20/ “We’re not going to let it happen. Not going to let it happen.” Pronouns matter here. Trump repeatedly says “we”—over and over in his speech, he puts himself in the midst of his army. It matters because he shortly will *falsely* say “we” are going to march on the Capitol now.
21/ Media reports confirm Trump was told *days* before the Save America March that he couldn’t accompany the rally-goers to the Capitol. So his “we” is consistently rhetorical: he is strengthening his army’s backbone to do the unthinkable by deceitfully saying he’ll go with them.
22/ Trump now—for the first time—lets his speech be interrupted by an extended chant from his army, and it’s because it’s a chant he approves of and that matches what he wants: “FIGHT FOR TRUMP! FIGHT FOR TRUMP! FIGHT FOR TRUMP!” He grimly soaks it in, letting it carry on awhile.
Whenever the pulpit is usurped by a formalist, then is the worshipper defrauded and disconsolate. We shrink as soon as the prayers begin, which do not uplift, but smite and offend us. We are fain to wrap our cloaks about us, and secure, as best we can, a solitude that hears not. I once heard a preacher who sorely tempted me to say, I would go to church no more. Men go, thought I, where they are wont to go, else had no soul entered the temple in the afternoon. A snow storm was falling around us. The snow storm was real; the preacher merely spectral; and the eye felt the sad contrast in looking at him, and then out of the window behind him, into the beautiful meteor of the snow. He had lived in vain. He had no one word intimating that he had laughed or wept, was married or in love, had been commended, or cheated, or chagrined. If he had ever lived and acted, we were none the wiser for it. The capital secret of his profession, namely, to convert life into truth, he had not learned. Not one fact in all his experience, had he yet imported into his doctrine. This man had ploughed, and planted, and talked, and bought, and sold; he had read books; he had eaten and drunken; his head aches; his heart throbs; he smiles and suffers; yet was there not a surmise, a hint, in all the discourse, that he had ever lived at all.
Emerson, Ralph Waldo, Divinity School Address