Persevere

 

Persevere

Persevere - Audio/Visual 

At that time there was a strong earthquake. An angel of the Lord came down from heaven, went to the tomb, and rolled the stone away from the entrance. Then he sat on the stone. He was shining as bright as lightning, and his clothes were white as snow. The soldiers guarding the tomb shook with fear because of the angel, and they became like dead men.

The angel said to the women, “Don’t be afraid. I know that you are looking for Jesus, who has been crucified. He is not here. He has risen from the dead as he said he would. Come and see the place where his body was. And go quickly and tell his followers, ‘Jesus has risen from the dead. He is going into Galilee ahead of you, and you will see him there.’” Then the angel said, “Now I have told you.” (Matthew 28:2-7)

Have you ever read a story that you think you know, and then read it again and see something that you’ve never seen before? It’s like reading about the same event a hundred times and then on the 101^st reading you see something so striking, something so new that it makes you wonder if you had been sleeping through the other hundred times? Maybe it’s because we started in the middle of the story instead of at the beginning. Or, perhaps, it’s because someone else reads it aloud and pauses at a place where we normally wouldn’t and then, Pow, it hits you like a ton of bricks. You grab the book and look at it, convinced that someone copied or read something wrong. But then you read it and . . . “Well-what-do-you-know? Look at that!” It happened to me. I’ve read the resurrection story at least a half century of Easters, and probably a hundred times in between. I’ve taught it. I’ve meditated on it. I’ve underlined it. But what I saw this time I’d never seen before. But before I tell you what I discovered, let’s recount the story to help set the stage.

It’s early dawn on Sunday morning and the sky is dark. Those, in fact, are John’s words: “It was still dark . . . .” (John 20:1) It’s a dark Sunday morning. It had been dark since Friday. Dark with Peter’s denial. Dark with the disciples’ betrayal. Dark with Pilate’s cowardice. Dark with Christ’s anguish. Dark with Satan’s glee. The only ember of light was the small band of women standing at a distance from the cross — watching. (Matt. 27:55) And among them were two Mary’s – one the mother of James and Joseph, and the other is Mary Magdalene. But why are they there? They’re there to call his name. To be the final voices he hears before his death. To prepare his body for burial. They are there to clean the blood from his beard; to wipe the crimson from his legs; to close his eyes; to touch his face. That’s why they’re there. The last to leave Calvary, and the first to arrive at the grave.

So, early on that Sunday morning they leave their pallets and walk out onto the tree-shadowed path. Theirs’ is a somber task because the morning promises only one thing: an encounter with a corpse. Remember, Mary and Mary don’t know this is the first Easter. They’re not hoping the tomb will be vacant. They aren’t discussing what their response will be when they see Jesus. They have absolutely no idea that the grave was empty.

Oh, there was a time when they dared to dream such dreams. But not now. It’s too late for the incredible. The feet that walked on water had been pierced. The hands that healed lepers and gave sight to the blind had been stilled. Their noblest aspirations had been spiked into Friday’s cross. Mary and Mary have come to place warm oils on a cold body, and bid farewell to the one man who had given reason to their hopes. But it isn’t hope that leads the women up the mountain to the tomb. It’s duty. Simple, pure, naked devotion. They expect nothing in return. I mean, what could Jesus possibly give them? What could a dead man offer? The two women are not climbing the mountain to receive; they’re going to the tomb to give. Period. And there’s no motivation more noble.

There are times when we, too, are called to love, expecting nothing in return. Times when we are called to give money to people who will never say thank you, or to forgive those who won’t forgive us, or to come early and stay late when no one else notices, much less cares. Service prompted by duty. That’s the call of discipleship. Mary and Mary knew a task had to be done — Jesus’ body had to be prepared for burial. Peter didn’t offer to do it. Andrew didn’t volunteer. The forgiven adulteress, or the healed lepers, or the recently-sighted are nowhere to be seen. So the two Mary’s decide to do it.

