The Lie and the Scapegoat

Last time, we ended with a question: Who lives in you, and why?

If you've sat with that question, you may have noticed that the answers are not simple. Names come to mind—parents, friends, teachers, rivals. But also moments. Memories. Wounds. There are voices that still speak in us, shaping our sense of self and our patterns of desire. Some voices comfort. Some accuse. Some seduce. Some betray. Some have faded. Others grow louder in times of stress or loss. Some conflict with others, pulling us in multiple and different directions—sometimes painfully.

What holds all these voices together? Our composite model: that layered internal structure of remembered relationships, models, and rivalries. It is not static. It is always in motion—subtle adjustments here, deeper fractures there—sometimes harmonizing, sometimes fragmenting.

But among these voices, the Lie often takes root.

The Structure of the Lie

M. Scott Peck, in People of the Lie, offers a penetrating observation: “A predominant characteristic, however, of the behavior of those I call evil is scapegoating.” Peck connects evil to the need to shift blame, to externalize guilt, to project inner disorder onto an outer target. In mimetic terms, the Lie is not only an intellectual falsehood; it is an affective distortion, a misalignment of our inner world. It always serves to justify the self at the expense of another.

And when the Lie fully takes hold, it seeks a victim.

The scapegoat is not chosen because they are guilty. They are chosen because they fall within the acceptable categories of scapegoats—those individuals, groups, or situations that can be plausibly and safely blamed for what has gone wrong. The scapegoat must be believable as the cause, and crucially, unable to 'hit back.' This is the kind of explanation that elicits widespread nods of agreement and reassurance: 'Ah yes, I see, it's not your fault.' While I’ve explored examples of these dynamics elsewhere, I’ve chosen not to include a full illustration here to preserve the focus of this piece. A future post will examine how the Lie expresses itself through culturally sanctioned scapegoat categories and the personal narratives we construct around them.

Gil Bailie has noted that the power of scapegoating myths lies precisely in their ability to generate that internal response—“Yes, of course!”—before we even pause to question them. This is the hallmark of a truly effective scapegoat: when the explanation feels so obvious, so emotionally satisfying, that it evades scrutiny altogether. (See Gil Bailie’s recorded lectures Reflections on Biblical Texts – The Poetry of Truth for more on this dynamic in the Gospel of Luke.)

This echoes the moment in Luke’s Gospel when the crowd is presented with a choice between Jesus and Barabbas. Barabbas fits the profile of an acceptable scapegoat—an insurrectionist who at least makes sense as a source of disturbance. But instead, the crowd calls for Jesus to be crucified, despite Pilate’s repeated insistence on His innocence. As Gil Bailie notes, this is not merely a political drama but a spiritual unveiling: the innocence of the true victim is placed alongside the rationalizations of the crowd. In choosing Barabbas, the crowd does not reject scapegoating—they affirm it, clinging to the myth that still offers them a semblance of order. What they cannot tolerate is the exposure of the mechanism itself. That exposure begins with Christ—and continues, wherever scapegoating is made visible.

Girard saw mythology as the cultural memory of scapegoating events—retold in a way that conceals the innocence of the victim and justifies the crowd. Over time, these stories become entrenched, forming what we might call group mythologies: narratives that encode and sanctify acceptable targets. These mythologies are not limited to ancient cultures. Each society, and even each individual, constructs variations on them. In families, in institutions, in nations, we find recurring figures of blame—always different, yet always familiar.

This is how scapegoating gains momentum and staying power: not just through one-off acts, but by being mythologized. The categories of scapegoats become codified. And crucially, the less a scapegoat is visible as a scapegoat, the more effective the act becomes. The entire mechanism depends on its invisibility—on the belief that the victim truly is guilty or deserving. This makes them useful not just for the individual in crisis, but for the collective in conflict. Mythology provides the shared language, the moral justification, and the emotional script for who can be blamed and why.

Yet there came a moment in history when the scapegoat did not remain silent. Ever since Christ, whose passion, death, and resurrection unveiled the innocence of the victim and exposed the violence of the crowd, cultural scapegoating has become increasingly visible. Its former effectiveness is undermined. What once worked invisibly, reliably, is now suspect. The victim’s voice begins to be heard.

