tomb and admire the repair. He tells her to go. He sends her back to the others, not as a perfect woman who never suffered, but as a mended woman, the first apostle, who has seen the Lord.

As you leave this morning, you are carrying your own "Gold Reveal" out into a world that is also in pieces. You are going back to homes, workplaces, and neighborhoods that are full of people trying to hide their own shards. They are exhausted from trying to look "perfect" while they feel like they are falling apart.

Do not worry about hiding your cracks. Do not be ashamed of the wilderness you’ve walked through. When the world sees your scars, let them see the gold of the Resurrected Jesus shining through the seams. Let them see that you aren't just "fixed"—but that you are being transformed. Let your life be the evidence that the Master Mender is still at work.

Because like my mother’s soap-box china, you are of infinite value—not because you’ve avoided the breaking, but because of the Living One who knows your name and has held your pieces in His hands.

You are being mended. You are being called by name. And through Him, you are more beautiful for having been broken.

Alleluia! Christ is risen.

Christ is risen indeed. Alleluia!

Preached April 5, 2026, at Rejoice Lutheran Church, Clearwater, MN.

Easter 1, Resurrection of Our Lord 

The Glory of the Shattered Shell

Imagine, for a moment, that you are a single grain of wheat. You are perfect, polished, and entirely intact. Your golden shell is hard and protective, keeping you safe from the wind, the birds, and the damp, dark uncertainty of the soil. From the outside, you look like a success. You have managed to keep yourself "together." But there is a silent tragedy in your safety. As long as you remain whole, you are utterly alone. You are a monument to yourself, but you are a graveyard for the life locked inside you. To stay "together" is to stay small; to be "shattered" is the only way to feed a hungry world.

This is the paradox at the heart of our two Gospel texts today - the first from chapter 12, which we heard at the beginning of our worship. And a second text from chapter 19, which we’ll hear in just a moment. The paradox begins with a group of Greeks, who we meet in chapter 12. 

We wrestled a bit this past Tuesday in our Caribou conversation about exactly who these Greeks were. From the context - it would seem as though they are Greek-speaking Jews. Part of the diaspora - the Jews who had fled Jerusalem due to Roman imperialism and persecution. And the destruction of the temple in 70 CE. Keep in mind that this gospel was actually written after the temple was destroyed - some 60 years after Christ.

Or, were these actually ethnic Greeks? Gentiles who had come to Jerusalem because, perhaps, the word about this man Jesus was getting out - particularly after he had raised Lazarus from the dead. In our Tuesday morning conversation, I landed on the side of these being diasporan Jews--Greek-speaking Jews, returning from far away to celebrate Passover. I was wrong. Let me show you how I figured that out.

When we look at this text in the Greek, there are two possibilities. One is that this word is Hellēnistai, which would mean that these were Greek-speaking Jews of the diaspora.  The other possibility is that the word is Hellēnes, meaning ethnic Greeks. Gentiles. Which word do you suppose I found? 

That’s right. A look at the original language tells us that these were ethnic Greeks, Gentiles who had come to see Jesus. Why is this important? 

Well, when Jesus arrives in Jerusalem, these ethnic Greeks - these Gentiles - approach the disciples with a simple, but world-shifting, request: “Sir, we wish to seek Jesus.” When this message reaches Jesus, he doesn’t give a lecture or perform a miracle. Instead, he gives this rather odd response. He speaks of biology. He says that the hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified, but he defines that glory through the lens of a seed. Jesus recognizes that their arrival is a signal that the harvest is becoming too big for one village, or one nation, to contain. As long as he remains “intact” as a local teacher in Galilee, the life he carries remains confined. For his life - for his fullness of life - to reach the Greeks, the Romans, and eventually us, the “seed” has to fall. The shell has to break.

It is the brutal reality of this “shattering” that we hear now in our second gospel text for the day, from John, chapter 19.

"So they took Jesus, and carrying the cross by himself he went out to what is called The Place of the Skull, which in Hebrew is called Golgotha. There they crucified him and with him two others, one on either side, with Jesus between them. Pilate also had an inscription written and put on the cross. It read, 'Jesus of Nazareth, the King of the Jews.' Many of the Jews read this inscription because the place where Jesus was crucified was near the city, and it was written in Hebrew, in Latin, and in Greek. Then the chief priests of the Jews said to Pilate, 'Do not write, "The King of the Jews," but, "This man said, I am King of the Jews."' Pilate answered, 'What I have written I have written.'" --John 19:16b-22 (NRSVue)

We often read this as a moment of pure suffering. And, make no mistake, it is.

