Christianity normalized scapegoating at the civilizational level—turning the execution of a man into a metaphysical loophole. One dies so the rest can avoid reckoning. It made guilt transferable, sin exportable, responsibility something to project, not confront. From the outset, the West learned to survive not by self-examination, but by ritual blame. First Jesus takes the fall. Then Satan. Then the Jews. Then heretics, pagans, witches, the foreigner, the deviant, the revolutionary. The mechanism repeats: locate the rot outside, burn it, feel cleansed. But the sickness remains—because it was never in the scapegoat. It was in the ones who needed one.

As the empire decays, the scapegoats move closer. There's no more periphery to cast blame into—so it folds inward. The machine turns on itself: liberal Christians, evangelical Christians, black radicals, white conservatives, feminists, men, immigrants, the poor, the rich, the middle. Every faction is put on trial by another. The fantasy of external evil collapses into civil psychosis. What was once exported through war and missionary conquest now manifests as cultural self-cannibalization. The myth of salvation curdles into mutual accusation.

And still, no one dares look inward. To do so would mean tearing out the root, exposing that the entire structure was built on projection, not truth. So the West eats itself—one faction at a time—each convinced it is the righteous one.

All that endures is a blackened ruin where splintered tribes hunt each other through the wreckage, eyes wide with righteousness, mouths full of scripture, hands soaked in kin-blood.