But this growing awareness carries its own risk. As scapegoats are rendered less effective—less able to relieve mimetic tension—we are more exposed to that tension. The default release valve no longer works. What happens when we cannot offload blame as easily? The danger of unmediated mimetic rivalry increases. We are left with a culture more aware of scapegoating, but also more vulnerable to its consequences when we still attempt it and it fails.

Why Scapegoating Works

René Girard teaches that scapegoating works because it restores temporary order. A group unified in violence against a scapegoat feels peace—for a time. The tensions of mimetic rivalry, which had built toward chaos, find release in the sacrifice of a surrogate victim.

But scapegoating does not begin at the level of the crowd. It begins in the heart of the individual. As Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn wrote, "the line separating good and evil passes not through states, nor between classes, nor between political parties either—but right through every human heart."

Each of us forms our composite model in relation to others. When that model fractures—when rivalries, betrayals, or trauma cause deep contradictions—we face a choice: to confront and integrate the truth, or to bury it with the Lie.

The Lie is often not chosen outright—it is inhabited reflexively.

The Lie gives us relief. It spares us the agony of facing our own complicity, our own mimetic entanglements. But it sets us on a path—a reflex, almost—toward identifying a scapegoat. This isn't typically a deliberate calculation or act of "market research." It's more like an instinctive movement of the fractured self, seeking equilibrium by offloading tension elsewhere. The scapegoat emerges not from clear-eyed strategy but from a deep desire for relief, rooted in patterns we often don't recognize until much later.

Sin and the Scapegoat

It's tempting, when reading Peck or Girard, to equate scapegoating with sin. There’s overlap, certainly—especially if we define sin not only as a violation of moral law but as a rupture in relationship: with God, with others, with the truth of ourselves. Most scapegoating is sin, though in some cases it may be more a matter of irresponsibility or a way of avoiding growth. I'm far from certain that all sin is a form of scapegoating, though I find that an appealing and possibly fruitful hypothesis.

Scapegoating is a particularly relational form of rupture. It shifts blame, distorts justice, and constructs peace on the exclusion of another. That is why it feels so much like sin—and why it is often caused by sin. I would go so far as to say it is the symptom of sin.

But scapegoating is not the sum total of sin. Some sins isolate, while scapegoating binds people together. Some sins destroy communion outright; scapegoating creates a false or counterfeit communion. It is a sacrificial shortcut to unity, one that bypasses truth and mercy.

Peck’s insight—that evil tends to run in families—reminds us that scapegoating becomes a habit of sin. A mimetic habit. One that parents can teach without words, and children can inherit in silence. It becomes part of the inner architecture of the composite model: a learned response to tension, contradiction, and guilt. And these habits of sin have the benefit of being easy, available, and (temporarily) effective.

"the world moves
In appetency, on its metalled ways
Of time past and time future."
— T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets

After the Fall, this pattern of scapegoating became the default mode of human behavior. It is the immediate impulse when faced with shame, failure, or exposure. When God confronted Adam and Eve in the garden after they ate the forbidden fruit, neither confessed freely. Adam blamed Eve—"The woman whom you gave to be with me, she gave me fruit"—and Eve blamed the serpent. This is not just a moment of evasion; it is a primal instance of mimetic deflection. Already, the search begins for a plausible explanation, an acceptable scapegoat—one that can bear the weight of failure without retaliating.

From this moment on, the temptation to scapegoat runs like a current through human history, reinforced by its seeming effectiveness and the relief it provides. These are the "metalled ways" of human reaction—pre-laid tracks of deflection and blame that offer quick passage away from shame. To resist them is not merely to pause, but to exert the effort of spiritual derailment, of stepping off the expected and easy route to find a path that leads toward truth, reconciliation, and ultimately, transformation.

If scapegoating can no longer expel our tensions (and the cost was always too high), then healing must begin where we least expect it: in the re-formation of desire, the restoration of memory, and the courage to let go of the Lie.

So while scapegoating is not synonymous with sin, it is a ritualized response to the presence of sin—ours or others’. And the longer it remains unexposed, the more it requires.

What Comes Next

In the next post, we will turn to healing. How do memory, trauma, and conversion interact with the composite model? What does it mean to change—not simply by mimicking the nearest model, but by genuinely re-forming desire?

And most importantly: how can we resist the Lie? To resist the Lie is to return to that question—not with shame, but with hope. Who lives in you now, and why?