Is cancel culture a modern witch hunt?Er cancel culture en moderne heksejagt?

Tonight the bonfires are lit all over Denmark.

It's Sankt Hans, Midsummer's Eve. We eat sausages. We sing the midsummer song. The witch goes up onto the top of the bonfire, the fire is lit, and we gather around the good old tradition.

It's cozy. But it's also a culture of remembrance, even if we've forgotten it.

Because there was a time when it wasn't straw dolls that went up. It was people. Many were burned across Europe while the witch hunts raged. Mostly women. Almost all innocent. Almost always after group pressure and a crowd of people who had made up their minds in advance.

And this year I've been thinking: we remember this with bonfires. But are we perhaps also doing it again, just in digital form?

That's the question I'd like us to wrestle with today.

What witch burning actually was!

It wasn't just medieval foolishness. It was something far more recognizable.

Massive public shaming. The whole town showed up.

Driven by fear. Often during plague, famine, or war, when a scapegoat had to be found.

Without a fair process. The evidence was rumors, accusations, or "tests" rigged in advance.

Permanent. Once the flames were out, there was no way back.

Religiously legitimized. The church often cooked up the theology that made the whole thing acceptable.

That last part we as the church must never forget. We led the way with judgment where we were meant to show mercy and grace.

The comparison to our own time

Cancel culture isn't flames on a bonfire. But look at the elements:

Massive public shaming. A single post can reach millions in an afternoon.

Driven by fear. Fear of losing status, job, social relationships.

Without a fair process. The accusation is often the evidence.

Permanent. The internet doesn't forget.

Morally legitimized. "He deserved it." "She did something terrible."

The difference is not insignificant. No one dies physically in cancel culture. That's a blessing we shouldn't downplay.

But socially and professionally? People lose jobs, friends, the chance to come back, their name in the public square. For some it ends in depression or suicide. For many it ends in isolation.

The new thing isn't new

It's easy to think cancel culture is a new phenomenon, something the internet invented. It isn't.

It's an old impulse in human beings. The crowd against the one. The moral self-righteousness that can't tolerate resistance. The need for a scapegoat.

It's the same impulse Jesus met.

The original cancel scene

John chapter 8 is one of the most striking scenes in the whole Bible.

A woman is dragged before Jesus. She's been "caught in the act of adultery" (John 8:3). Where's the man? Never mentioned. Already there, something is wrong.

The scribes have Scripture on their side:

"The Torah says that such women are to be stoned to death. What do you say?" (John 8:5)

Notice two things.

What they say is accurate. She has in fact sinned.

And their reference to the law is accurate too. Stoning was prescribed.

They're not factually wrong. They just have wrong hearts. Their rightness is poisoned by their motives:

"They were trying to get him to say something they could later use against him." (John 8:6)

That's exactly the dynamic in cancel culture. People are often right about a factual detail. They're wrong in the way they use it.

What Jesus does

Jesus bends down and writes in the dust. We don't know what. Maybe it was the names of those in the crowd. Maybe it was their own sins. We don't know.

Then he straightens up:

"Let the one among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone." (John 8:7)

And then one of the most awkward moments in the Gospels:

"When they heard that, they slipped away one by one — the eldest first." (John 8:9)

The eldest first. Those who had lived the longest, and who knew themselves best.

In the end, two are left. Jesus and the woman.

"'Was there no one to condemn you?' 'No, Lord,' she answered. 'Then neither do I,' said Jesus. 'Go on your way, but from now on don't sin anymore.'" (John 8:10-11)

Two things at the same time. He didn't condemn her. And he didn't approve of what she'd done either. He said: go on your way, but from now on don't sin anymore.

That's what we as the church need to learn again.

To you who've been hung out to dry

Your pain is real. It wasn't fair. You probably weren't without fault, but you didn't deserve this either. And your identity doesn't lie in what the crowd said about you. It lies in what Jesus still says about you.

He's still writing in the dust. He's still kneeling between you and the crowd.

To all of us as the church

We must never take part in throwing people onto the bonfire, not even the digital one. Neither when they come from the left nor the right. Neither when it's about a friend or a political opponent.

We're to be the opposite. The place where a "cancelled" person, even those who actually did something wrong, can meet something other than the crowd. Truth and grace. Both. That's the whole Jesus.

When a Christian leader falls

Let me be concrete. This gets especially hard when a Christian leader falls, because then three things cross each other that aren't the same: forgiveness, community, and leadership trust.

Forgiveness must always fall immediately. That's the whole gospel. The one who repents is forgiven. There's no other biblical currency. If forgiveness doesn't come instantly, then it's not the gospel we're preaching.

Restoration to the community, being allowed to sit at the table again, is also Jesus. He ate with Peter after the denial, before Peter had done anything to earn it. That's the church's particular beauty: that you come home before you've proven anything.