But through the lens of the grain, it is the moment of ultimate relinquishment. We see the "shattering" in the weight of that cross and the piercing of Jesus's body. In the eyes of the world, this is a scene of total defeat where the seed is being crushed into the dust. Yet, look at the detail of that inscription. It is written in Hebrew, Latin, and Greek. This is the divine answer to those Greek seekers who came knocking in chapter 12. The shattering of Jesus’s physical body is the breaking of the shell that will allow the Spirit to pour out into every language and every culture. In that moment, the boundaries of Israel are breached forever. The Seed dies to its singular, local identity so that a global family can sprout from the soil of Calvary.

Sometimes in my sermon preparations, I go down rabbit holes. Do you ever do that? Most often they are a waste of time. But, this week, I stumbled upon a YouTube video (You know how I love YouTube!) that captured this text incredibly well. Watch it here.

This movement - this breaking of the seed shell - reveals the profound difference between sacrifice and surrender. We often think of the cross as a sacrifice—an active, heroic choice to give something up. And it was. Sacrifice is the ticket to the doorway. But surrender is the posture that keeps us open. When Jesus bows his head, we see his internal yielding of a soul that has stopped clinging onto its own life. To the seed, the moist earth feels like a cold grave; but to the plant, that same earth is the only source of life. The difference is surrender. When we surrender, we stop wrestling life into submission and finally allow the Creator to reshape us.

The shattering of the One led to the healing of the Many. Because the Seed was willing to die, the Gentile expansion exploded across the earth, from the Hebrew-speaking Jews, to the Latin-speaking Romans, to the Greek-speaking Greeks, to us, English speakers that we are. 

The shattering of the seed - of Jesus - turned a local movement into a universal hope. Into our universal hope. This is not just a historical event for us to remember; it is a biological and spiritual reality we are invited to inhabit. 

We all have "shells"—identities we’ve built, reputations we guard, and plans we hold onto with white knuckles. We spend our lives terrified of the "fall," afraid that if our plans break or our reputations shatter or our identities are fractured, we are finished. But the Gospel tells us that we are not being destroyed; we are being planted. We are moving from the "prison" of self-control into the "grace" of abundant growth.

So, if you feel "shattered" today—if a career has ended, a relationship has failed, or the person you thought you were has been stripped away—do not mistake the breaking of the shell for the end of your story. Like the Greeks at the Passover, the world is waiting to see the life of Christ that inhabits you. But, they cannot see it through a polished, "together" exterior. They see it through the cracks. They see it in the fruit that the Spirit grows in us only after the fall. 

May we have the courage to release our grip, to open our hands from a posture of defense to one of receiving, and to trust that the shattering of our shell is, in fact, the birth of the harvest. May God grant it. Amen.

Preached March 29, 2026, at Rejoice Lutheran Church, Clearwater, MN. 

Palm/Passion Sunday

Text: John 19:16b-22 NRSVue

The "Tiberieum" Inscription: Why Jesus’s Claim to Be the "Son of God" Was a Political Death Sentence

The Stone in the Theater

In the summer of 1961, beneath the relentless sun of the Mediterranean coast, a team of Italian archaeologists was excavating the Byzantine theater at Caesarea Maritima. As they worked among the ruins of the fourth-century structure, they overturned a seemingly unremarkable piece of limestone being used as a step. On its face, they discovered a weathered Latin inscription that sent a shockwave through the worlds of history and biblical studies. It was the "Pilate Stone"—the only contemporaneous archaeological evidence confirming the existence and title of Pontius Pilate, the Prefect of Judea. 

To casual observers like most of us, it is a crumb of history. To a historian, though, it is the key to a political thriller. The stone reveals that the trial of Jesus in the Gospel of John was not just a localized religious dispute over fine points of Jewish law; it was a high-stakes collision between two rival "Sons of God." This artifact, and the temple it once adorned, explains why Jesus’s claim to divine authority was viewed not as a theological one-off, but as a direct act of imperial treason.

There Was Only Room for One "Son of God"

The first line of the inscription contains a word that provides the crucial context for Pilate’s psychological state during the trial: Tiberieum. This refers to a temple Pilate himself dedicated to the Emperor Tiberius. Pilate was not a neutral administrator; he was the "theological architect" of the Roman Imperial Cult in Judea, an active promoter of the worship of Caesar.

In the Roman world of the early first century, the previous emperor, Augustus, was officially regarded as having "ascended" to the gods. As a result, Tiberius, who succeeded him, was worshipped throughout the empire as the Divi Filius—the "Son of God." By building the Tiberieum, Pilate was connecting this imperial theology to his own provincial governance.

When the religious leaders brought Jesus to the Praetorium, they knew exactly which nerve to strike. According to John 19:7-8, they argued that Jesus must die because "he has claimed to be the Son of God." The text records a visceral reaction: "Now when Pilate heard this, he was more afraid than ever." This was not a spiritual awe; it was the political terror of a man who realized he was harboring a direct competitor to the divine title of the man who signed his paychecks. In Pilate’s world, there was only room for one Divi Filius.