I’ve wondered if, maybe halfway to the tomb, they’d sat down and maybe even reconsidered. What if they’d looked at each other and shrugged, “What’s the use?” What if they’d given up? What if one had thrown up her arms in frustration and said, “I’m tired of being the only one who cares. Let Andrew do something for a change. Let Nathaniel show a little leadership here.”

Whether or not they were tempted to do that, I’m glad they didn’t quit. That would have been tragic because we know something they didn’t. We know that the Father was watching. Mary and Mary thought they were alone, but they weren’t. They thought their journey was unnoticed, but they were wrong. God knew. He was watching them walk up the mountain. He was measuring their steps. He was smiling at their hearts, and thrilled at their devotion. And he had a surprise waiting for them.

At that time there was a strong earthquake. An angel of the Lord came down from heaven, went to the tomb, and rolled the stone away from the entrance. Then he sat on the stone. He was shining bright as lightning, and his clothes were white as snow. The soldiers guarding the tomb shook with fear because of the angel, and they became like dead men. (Matthew 28:2-4)

Now, read it again carefully because this is what I noticed. Tell me, why did the angel move the stone? For whom did he roll that rock away? For Jesus? Well, that’s what I always thought; I just kind of assumed that the angel moved the stone so Jesus could come out. But think about that. Did the stone have to be removed in order for Jesus to exit? Did God have to have help? Was the death conqueror so weak that he couldn’t push the rock away? I don’t think so, because the text gives the impression that Jesus was already out when the stone was moved. “He’s not here,” the angel said.

Nowhere do the Gospels say that the angel moved the stone for Jesus. So, if that’s true, for whom, then, was the stone moved? Listen to what the angel says: “Come and see the place where his body was.” (v. 6) The stone was moved — not for Jesus — but for the women; not so Jesus could come out, but so the women could see in.

And I’m assuming that at that moment Mary looks at Mary and Mary is grinning the same grin she had when the bread and fish kept coming out of the basket. The old passions begin to flare. Suddenly it’s alright to dream again.

“Go quickly and tell his followers, ‘Jesus has risen from the dead. He is going into Galilee ahead of you, and you will see him there.’” (v. 7) And Mary and Mary didn’t have to be told twice. They turn and start running to Jerusalem. The darkness is gone. The sun is up. The Son is out. But the Son isn’t finished. Because there’s still one surprise that awaits them. “Suddenly, Jesus met them and said, ‘Greetings.’ The women came up to him, took hold of his feet, and worshiped him. Then Jesus said to them, ‘Don’t be afraid. Go and tell my followers to go on to Galilee, and they will see me there.’” (v. 9—10)

You see, the God of surprises strikes again. It’s as if he said, “I can’t wait any longer. They came this far to see me; I think I’ll drop in on them and say, ‘What’s up?’” And God does that for the faithful. Because just when the womb was too old for babies, Sarai got pregnant. Just when the failure was too great for grace, David was pardoned. And just when the road was too dark for Mary and Mary, the angel glowed and the Savior showed, and the two women would never be the same again. The lesson here? One word: persevere.

Don’t give up. Is the trail dark? Don’t sit. Is the road long? Don’t stop. Is the night black? Don’t quit. God is watching. For all you know, right at this very moment he may be telling the angel to move the stone in your life. You know, the check may be in the mail; the apology may be in the making; the job contract may be on the desk; the healing may be just around the corner.

So, persevere. Don’t quit. Because if you do, you may just miss the answer to your prayers. God still sends angels, and he’s still in the business of moving stones.