But trust and full restoration to leadership ministry are not the same as forgiveness. Trust is rebuilt over time. Certain leadership tasks require conditions that may not be there again. That's not a punishment. It's care for the person, for those who were hurt, and for the congregation.

I would far rather be in a community that shows grace than in a witch-burning mob that hunts its own. The one builds God's kingdom. The other tears it down.

But grace doesn't mean everything continues as before. Grace means the person is embraced again. Not necessarily in the same role.

That's the narrow way. Where Jesus stood, and last I checked, he's still standing there.

And it starts in a very simple place, just as Jesus himself said it:

"Don't judge others, or you'll be judged yourselves. The measure you use for others will be used for you." (Matthew 7:1-2)

Tonight the bonfires burn. The witch goes up. We sing the midsummer song.

Let it remind us of something we've forgotten: the crowd is always there. It always finds someone to throw on the fire.

Jesus stood in the middle.

That's where we're to stand.

One question, before the bonfires are lit tonight:

Where in your own story has someone chosen grace over the flame?

Maybe you were the one the crowd pointed at. Maybe you were the one who stepped in between. Tell me about it — here in the comments, or confidentially in a message.

This isn't a debate to win. It's a conversation to enter together.

Happy Sankt Hans 🙏

I aften tændes bålene over hele Danmark.

Det er Skt. Hans. Vi spiser pølser. Vi synger midsommervisen. Heksen ryger op på toppen af bålet, bålet tændes, og vi samles om den gode gamle tradition.

Det er hygge. Men det er også en mindekultur, selvom vi har glemt det.

For der var en tid, hvor det ikke var halmdukker, der røg op. Det var mennesker. Mange kom på bålet i Europa, mens heksejagterne stod på. Mest kvinder. Næsten alle uskyldige. Næsten altid efter gruppepres og en flok mennesker, der havde besluttet sig på forhånd.

Og i år har jeg tænkt: vi mindes det her med bål. Men gør vi måske også det her igen, bare i digitalt format?

Det er det spørgsmål, jeg gerne vil have, at vi tager stilling til i dag.

Hvad hekseafbrænding faktisk var!

Det var ikke bare middelalder-fjolleri. Det var noget meget mere genkendeligt.

Massiv offentlig udskamning. Hele byen mødte op.

Drevet af frygt. Ofte under pest, hungersnød eller krig, hvor en syndebuk skulle findes.

Uden retfærdig proces. Beviset var rygter, anklager, eller “prøver”, der var rigget på forhånd.

Permanent. Når flammerne var slukket, var der ingen vej tilbage.

Religiøst legitimeret. Kirken bagte ofte den teologi, der gjorde det hele acceptabelt.

Det sidste skal vi som kirke aldrig glemme. Vi gik foran med dom, hvor vi skulle vise barmhjertighed og nåde.

Sammenligningen til vores tid

Cancel culture er ikke flammer på et bål. Men kig på elementerne:

Massiv offentlig udskamning. Ét opslag kan nå millioner på en eftermiddag.

Drevet af frygt. Frygt for at miste status, job, sociale relationer.

Uden retfærdig proces. Beskyldningen er ofte beviset.

Permanent. Internettet glemmer ikke.

Moralsk legitimeret. “Han fortjente det.” “Hun gjorde noget forfærdeligt.”

Forskellen er ikke ubetydelig. Ingen dør fysisk i cancel culture. Det er en velsignelse, vi ikke skal underspille.

Men socialt og professionelt? Mennesker mister job, venner, muligheden for at vende tilbage, deres navn på den offentlige plads. For nogle ender det i depression eller selvmord. For mange ender det i isolation.

Det nye er ikke nyt

Det er let at tro, at cancel culture er et nyt fænomen, noget internettet har opfundet. Det er det ikke.

Det er en gammel impuls i mennesket. Mængden mod den ene. Den moralske selvretfærdighed, der ikke kan tåle modstand. Behovet for en syndebuk.

Det er den samme impuls, Jesus mødte.

Den oprindelige cancel-scene

Johannesevangeliet kapitel 8 er en af de mest påfaldende scener i hele Bibelen.

En kvinde bliver slæbt foran Jesus. Hun er “grebet på fersk gerning i utroskab” (Joh 8,3 — BPH). Hvor er manden? Aldrig nævnt. Allerede dér er der noget galt.

De skriftlærde har skriften på deres side:

“Toraen siger, at sådanne kvinder skal stenes ihjel. Hvad siger du?” (Joh 8,5 — BPH)

Læg mærke til to ting.

Det de siger, passer. Hun har faktisk syndet.

Og deres henvisning til loven passer også. Stening var foreskrevet.

