Challenge of the Kings - and the rest of us

The Weight of the Crowd: Pontius Pilate, King Noah, and the Sway of Public Opinion

In the accounts of sacred scripture, two figures stand similarly at a crossroads of justice and power, each poised to release an innocent man yet ultimately yielding to the clamor of the crowd. Pontius Pilate, the Roman governor of Judea, and King Noah, a Nephite ruler from the Covenant of Christ/Book of Mormon, faced parallel dilemmas: Pilate with Jesus Christ, and Noah with the prophet Abinadi. Both men, vested with kingship-like authority, wavered under the pressure of public opinion, choosing short-term expediency over long-term righteousness. Their stories reveal a striking similarity in human nature—the tendency to bend before the cries of the masses, even when the stakes are eternal—and offer a profound lesson on the frailty of leadership when divorced from moral courage.

 

In parallel scenarios, Pontius Pilate’s encounter with Jesus Christ, as recounted in the New Testament (Matthew 12:17-33 RE, John 10:1-16 RE), is a study in conflicted authority. As governor, Pilate held the power of life and death over his subjects. When Jesus stood before him, accused by the Jewish leaders of claiming kingship, Pilate found no fault in Him. “I find no fault in this man,” he declared (Luke 13:15 RE). He sought alternatives—offering to release Jesus as part of a Passover custom, suggesting a lesser punishment of scourging, even sending Him to Herod. Yet, the crowd’s relentless shouts of “Crucify him!” (Mark 7:21 RE) drowned out his instincts. Fearing a riot and the potential loss of his precarious standing with Rome, Pilate washed his hands of the matter, condemning an innocent man to the cross.

Across the ocean and centuries, in the Book of Mormon, King Noah faced a similar test with Abinadi (Mosiah 7-9 CE). Noah, a wicked ruler who indulged in luxury while his people languished, was confronted by Abinadi’s bold prophecies of doom unless they repented. Initially, Noah ordered Abinadi’s death, but the prophet’s divine protection stalled the execution (Mosiah 7:19-20 CE). One of Noah’s priests, Alma, pleaded for Abinadi’s release, believing his words (Mosiah 9:1 CE). For a fleeting moment, Noah wavered—perhaps sensing the truth in Abinadi’s message or fearing divine retribution. Yet, the outrage of his corrupt priests, who demanded Abinadi’s death, tipped the scales. Noah relented, and Abinadi was burned alive, his warnings unheeded (Mosiah 9:5 CE).

In both cases, the innocence of the accused was evident to the rulers. Pilate explicitly acknowledged Jesus’ lack of guilt; Noah, though less vocal, showed hesitation that suggests an awareness of Abinadi’s righteousness. Both men stood on the brink of releasing these figures—Christ, the Son of God, and Abinadi, His prophet—yet the cries of the people proved too potent a force.

 

In the clamor of the crowd, what force compels a man, even one with kingship powers, to falter in such moments? The answer lies in the intoxicating sway of public opinion and the immediate pressures it exerts. Pilate and Noah, despite their authority, were not immune to the human desire for approval and stability. Pilate governed a volatile province under the watchful eye of Emperor Tiberius; a misstep could cost him his position or life. The Jewish leaders’ threat—“If you let this man go, you are not Caesar's friend!” (John 10:10-11 RE; TSJ 11:13 RE)—struck at his political survival. Likewise, Noah ruled a court of sycophantic priests whose loyalty propped up his decadent reign. To defy them risked unraveling his power base, a prospect too daunting to contemplate.

This capitulation reflects a shortsighted calculus: the preservation of status in the here and now. Pilate chose peace with the mob over justice for Jesus, believing it would quell unrest and secure his tenure. Noah opted for the approval of his priests over the prophet’s call to repentance, preserving his indulgent lifestyle. In both instances, the roar of the crowd drowned out the whisper of conscience, revealing a shared flaw—prioritizing fleeting safety over enduring truth.