Grace,

Randy

Five Kernels of Corn

 

Five Kernels of Corn

Five Kernels of Corn - Audio/Visual 

Let all that I am praise the Lord; with my whole heart, I will praise his holy name. Let all that I am praise the Lord; may I never forget the good things he does for me. He forgives all my sins and heals all my diseases. He redeems me from death and crowns me with love and tender mercies. He fills my life with good things. My youth is renewed like the eagle’s! (Psalm 103:1-5)

The Pilgrims who landed at Plymouth Rock in 1620 would have been astounded by the world we live in today. In fact, the next time you’re tempted to complain about inflation, the economy, or even the price of tea in China, you might want to check yourself and consider a few things about these remarkable pioneers. For instance, during their first long winter at Plymouth Colony, they dug seven times as many graves as they built homes for the living. In fact, of the 102 Mayflower passengers, only half were alive by spring. The ship that was later to bring food and relief, the Fortune, brought 37 more mouths to feed but not an ounce of food. William Brewster, the colony’s leader and preacher, got up from a scant Plymouth dinner of clams and a glass of cold water and thanked God “for the abundance of the sea and the treasures hid in the sand.”

Although the Pilgrims didn’t have much, they were enormously grateful. And it was this attitude, combined with their strength, devotion and sincerity, which served as the bedrock of our nation. Their gratitude is even more remarkable when you consider that, at one point in 1623, food was rationed to a few grains of corn each day. And from these dire circumstances came a tradition, started on Forefather’s Day, December 22, 1820, where five kernels of corn would be placed on each empty plate before a dinner of “thanksgiving” was served. Each member of the family would then pick up a kernel and tell about something for which they were thankful.

The following is a letter written by a college coed to her parents about this same time of year: “Dear Mom & Dad: I'm sorry I've been so long in writing. Unfortunately all my stationery was destroyed the night our dorm was set on fire by demonstrators. I'm out of the hospital now and the doctors say my eyesight should return sooner or later. The wonderful boy, Bill, who rescued me from the fire kindly offered to share his apartment with me until my dorm room is rebuilt. He comes from a grand family, so you won't be surprised when I tell you we're going to be married in a short while. In fact, since you've always wanted a grandchild, you'll be glad to know you'll be grandparents next month! P.S. Please disregard the above practice in English composition. There was no fire. I haven't been to the hospital. I'm not pregnant, and I don't even have a boyfriend. But I did get a ‘D’ in French and an ‘F’ in chemistry. I just wanted to be sure you received the news in perspective.”

Do you think her parents had a different perspective by the time they got to the end of that letter? Sure, because by the time they got to the end, they were thinking “D’s” and “F’s” never sounded so good. Motivational speaker, Zig Ziglar, said, “Your attitude, not your aptitude, will determine your altitude.” But it's not always easy to be grateful. Like when you’re stuck in traffic, or late for work, or the doctor’s report isn't what you expected. It’s not easy to praise God when your spouse walks out, or your child is sick, or you’ve lost your job. 

Gratitude may not always change your circumstances, but it can change how your circumstances affect you. For instance, an elderly woman bowed her head and said, "Thank you, Lord, for these vittles." Overhearing her prayer, a young kid asked, "Lady, what are vittles?” She answered, "The blessings God gives me; my food to eat." The smart aleck kid responded, "Don't you know you’re going to have that food whether you thank God for it or not?" With the wisdom of her age, the woman responded, "Well, perhaps so, but everything tastes better when I'm thankful." And the first five verses of Psalm 103 gives us five kernels to consider this Thanksgiving.

The first kernel is that “He forgives all my sins and heals all my diseases.” There’s no mistaking it — God offers forgiveness. This forgiveness is the unique promise of the Father, provided through his Son. And an attempt to understand God’s grace should be our lifelong study, but a sense of gratitude should well up from the depths of our heart every day for God’s incredible gift. Here’s what I mean. The London Times publishes the prices paid for art objects in all of the salesrooms of the world. For instance, if a painting is sold in New York, or Paris, or Rome or London, the Times gives the full details of the sale and you can judge the value of the painting by the price which was paid. Wonder what you’re worth? Well, you’re priceless since, as the Bible reports, Jesus paid the ransom that sin demanded for your life.

