Early next morning he returned to
the Temple and the entire crowd came to him. So he sat down and began to teach
them. But the scribes and Pharisees brought in to him a woman who had been
caught in adultery. They made her stand in front, and then said to him, “Now,
master, this woman has been caught in adultery, in the very act. According to
the Law, Moses commanded us to stone such women to death. Now, what do you say
about her?” They said this to test him, so that they might have some good
grounds for an accusation.
But Jesus stooped down and began to write with his
finger in the dust on the ground. But as they persisted in their questioning,
he straightened himself up and said to them, “Let the one among you who has
never sinned throw the first stone at her.” Then he stooped down again and
continued writing with his finger on the ground.
And when they heard what he
said, they were convicted by their own consciences and went out, one by one,
beginning with the eldest until they had all gone. Jesus was left alone, with
the woman still standing where they had put her. So he stood up and said to
her, “Where are they all—did no one condemn you?” And she said, “No one, sir.”
“Neither do I condemn you,” said Jesus to her. “Go home and do not sin again.” (John 8:2-11)
One hundred thirty
feet tall, including its pedestal. 1,145 tons of reinforced Brazilian tile,
concrete and soapstone. Positioned on a mountain half a mile above sea level, it’s
the famous Christ the Redeemer statue that overlooks the city of Rio de
Janeiro, Brazil. Few tourists who go to Rio can resist snaking up Corcovado
Mountain to see this looming monument. The head alone is twelve feet tall, and
the arm span – from fingertip to fingertip — ninety-eight feet. As beautiful as
it is, however, there are two ironies about the statue.
The first is its blind
eyes. Now, I know – all statues have blind eyes. But it’s as if the sculptor of
this statue intended that the eyes be blind. There are no circles to suggest
sight. There are only Little Orphan Annie
openings. What kind of redeemer is that? Blind? Eyes fixated on the horizon, but
refusing to see the mass of people at its feet?
But the second irony can be
found by following the features downward: past the strong nose, past the
prominent chin, past the neck to the cloak of the statue. On the outside of the
cloak there’s a heart. A Valentine’s heart. A simple heart. A stone heart.
Again, what kind of redeemer is that? A heart made of stone? Held together, not
with passion and love, but by concrete and mortar. What kind of redeemer is that?
Blind eyes and a stony heart? Unfortunately, it’s the kind of redeemer most
people have.
Oh, most people wouldn’t
admit to having a blind redeemer with a stone heart. But for some, Jesus is like
a good luck charm. Call him the “Rabbit’s Foot Redeemer.” You know. Pocket-sized.
Handy. Easily packaged. Easily understood. Easily diagramed. You can put his
picture on your wall, or you can stick it in your wallet as insurance. You can
frame him, dangle him from your rear view mirror or glue him to your dashboard.
His specialty? Getting you out of a jam. Need a parking place? Rub the
redeemer. Need help on a quiz? Pull out the rabbit’s foot. No need to have a
relationship with him. No need to love him. Just keep him in your pocket next
to your four-leaf clover.
For others, he’s an “Aladdin’s Lamp Redeemer.” New
jobs. Pink Cadillac’s. New and improved spouses. Your wish is his command. And
what’s more, he conveniently re-enters the lamp when you don’t want him around.
And then, for
some, Jesus is a “Monty Hall Redeemer.” “All right, Jesus, let’s make a deal.
For fifty-two Sundays a year, I’ll put on a costume — coat and tie, hat and
hose — and I’ll endure any sermon you throw at me. In exchange, you give me the
grace behind pearly gate number three.”
The Rabbit’s Foot Redeemer. The
Aladdin’s Lamp Redeemer. The Monty Hall Redeemer. Few demands, no challenges.
No need for sacrifice. No need for commitment. Sightless and heartless
redeemers. Redeemers without power. But that’s not the Redeemer of the New
Testament. Compare the Cristo Redentor to
the one seen by a frightened woman early one morning in Jerusalem.
