From 8
Who Dares Throw the First Stone?
A large group of people comes along, pushing a woman ahead of them. She's done something forbidden, and by the rules of that time she can be stoned for it.
They put her in the middle of the circle. Everyone can see her. And then they ask : so, what do you think?
He says nothing. He bends down and writes something in the sand with his finger. What he wrote isn't recorded. Nobody knows.
They keep pressing him. Then he stands up and says one sentence: whichever of you has never done anything wrong may throw the first stone.
And then he bends down again, and keeps writing.
It goes quiet. And one by one they walk away. The oldest ones first.
For today
Does this sound familiar?
Someone starts talking about a classmate on the playground. A second comment follows. Then a third, with a nasty joke on top. Within two minutes almost everyone's joined in.
You say something too. Not the worst thing — you're smarter, you say something funny. Everyone laughs. That feels good.
That night in bed you think about it again. On your own, without all that laughter around it, your little sentence suddenly sounds very different.
The strange thing about a group is that no one feels responsible. Everyone thinks: I only did a small bit. Added up, it wasn't a small bit at all.
Can't quite manage a throw? Just say so. Hand over the biggest stone you've got!
Take a look in the mirror:
- What was the last thing you passed on about someone, when you could just as easily have kept it to yourself?
- What does someone know about you that you'd rather not have repeated all over the playground?
- Who could stop you when things go too far? And who could you stop?
Mirror line
I'd love to say I only said that one joke, but I've learned a group never makes you feel responsible — even when you were.
From 26 and 22
The Night Everyone Ran
knows something terrible is about to happen. At the last meal with his friends, he says it out loud: soon all of you will leave me alone.
nearly gets angry. *Not me. Never.*
Later that evening Jesus sits in a garden and he's afraid. Really afraid. He asks his three closest friends to stay awake with him. When he comes back, they're asleep. He wakes them. When he comes back again, they're asleep again.
Then the soldiers arrive. And then they all run away.
Only Peter follows at a distance, all the way to a courtyard where a fire is burning. Someone looks at him and says: weren't you with him? *No.* A little later, again. *I don't know that man.* And a third time. *I don't know what you're talking about.*
Then a rooster crows. Peter gets up, walks outside, and cries.
What happens next is the worst part. Jesus is killed. His friends aren't there; a few women stand watching from a distance. He's laid in a tomb and a stone is rolled in front of it.
And on the third day, that tomb is empty.
For today
Does this sound familiar?
You have a friend from way back. You must have played together a thousand times. But at school he doesn't belong to the group you're part of now.
And then suddenly he's standing next to you on the playground, where everyone can see. Someone asks, laughing: is that a friend of yours? And you shrug and say: not really.
You haven't lied, you tell yourself. You've just made it a bit smaller. But he heard it, and you know he heard it, and it sits in your stomach for the rest of the day.
did it three times in one evening. And he was truly the best friend there was.
Admit I actually hang out with him? I'll pass. Then they'd all know I'm a loser too!
Take a look in the mirror:
- When did you make a friendship smaller because other people were around?
- When did someone need you and you fell asleep, or looked the other way for a moment?
- Who would stand by you if things really went wrong? Do they know that about you?
Mirror line
I'd love to say he wasn't really my friend, but I've learned I usually only say that when I'm scared myself — and that's a very ordinary reason.
From 20
Dare to Ask
After everything that's happened, the friends are sitting together behind a locked door. They're afraid.
isn't there that time. When he comes back, everyone talks over each other: we've seen him.
Thomas doesn't believe it. He says: I want to see it myself. I want to feel it with my own hands. Otherwise, no.
That's a brave thing to say, because he's completely on his own with it. All his friends are saying something different from him.
A week later he is there. And then he hears: come here. Look. Feel.
It doesn't say whether Thomas actually did that. Only that he stopped doubting.
He's ended up with a nickname that doesn't really make sense: doubting Thomas. When really he was the only one who said out loud what he actually thought.
For today
Does this sound familiar?
A story goes around school. Someone did something, or something's about to happen, and everyone's sure of it. Ask where they heard it, and someone says: heard it from Sam. And Sam heard it from someone else.
If you then ask “are you sure?”, they look at you like you're being annoying. Nodding along is easier.
And then that other side of it. You're in class and you don't understand the maths problem. You look around and no one puts their hand up. So neither do you. Afterwards it turns out half the class didn't get it either.
Whoever asks a question is usually asking it for more people than just themselves.
Ask questions? Waste of time. I'll just nod along with everything and call him the weird one!
Take a look in the mirror:
- When did you nod along while you actually didn't believe it?
- What don't you dare ask in class? What would really happen if you did?
- Who around you asks the questions you don't dare ask?
Mirror line
I'd love to just nod along without understanding a thing, but I've learned that whoever dares to ask a question is usually asking it for more people than just themselves.