But does God really “heal all diseases?” That’s a little tough to reconcile with the fact that God doesn’t heal everyone who has an “incurable” disease. But maybe the “disease” that David’s talking about isn’t a physical thing at all. Now there’s no doubt that all healing, in some sense, is a divine healing, and that the recovery from sickness, injury or even surgery is a direct result of the healing properties that God built into our bodies. Medicine, surgery and therapy are merely extensions of God’s healing ministry. But this verse doesn’t say that God heals everyone’s diseases. What it says is that God heals all my diseases, and there is no disease or sickness that lies beyond God’s healing power, not even the “incurable” kind. He is the Great Physician after all. (Luke 4:23)

But it seems like David is talking about his soul. “Let all that I am praise the Lord,” David says. And it’s only after that introduction that David goes on to say that God “forgives all my sins and heals all my diseases.” Now, clinically speaking, the diseases of the soul emanate from a virus called sin, and Jesus, just as doctors do, identified the virus and told us about its symptoms and disorders. “For out of the heart come evil thoughts, murder, adultery, sexual immorality, theft, false testimony, slander. These are what make a man ’unclean.’” (Matthew 15:19-20) Just as surely as some disorders of the body can be cured by medicines and surgery, so our souls can be cleansed, purged, purified and made whole when God is allowed to possess us – completely.

In 1925, Texas governor Pat Morris Neff spoke to a group of convicts. At the conclusion of his speech, the governor said that he would stick around if anyone wanted to speak with him. Well, as you can imagine, a large group of men remained, many of them lifers. One by one they each gave the governor their stories about how they’d been framed, or hadn’t received justice, or were the victims of some kind of judicial blunder. To a man, each asked to be freed. Finally, one man came up and said, “Governor, I just want to say that I’m guilty. I did what they sent me here for, but I believe I’ve paid for it. If I were freed, I would do everything I could to be a good citizen and prove myself worthy of your mercy.” The governor eventually pardoned this man. His name was Huddie William Ledbetter. Who?

Not necessarily a household name, he was better known as Lead Belly, an iconic folk and blues musician who was eventually inducted into the Louisiana Music Hall of Fame. He’s been covered by music greats such as Bob Dylan, Pete Seeger, Harry Belafonte, Van Morrison, Johnny Cash, and groups such as  Creedence Clearwater Revival, Abba, The Beach Boys, Led Zeppelin and Nirvana. But why did the governor pardon Lead Belly? Because he admitted his guilt. And we can be pardoned, too. But there’s a difference. Unlike Lead Belly, we can’t say that we’ve paid the price for any of our sins. But if we’ll plead Jesus blood, God will pardon, or redeem us.

“He redeems me from death and crowns me with love and tender mercies.” Satan is bent on damning our souls and destroying our lives. All you have to do is look at our jails, sanitariums, hospitals and city streets: they’re filled with people whose lives are being destroyed. But God has redeemed us from this power. David, in another psalm, put it like this: “He lifted me out of the slimy pit, out of the mud and mire; he set my feet on a rock and gave me a firm place to stand. He put a new song in my mouth, a hymn of praise to our God. Many will see and fear and put their trust in the Lord.” (Ps. 40:2-3)

J. Wilbur Chapman was an early 1900’s evangelist who hired “Billy” Sunday as his advance man and preached revival meetings with the likes of D.L. Moody, among others. In one of his meetings, a man gave this remarkable testimony: “I got off at the Pennsylvania depot one day as a tramp. For a year I begged on the streets for a living. One day I touched a man on the shoulder and said, ‘Mister, please give me some money so I can have something to eat.’ As soon as I saw his face, I recognized him as my father. ‘Father, don’t you know me?’ I asked. Throwing his arms around me, he cried, ‘I’ve found you! I’ve found you! All I have is yours!’ Think of it! That I, a tramp, stood begging my father for a few cents, when for 18 years he had been looking for me to give me all he was worth.” Just like the tramp’s father, God’s looking for us, too, because he’s already given all he’s worth and he wants us to claim our inheritance.