It’s dawn. The
early morning sun stretches a golden blanket across the streets of the city. A
cat stretches as it awakens. The noises are scattered. A rooster crows his
early morning recital. A dog barks to welcome the day. A peddler shuffles down
the street, his wares on his back. And a young carpenter speaks in the temple courtyard.
Jesus sits surrounded by a horseshoe of listeners. Some nod their heads in
agreement and open their hearts in obedience. They’ve accepted the Teacher as
their teacher and are learning to accept him as their Lord. Others are curious,
wanting to believe, yet wary of this one whose claims stretch the boundaries of
belief. Whether cautious or convinced, they listened keenly. They arose early.
There was something about his words that was more comforting than sleep. And we
don’t know his topic that morning. Prayer, perhaps. Or maybe kindness, or
anxiety.
But whatever it
was, it was soon interrupted when a mob bursts into the courtyard. Determined,
they erupt out of a narrow street and thunder toward Jesus. The listeners
scramble to get out of the way. The mob is made up of religious leaders: the
elders and deacons of their day. Respected and important men. And struggling to
keep her balance on the crest of this angry wave is a scantily clad woman. Only
moments before she’d been in bed with a man who was not her husband. Was this
how she made her living? Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe her husband was gone, her
heart was lonely, the stranger’s touch was warm, and before she knew it … she
had done it. We don’t know. But we do know that a door was jerked open and she
was yanked from bed. She barely had time to cover her body before she was
dragged into the street by men who were probably her father’s age.
Curious
neighbors stuck heads through open windows. Sleepy dogs yelped at the ruckus. And
now, with holy strides, the mob storms toward the teacher. They throw the woman
in his direction. She nearly falls. “We found this woman in bed with a man!”
cries the leader. “The law says to stone her. What do you say?” Cocky with
borrowed courage, they smirk as they watch the proverbial mouse go for the
cheese.
Meanwhile, the
woman searches the faces, hungry for a compassionate glance. She finds none.
Instead, she sees accusation. Squinty eyes. Tight lips. Gritted teeth. Stares
that sentence without seeing. Cold, stony hearts that condemn without feeling. She
looks down and sees the rocks in their hands — the rocks of righteousness
intended to stone the lust, and life, right out of her. The men squeeze the
rocks so tightly that their fingertips are white. They squeeze them as if the
rocks were the throat of the preacher they hate. In her despair she looks at
the Teacher. But his eyes don’t glare. “Don’t worry,” the eyes whisper, “it’s
okay.” And for the first time that morning she sees kindness. (John 8:1-5)
When Jesus saw
her, what did he see? Did he see her as a father sees his grown daughter as she
walks down the wedding aisle? The father’s mind racing back through time
watching his girl grow up again — from diapers to dolls. From classrooms to
boyfriends. From the prom date to the wedding day. The father sees it all as he
looks at his daughter. And as Jesus looked at this daughter, did his mind race
back? Did he relive the act of forming this child in heaven? Did he see her as
he had originally made her?
“Knitted together” is how the psalmist described
the process of God making man. (Psalm 139:13) Not manufactured or
mass-produced, but knitted. Each thread of personality tenderly intertwined.
Each string of temperament deliberately selected. God as creator. Pensive. Excited.
Inventive. An artist – brush on pallet, seeking the perfect shade. A composer –
fingers on keyboard, listening for the exact chord. A poet – pen poised on
paper, awaiting the precise word. The Creator, the master weaver, threading
together the soul. Each one different. No two alike. None identical.
On earth, Jesus
was an artist in a gallery of his own paintings. He was a composer listening as
the orchestra interpreted his music. He was a poet hearing his own poetry. Yet
his works of art had been defaced. Creation after battered creation. He had
created people for splendor; they had settled for mediocrity. He had formed
them with love; they had scarred each other with hate. When he saw businessmen
using God-given intelligence to feed Satan-given greed …. When he saw tongues
that had been designed to encourage used as daggers to cut …. When he saw hands
that had been given for holding used as weapons for hurting …. When he saw eyes
into which he’d sprinkled joy now burning with hatred …. I wonder. Did it weary
him to see hearts that were stained, even discarded?