 

Consider the short-term pressures vs. the long-term benefits.The irony is stark: what seemed expedient in the short run proved disastrous in the long term. Had Pilate released Jesus, he might have faced a temporary uproar, but history could have remembered him as a just ruler who defied the mob to spare an innocent man—the Messiah. His name, enshrined in the Apostles’ Creed (“suffered under Pontius Pilate”), would bear a different legacy, one of courage rather than cowardice. The long-term benefit of aligning with righteousness could have outweighed the immediate backlash, granting him a moral victory transcending his temporal rule.

For Noah, the stakes were equally high. Releasing Abinadi and heeding his call to repentance might have spared his people bondage under the Lamanites and preserved his kingdom. Instead, his decision to execute the prophet fulfilled Abinadi’s prophecy: Noah himself died by fire at the hands of his own men (Mosiah 9:17 CE), and his people suffered captivity. The long-term benefit of embracing truth—divine favor and a reformed nation—was sacrificed for the short-term comfort of silencing dissent.

 

There's a natural anxiety when confronted with competing options. The parallel between Pilate and Noah underscores a universal tension we all have: the battle between immediate pressures and eternal principles. Both men wielded significant power, yet their kingship faltered when tested against the crowd’s fervor. This waffling stems from a deeper human condition—the fear of loss, whether of power, prestige, or life itself. It’s a fear that blinds leaders to the broader horizon, where justice and integrity yield lasting rewards.

Pilate’s hand-washing and Noah’s acquiescence to his priests are acts of abdication, not authority. True kingship, as exemplified by Christ and echoed in Abinadi’s steadfastness, holds firm against the tide, valuing righteousness over popularity. Pilate and Noah, in contrast, reveal the peril of leadership and life tethered to the whims of the moment rather than the anchor of truth.

 

So, what's the lesson? The stories of Pontius Pilate and King Noah compel us to ask: what sways us when the stakes are high? The cries of the crowd—be they literal voices or the subtler pressures of societal expectation—still echo today, tempting us to trade principle for peace. Yet, the long-term benefits of standing for what is right, as history and scripture attest, far outweigh the fleeting relief of giving in. Pilate and Noah, men of power who waffled, serve as cautionary tales: even kings fall when they let the mob rule their hearts. In the end, it is not the crowd’s approval but the quiet verdict of conscience—and of God—that endures.

Your kingdom may be small but you indeed are the King or Queen of it. What kind of ruler are you?

 

Signed

John The-Not-So-Beloved

 

What Were You Thinking?

 

What Were You Thinking?

 

Not that you don’t already know this, but as it turns out, our words and works weave a visible thread that others can trace and judge. Our outward expressions of who we are fall under the scrutiny of cultural norms, legal boundaries, and the watchful eyes of those within our orbit. Society sets its standards, and we are held accountable to them—our speech tempered by expectation, our actions constrained by consequence. However, there is a realm far more elusive, a sanctuary of the self where no external law holds sway: our thoughts. These silent musings, unshackled by the world’s gaze, seem invisible, private, ours alone to shape and harbor. But are they as hidden as we would like to believe? To the One who matters most, our thoughts are as nakedly observable as our words and deeds.

 

Alma 9:4 CE paints a sobering picture of this reality: “Our words will condemn us, yea, all our works will condemn us; we shall not be found spotless, and our thoughts will also condemn us, and in this awful state we shall not dare look up to our God. And we would fain be glad if we could command the rocks and the mountains to fall upon us, to hide us from his presence. But this cannot be. We must come forth and stand before him in his glory, and in his power, and in his might, majesty, and dominion, and acknowledge to our everlasting shame that all his judgments are just, that he is just in all his works, and that he is merciful unto the children of men, and that he has all power to save every man that believeth on his name and bringeth forth fruit meet for repentance.” Here lies the crux of our accountability—not just for what we say or do, but for what we think.