“He fills my life with good things.” When we seek God’s righteousness, he grants it. Psalm 107:9 says, “He has satisfied the thirsty soul and the hungry soul he has filled with what is good.” A famous surgeon was seldom seen on the streets without a beautiful, fresh rose in his lapel. His friends wondered how those rosebuds stayed fresh for so long. So, curious, they asked him his secret, at which point the surgeon turned back the lapel to reveal a little bottle of water into which the stem of the rose had been inserted. Viola! Fresh flowers. And so it is with us as believers. If our lives draw from God’s great resources, who is in us the Water of Life (John 4:10), we will grow more fragrant and beautiful as the days and years go by.

David writes, “My youth is renewed like the eagle’s.” The eagle is known for at least three things: (1) its size; (2) its strength; and (3) its longevity. And the result of living a fulfilled, satisfied, spiritual life is a constant renewal, a constant refreshing, a constant revival. So, it’s no wonder then that David would say, “Let all that I am praise the Lord; with my whole heart, I will praise his holy name. Let all that I am praise the Lord; may I never forget the good things he does for me.” (Ps. 103:1-2) The acclaimed American author, William Faulkner, said: “Gratitude is a quality similar to electricity – it must be produced and discharged and used up in order to exist at all.” Or, as the late William Arthur Ward wrote, “Feeling gratitude and not expressing it is like wrapping a present and not giving it.” In other words, gratitude is the attitude that changes our altitude in life.

So, as we sit down at our Thanksgiving tables next week, let’s take time to thank God – the source of our blessings. And although the food may just magically appear without having said grace, my hunch is that it will taste a whole lot better with a ladle of gratitude.

Grace,

Randy

Shamed

 

Shamed

Shamed - Audio/Visual 

Jesus went to the Mount of Olives. But early in the morning he went back to the Temple, and all the people came to him, and he sat and taught them. The teachers of the law and the Pharisees brought a woman who had been caught in adultery. They forced her to stand before the people. They said to Jesus, “Teacher, this woman was caught having sexual relations with a man who is not her husband. The law of Moses commands that we stone to death every woman who does this. What do you say we should do?” They were asking this to trick Jesus so that they could have some charge against him. ¶But Jesus bent over and started writing on the ground with his finger. When they continued to ask Jesus their question, he rose up and said. “Anyone here who has never sinned can throw the first stone at her.” Then Jesus bent over again and wrote on the ground. Those who heard Jesus began to leave one by one, first the older men and then the others. Jesus was left there alone with the woman standing before him. Jesus rose up again and asked her, “Woman, where are they? Has no one judged you guilty?” She answered, “No one, sir.” Then Jesus said, “I also don’t judge you guilty. You may go now, but don’t sin anymore.” (John 8:1-11)

Rebecca Thompson fell twice from the Fremont Canyon Bridge. She died, in a manner of speaking, both times: the first fall broke her heart; the second sealed her fate. She was only eighteen years of age when she and her eleven-year-old sister were abducted by a pair of hoodlums near a store in Casper, Wyoming. They drove the girls forty miles southwest to the Fremont Canyon Bridge: a one-lane, steel-beamed structure rising 112 feet above the North Platte River. The men brutally beat and raped Rebecca. Rebecca, somehow, convinced them not to do the same to her sister, Amy. Both were then thrown over the bridge into the narrow river gorge. Amy died when she landed on a rock near the river, but Rebecca slammed into a ledge and was ricocheted into deeper water. With her hip fractured in five places, she struggled to shore. To protect her body from the cold, she wedged herself between two rocks and waited for the dawn. But the dawn never came for Rebecca.