Jesus saw such a
heart as he looked at this woman. Her feet were probably bare, maybe muddy. Her
arms may have hid her chest and her hands perhaps clutching at each other under
her chin. And her heart was ragged; torn as much by her own guilt as by the
mob’s anger. So, with the tenderness only a father can have, he set out to
untie the knots and repair the holes. So, he begins by diverting the crowd’s
attention. He draws on the ground.
Everybody looks down. The woman feels relief
as the eyes of the men look away from her. The accusers are persistent. “Tell
us, Teacher! What do you want us to do with her?” Now, he could have asked why
they didn’t bring the man. The Law indicted him as well. He could have asked
why they were suddenly blowing the dust off an old command that had sat on the
shelves for centuries. But he didn’t. He just raised his head and offered an
invitation, “I guess if you’ve never made a mistake, then you have the right to
stone this woman.” He looked back down and began to draw again. (John 8:6-8)
Someone cleared
his throat as if to speak, but no one spoke. Feet shuffled. Eyes dropped. Then
thud … thud … thud … rocks fell to the ground. And they all walked away.
Beginning with the grayest beard and ending with the blackest, they turned and
left. They came as one, but they left one by one. And then Jesus told the woman
to look up. “Is there no one to condemn you?” He smiled as she raised her head.
She saw no one, only rocks — each one a miniature tombstone to mark the burial
place of a man’s arrogance.
“Is there no one to condemn you?” he asked. There
is still one who can, she thinks. And she turns to look at him. What does he
want? What will he do? Maybe she expected him to scold her. Perhaps she
expected him to walk away from her. I’m not sure, but I do know this: what she
got, she never expected. She got a promise and a commission. The promise: “Then
neither do I condemn you.” The commission: “Go and sin no more.” (John 8:9-11)
The woman then turns
and walks into anonymity. As far as we know, she’s never seen or heard from
again. But we can be confident of one thing: on that morning in Jerusalem, she
saw Jesus and Jesus saw her. And could we somehow transport her to Rio de
Janeiro and let her stand at the base of the Cristo Redentor, I think I know what her response would be. “That’s
not the Jesus I saw,” she would say. And she’d be right. Because the Jesus she
saw didn’t have a hard heart.
And the Jesus that saw her didn’t have blind
eyes. However, if we could then, somehow, transport her to Calvary and let her
stand at the base of the cross you know what she’d say: “That’s him,” she’d whisper.
“That’s him.” She would recognize his hands. The only hands that held no stones
that day were his. And on this day they still hold no stones. She’d recognize
his voice: “Father, forgive them…” And she’d recognize his eyes. How could she
ever forget those eyes? Clear and tear-filled. Eyes that saw her not as she
was, but as she was intended to be.
You know, it’s
not every day that you get a second chance. Most of the time we’re just glad to
get a first one. “Get it to me by 3 p.m. or you’re fired!” “I’m sorry, but your
grades aren’t good enough to admit you into the program.” “I don’t love you anymore.”
The fact is, we all fail. We do things we regret. We say things we deplore. And
we hurt people we love. But we’re not alone in this.
Even the Apostle Paul was
no stranger to failure. Have you been there? Have you shared Paul’s
frustration? If you have, then listen as he shows us the way out of our
despair: It is an agonizing
situation, and who on earth can set me free from the clutches of my sinful
nature? I thank God there is a way out through Jesus Christ our Lord. No
condemnation now hangs over the head of those who are “in” Jesus Christ. (Romans
7:24 – 8:1) If I’d been Paul, I would have put a “Hallelujah!” at the
end of that paragraph. What an incredible statement. What an awesome reality.
Need a second
chance? Come to Jesus. He’s no statue, and second chances are his specialty.
Grace,
Randy
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