De er ikke faktuelt forkerte. De har bare forkerte hjerter. Deres rigtighed er forgiftet af deres motiver:

“De var ude på at få ham til at sige noget, som de bagefter kunne bruge imod ham.” (Joh 8,6 — BPH)

Det er præcis dynamikken i cancel culture. Folk har ofte ret om en faktuel detalje. De er forkerte i den måde, de bruger den på.

Hvad Jesus gør

Jesus bøjer sig forover og skriver i støvet. Vi ved ikke hvad. Måske var det navnene på dem i mængden. Måske var det deres egne synder. Vi ved det ikke.

Så rejser han sig:

“Den af jer, som er uden synd, skal være den første til at kaste en sten.” (Joh 8,7 — BPH)

Og så et af de mest akavede øjeblikke i evangelierne:

“Da de, der var kommet med kvinden, fik den besked, luskede de bort, den ene efter den anden – de ældste først.” (Joh 8,9 — BPH)

De ældste først. Dem der havde levet længst, og som kendte sig selv bedst.

Til sidst er der to tilbage. Jesus og kvinden.

“„Var der ingen, der fordømte dig?” „Nej, Herre,” svarede hun. „Det gør jeg heller ikke,” sagde Jesus. „Gå du blot, men synd fra nu af ikke mere.” (Joh 8,10-11 — BPH)

To ting på samme tid. Han fordømte hende ikke. Og han godkendte heller ikke det, hun havde gjort. Han sagde: gå du blot, men synd fra nu af ikke mere.

Det er det, vi som kirke har brug for at lære igen.

Til dig, der er blevet hængt ud

Din smerte er ægte. Det var ikke retfærdigt. Du var nok ikke uden fejl, men det her fortjente du heller ikke. Og din identitet ligger ikke i, hvad mængden sagde om dig. Den ligger i, hvad Jesus stadig siger om dig.

Han skriver stadig i støvet. Han knæler stadig mellem dig og mængden.

Til os alle som kirke

Vi må aldrig være med til at smide folk på bålet, heller ikke det digitale. Hverken når de kommer fra venstre eller højre. Hverken når det handler om en ven eller en politisk modstander.

Vi skal være det modsatte. Det sted, hvor en “cancelled” person, også dem der faktisk gjorde noget galt, kan møde noget andet end mængden. Sandhed og nåde. Begge dele. Det er hele Jesus.

Når en kristen leder falder

Lad mig være konkret. Det her bliver særligt svært, når en kristen leder falder, for så krydser tre ting hinanden, som ikke er det samme: tilgivelse, fællesskab og lederskabstillid.

Tilgivelse må altid falde med det samme. Det er hele evangeliet. Den der angrer, bliver tilgivet. Der findes ingen anden bibelsk valuta. Hvis ikke tilgivelsen kommer øjeblikkeligt, så er det ikke evangeliet, vi forkynder.

Genoprettelsen til fællesskabet, at få lov til at sidde med ved bordet igen, er også Jesus. Han spiste med Peter efter fornægtelsen, før Peter havde gjort noget for at fortjene det. Det er kirkens særlige skønhed: at man kommer hjem, før man har bevist noget.

Men tillid og fuld genoprettelse til lederskabstjeneste er ikke det samme som tilgivelse. Tillid genopbygges over tid. Visse lederopgaver kræver betingelser, der måske ikke er der igen. Det er ikke en straf. Det er omsorg for både personen, dem der blev såret, og menigheden.

Jeg vil meget hellere være i et fællesskab, der viser nåde, end i en heksebål-gruppe, der jager sine egne. Det ene bygger Guds rige. Det andet river det ned.

Men nåde betyder ikke, at alt fortsætter som før. Nåde betyder, at personen bliver favnet ind igen. Ikke nødvendigvis i samme rolle.

Det er den smalle vej. Hvor Jesus stod, og sidst jeg tjekkede, står han der stadig.

Og det starter et helt enkelt sted, som Jesus selv sagde det:

“Lad være med at dømme andre, ellers bliver I selv dømt. Den målestok, I anvender over for andre, vil blive anvendt over for jer.” (Matt 7,1-2 — BPH)

I aften brænder bålene. Heksen ryger op. Vi synger midsommervisen.

Lad det minde os om noget, vi har glemt: mængden er altid der. Den finder altid en at smide på bålet.

Jesus stod midt imellem.

Det er der, vi skal stå.

Et spørgsmål, før bålene tændes i aften:

Hvor i din egen historie har nogen valgt nåde frem for flammen?

Måske var du den, mængden pegede på. Måske var du den, der trådte ind imellem. Fortæl mig om det — her i kommentarerne, eller fortroligt i en besked.

Det her er ikke en debat at vinde. Det er en samtale at gå ind i sammen.

God Skt. Hans 🙏