Oh, the sun came up and she was found; and the physicians treated her wounds; and the courts imprisoned her attackers. And life continued. But the dawn never came for Rebecca. The blackness of her night of horrors lingered. She was never able to climb out of her canyon. So, in July 1992, nineteen years later, she returned to the bridge. Against her boyfriend’s pleadings, she drove seventy miles-per-hour to the North Platte River. With her two year-old daughter and boyfriend at her side, she sat on the edge of the Fremont Canyon Bridge and wept. And through a fountain of tears she retold the story. The boyfriend didn’t want the child to see her mother crying, so he carried the toddler to the car. And that’s when he heard her body hit the water. The sun never dawned on Rebecca’s dark night.

Why? What subdued the light from her world? Fear? Perhaps. She had testified against her attackers, pointing them out in the courtroom. One of the murderers had taunted her by smirking and sliding his finger across his throat. On the day of her death, the two had been up for a parole hearing. Maybe the fear of a second encounter was just too great for Rebecca.

Was it anger? Anger at her rapists? Anger at the parole board? Anger at herself for the thousand falls in the thousand nightmares that followed? Or, perhaps, anger at God for a canyon that grew deeper by the day, a night that grew ever blacker and a dawn that never came? Or was it guilt? Some thought so. Despite Rebecca’s attractive smile and appealing personality, friends said that she struggled with the ugly fact that she had survived and her little sister had not. Maybe it was shame. Everyone she knew, and thousands that she didn’t, had heard the humiliating details of her tragedy. The stigma of her shame was tattooed deeper with the newspaper ink of every headline. She’d been raped. She’d been violated. She’d been shamed. And try as she might to outlive and outrun the memory . . . she never could.

So, nineteen years later she went back to the bridge. Canyons of shame run deep – gorges of never-ending guilt. Canyon walls painted with the grays of death. Unending echoes of screams. We can put our hands over our ears, or splash water on our face, or even stop looking over our shoulders. But try as we might to outrun yesterday’s tragedies, tragedy’s tentacles are longer than our hope. They draw us back to our bridge of sorrows to be shamed again and again and again. And you know, if it was our fault it would be different. I mean, if you or I were to blame we could apologize. If the tumble into the canyon was our mistake we could respond. But Rebecca wasn’t a volunteer; she was a victim.

Sometimes our shame is private. Pushed over the edge by an abusive spouse. Molested by a perverted parent. Seduced by a compromising superior. No one else knows. But we know. And that’s enough. Sometimes it’s public: branded by a divorce you didn’t want; contaminated by a disease you never expected; marked by a handicap you didn’t create. And whether it’s actually in their eyes or just in our imagination, you and I have to deal with it — we’re marked: a divorcee, an invalid, an orphan, an AIDS patient. Whether private or public, shame is always painful. And unless we deal with it, it’s permanent. Unless we get help — the dawn will never come.

And there are Rebecca Thompson’s in every city, and a Fremont Bridge in every county. And there are many Rebecca Thompson’s in the Bible. So many, in fact, that it almost seems that the pages of Scripture are stitched together with their stories. We know a lot of them, too. Each of us acquainted with the hard floor of the canyon of shame. But there’s one woman whose story embodies them all. A story of failure. A story of abuse. A story of shame. And a story of grace.

That’s her, the woman kneeling in the center of the circle. Those men around her are religious leaders. Pharisees, they’re called; self-appointed custodians of conduct. And the other man, the one in the simple clothes, the one sitting on the ground, the one looking at the face of the woman, that’s Jesus. Jesus had been teaching while the woman had been cheating. And the Pharisees are out to stop them both. “Teacher, this woman was caught in the act of adultery.” (John 8:4) The accusation echoes off the courtyard walls. “Caught in the act of adultery.” The words alone are enough to make you blush. Doors slammed open. Covers jerked back. “In the act?” In the arms. In the moment. In the embrace. Caught. “Aha! What have we here? This man’s not your husband. Put some clothes on! We know what to do with women like you!” And in an instant she’s yanked from private passion to public spectacle. Heads poke out of windows as the posse pushes her through the streets. Dogs bark. Neighbors turn. The city sees. People whisper. Clutching a thin robe around her shoulders, she tries to hide her nakedness.