 

Our words carry weight. They can build or destroy, comfort or wound, and they leave echoes that others hear and judge. Our works, too, stand as monuments to our choices—deeds that shape the world around us and invite praise or condemnation from those who witness them. These are the public face of our souls, bound by the structures of human society. Laws dictate what we may not do; cultural norms nudge us toward what we should say. But thoughts? They dwell in a wilder country, restrained only by the fragile fences of our own conscience, will, and moral compass. We might speak kindness while harboring resentment, or act generously while nursing pride. To the world, these contradictions remain unseen, masked by the polished veneer of our outward behavior. Yet to God, no mask suffices. He sees the heart as clearly as the hand, the mind as plainly as the mouth.

 

This truth is not new. Long before our time, in the days of Noah, God looked upon a world drowning in its own corruption. Genesis 5:9-10 RE records His piercing observation: “And God saw that the wickedness of man had become great in the earth. And every man was lifted up in the imagination of the thoughts of his heart, being only evil continually.” The thoughts of humanity had turned to a relentless tide of evil, unchecked and unrepentant, until they spilled over into deeds that defiled the earth. God saw not just their actions, but the very imaginations of their hearts—dark currents that shaped their world. The outcome was a flood, a cleansing judgment that spared only Noah and his family, who found favor through obedience and faith. That ancient mirror reflects our own peril: when thoughts run wild and wicked, they do not stay hidden. They fester, they spread, and they invite consequences that no mountain can shield us from.

 

Denver has taught, “there are no private sins. We have only the illusion of privacy.” Divine omniscience upends our assumptions about secrecy. We often treat our thoughts as a safe haven, a place where we can indulge fleeting fantasies, nurse grudges, or entertain doubts without consequence. After all, who will know? But Alma and Noah’s story remind us that God knows. Our thoughts are not a secret refuge; they are a stage, illuminated by His gaze. And if they will condemn us alongside our words and works—if they can corrupt an entire generation as they did before the flood—then managing them is not optional—it is requisite. To neglect this inner discipline is to leave ourselves vulnerable before a judgment that pierces every layer of our being.

 

For me, the weight of this truth is staggering. “We can’t be found spotless,” the scripture warns, and in that realization, we shrink from the prospect of facing God. Our words may falter, our works may falter, but most of all, our thoughts—those unruly, untamed currents—may betray us. Who among us has not thought the unthinkable, even if only for a moment? In that “awful condition,” the impulse is and will be to flee, to call upon stones and mountains to shield us from His presence. Yet there is no escape. We must stand before Him, stripped of pretense, and confront the righteousness of His judgments. Our thoughts, once believed to be our own, will be laid bare alongside our deeds and declarations, each one a testament to who we truly are.

 

But the scripture does not leave us in despair. Amid the warning lies a strand of mercy: “He has all power to save every man that believeth on his name and bringeth forth fruit meet for repentance.” God’s omniscience is matched by His compassion. He sees our thoughts not merely to condemn, but to invite us to transform them. Repentance is not just a change of action or a softening of speech—it is a renewal of the mind, a deliberate effort to align our innermost selves with His will. Our conduct, the outward proof of that repentance, becomes the bridge between what we think and what we do, a lifeline to His saving power—just as Noah’s ark bridged the faithful to safety amid a world undone by its own heart.

 

So, what were you thinking? The question is not idle curiosity but a call to vigilance. Our thoughts are not invisible, not inconsequential. They are as real to God as the words we speak or the works we perform, and they will stand as witnesses in the final reckoning. We cannot rely on cultural norms or legal codes to govern them—only our own resolve, guided by faith, can shape this hidden terrain. To God, there is no distinction between the seen and the unseen; all is laid bare. And in that light, we are tasked not just to guard our tongues and hands, but to master our minds, that we might stand before Him not in shame, but in the hope of His mercy.

 

“Ah…Houston – we have a problem.”

 

Signed

John The-Not-So-Beloved