The "Friend of Caesar" Trap

The religious leaders, sensing Pilate’s hesitation to execute a man he found innocent, engaged in a brilliant and ruthless tactical shift. They reframed a theological charge (blasphemy) into a secular one (sedition). They cornered him using a lethal political title: “If you release this man, you are no friend of Caesar. Everyone who claims to be a king sets himself against Caesar” (John 19:12).

The status of "Friend of Caesar" was a precarious political honor; to lose it was to invite an imperial investigation, exile, or death. Pilate’s power was systemically and structurally  incentivized toward self-preservation. He was already struggling with the "persistent thorn" of Jerusalem’s volatile population and could not risk a report of disloyalty reaching Rome.

The scene reaches a peak of dark irony when the chief priests—the guardians of Israel’s monotheistic belief system—proclaim, “We have no king but Caesar.” In their pursuit of a state-sanctioned execution, they betray the very essence of their faith, pledging ultimate obedience to the occupying empire. This stripped Pilate of his judicial independence, forcing him to sacrifice justice on the altar of his own career.

Power as Control vs. Authority as Service

The trial serves as a laboratory for two competing models of power. Pilate represents a "zero-sum" political model where power is equated with domination, coercion, and control. It is a "cannibalistic" power that seeks more for itself by hollowing out its subjects. We see this in Pilate's attempt to intimidate Jesus: “Do you not know that I have power to release you and power to crucify you?”

Jesus’s response collapses this hierarchy: “You would have no power over me unless it had been given you from above” (John 19:11). While Pilate likely heard "from above" as a reference to the Emperor or the Senate, Jesus was asserting a divine relationship that redefined the nature of authority.

Contrast Pilate’s self-preserving violence with the "generative" authority of Jesus. In John 13, Jesus’s awareness of his divine power does not lead him to a throne, but to the floor. He dons a towel and washes the feet of his disciples—his inner circle of students. This is a "non-zero-sum" model: Jesus’s authority is fulfilled not by depriving others of power, but by sharing it and fostering the well-being, or shalom, of those he serves. Pilate’s power is a weapon used to maintain order; Jesus’s authority is a gift used to create life.

The Artifact’s Humble Afterlife (The Step in the Theater)

The physical Pilate Stone tells a final, silent story of what happens to imperial "divinity." Archaeologists have traced its "three lives":

1. The Dedication: It began as a prestigious dedicatory stone in the Tiberieum temple, honoring Tiberius Caesar, the imperial "Son of God."
2. The Utility: It was later dragged from the temple and repurposed as a well-head, evidenced by a crude half-circle cut into its side.
3. The Step: Finally, by the 4th century, it was used as a common step in the theater at Caesarea Maritima.

This is the ultimate irony: when the stone was found, it was face-down. The inscription bearing the name of the man who killed Christ, and the name of the "Son of God" he served, had been placed so that the public would literally walk on the words. The empire that seemed absolute and eternal during the trial of Jesus ended up being used as construction rubble for a theater’s walkway.

Modern Echoes: The Two-Handed Reign

This ancient collision resonates in our own civic life through the theological framework of God’s "two-handed reign," a theological understanding that Martin Luther first developed.

• The Left Hand (Law): God acts through civic order and government to sustain society and seek shalom (the well-being of all). This power is a gift, but it is prone to the "Pilate failure"—when the pursuit of order becomes a tool for self-preservation or the oppression of the marginalized.
• The Right Hand (Gospel): God acts through grace and the transformative power of the Word to re-create hearts.

When these two hands are improperly fused into "Christian nationalism," the result is a distorted form of patriotism that crosses into idolatry. By claiming that a specific nation or political structure is divinely privileged, we turn God into a "mascot for the state." The claim that "Jesus is Lord" is both a theological and a political assertion; it means that no government, nation, or official can ever command a Christian’s primary loyalty. Like the "Son of God" on trial, our ultimate allegiance prevents us from treating any earthly power as absolute.

Conclusion: A Functionary to be Pitied

Ultimately, sources do not portray Pontius Pilate as a towering villain, but as something more haunting: a "pitiable bureaucratic functionary." He was a man who saw the truth but transmitted injustice as a necessity that was predetermined simply because he was too cowardly to risk his status. He represents the danger of institutional power when it is disconnected from ethics and focused solely on its own survival.

The stone in the theater reminds us that the monuments we build to our own power are destined to become the steps of the next generation. As we participate in civic life, we are called to move beyond Pilate’s zero-sum game of self-preservation. We must evaluate all authority by whether it serves the common good or merely protects those in control.

In our own pursuit of political "safety" or professional self-preservation, we must ask: Whose voice are we stepping on today?