But nothing can hide her shame. From this second on, she’ll be known as an adulteress – like Hester Prynne in Nathaniel Hawthorne’s, The Scarlet Letter. When she goes to the market, women will whisper. When she passes, heads will turn. When her name is mentioned, people will remember. Moral failure is easily recalled. However, the greater travesty goes unnoticed. What the woman did was shameful, but what the Pharisees did was despicable. According to the law, adultery was punishable by death, but only if two people witnessed the act. There had to be two eyewitnesses. How likely are two people to be eyewitnesses to adultery? What are the chances of two people stumbling upon an early morning flurry of forbidden embraces? Unlikely. But even if so, odds are it’s not a coincidence.

So we wonder. How long did the men peer through the window before they barged in? How long did they lurk behind the curtain before they stepped out? And where’s the guy? Adultery requires two to tango. What happened to him? Could it be that he slipped out? The evidence leaves little doubt – it was a trap; she’d been caught. But she’ll soon see that she’s not the catch — she’s just the bait. “The law of Moses commands that we stone to death every woman who does this. What do you say we should do?” (John 8:5). Pretty cocky, this committee of high ethicists. Pretty proud of themselves, these agents of righteousness. This will be a moment they will long remember: the morning they foil and snag the mighty Nazarene. And as for the woman? She’s immaterial. Just a pawn in their game. Her future? Altogether unimportant. Her reputation? Who cares if it’s ruined. She’s a necessary, yet dispensable part of their plan.

So the woman stares at the ground. Her sweaty hair dangles. Her tears drip hot with hurt. Her lips are tight, her jaw is clenched. She knows she’s been framed – there’s no need to look up. She’ll find no kindness. She looks at the stones in their hands, some squeezed so tightly that fingertips are turning white. She thinks of running. But where? She could claim entrapment. But to whom? She could deny the act, but she was seen. She could beg for mercy, but these men offer none. The woman has nowhere to turn. Given our collective instincts, we’d expect Jesus to stand and proclaim judgment on the hypocrites. But he doesn’t. Or you’d hope that he would snatch the woman up and the two be beamed back to Galilee. But that’s not what happens, either. You’d imagine that an angel would descend, or heaven would speak, or the earth would shake. Nope. None of that.

Once again, his move is subtle. But, once again, his message is unmistakable. He writes in the sand. He stoops down and draws in the dirt. The same finger that engraved the commandments on Sinai’s peak and seared the warning on Belshazzar’s wall now scribbles on the courtyard floor. And as he writes, he speaks: “Anyone here who has never sinned can throw the first stone at her.” (v. 7) At that, the young look at the old. The old look in their hearts, and they’re the first to drop their stones. And as they turn to leave, the young Turks with borrowed convictions do the same. The only sound is the thud of rocks and the shuffle of feet. Jesus and the woman are left alone. With the jury gone, the courtroom now becomes the judge’s chambers and the woman awaits the verdict. “Surely, a sermon is brewing. No doubt he’s going to demand that I apologize,” she thinks. But the judge doesn’t speak. His head is down. Perhaps he’s still writing in the sand. He almost seems surprised when he realizes that she’s still there. “Woman, where are they? Has no one judged you guilty?” She answers, “No one, sir.” Then Jesus says, “I also don’t judge you guilty. You may go now, but don’t sin anymore.” (v. 10-11)

If you have ever wondered how God reacts when you fail, frame those words and hang them on the wall. Read them. Ponder them. Drink from them. Stand below them and let them wash over your soul. Or better still, take him with you to your canyon of shame. Invite Christ to journey with you back to the Fremont Bridge of your world. Let him stand beside you as you retell the events of the darkest nights of your soul. And then listen. Listen carefully. He’s speaking: “I don’t judge you guilty.” And watch. Watch carefully. He’s writing – not in the sand this time, but on a cross. And not with his hand, but with his blood. And his message?

“Not guilty.”

Grace,

Randy