The God who Stoops

 

The God who Stoops

The God who Stoops - Audio/Visual 

As Jesus was speaking, the teachers of religious law and the Pharisees brought a woman who had been caught in the act of adultery. They put her in front of the crowd. “Teacher,” they said to Jesus, “this woman was caught in the act of adultery. The law of Moses says to stone her. What do you say?” They were trying to trap him into saying something they could use against him, but Jesus stooped down and wrote in the dust with his finger. They kept demanding an answer, so he stood up again and said, “All right, but let the one who has never sinned throw the first stone!” Then he stooped down again and wrote in the dust. (John 8:3-8)

The voices yanked her out of bed. "You whore!" "What kind of woman are you?" Priests slammed open the bedroom door, threw back the window curtains and pulled off the covers and before she could even feel the warmth of the morning sun, she felt the heat of their scorn. She scarcely had time to cover up before they marched her through the narrow streets where the elite of Jerusalem became a jury and rendered their verdict with icy glares and crossed arms.

And as if the bedroom raid and walk of shame weren’t enough, the men thrust her into the middle of a morning Bible study. “Early the next morning [Jesus] was back again at the Temple. A crowd soon gathered, and he sat down and taught them. As he was speaking, the teachers of religious law and Pharisees brought a woman they had caught in the act of adultery. They put her in front of the crowd.” (vv. 2, 3) Stunned students stood on one side of her, and pious plaintiffs stood on the other. They had their questions and convictions; she had her dangling negligee and smeared lipstick. "This woman was caught in the very act of adultery," her accusers roared.

Caught in the very act. In the moment. In his arms. In the passion. Caught in the very act by the Jerusalem Council on Morals and Decency. "The law of Moses says to stone her. What do you say?" (v. 4) The woman had no exit. Deny the accusation? She’d been caught. Plead for mercy? From whom? From God? His self-appointed spokesmen were squeezing stones and snarling their lips. No one would speak for her. But someone would stoop for her. Jesus "stooped down and wrote in the dust." (v. 6)

We’d expect him to stand up, step forward or maybe even ascend a stair or two and speak. But, instead, he leaned over. He descended lower than anyone else – beneath the priests, the people, even beneath the woman. The accusers looked down on her. But to see Jesus, they had to look even farther down. The teacher’s prone to stoop, however. He stooped to wash feet and to embrace children. He stooped to pull Peter out of the sea, and to pray in the Garden. He stooped before the Roman whipping post and stooped to carry the cross. Grace is a God who stoops. Here, he stooped to write in the dirt.

Maybe Jesus wrote in the dust for his own benefit. Or, maybe for hers. To divert gaping eyes from the scantily clad, just-caught woman who stood in the center of the circle? We don’t know. But the posse grew impatient with the silent, stooping Jesus. "They kept demanding an answer, so he stood up." (v. 7) And he stood, all right, but not to preach – his words would be very few. And not for long since he’d soon stoop again. He stood on behalf of the woman. He placed himself between her and the lynch mob and said, "'All right, stone her. But let those who have never sinned throw the first rock!'”

Then he stooped again and resumed writing in the dust. (John 8:7-8) Name-callers shut their mouths. Rocks fell to the ground. Jesus resumed his scribbling. "When the accusers heard this, they slipped away one by one, beginning with the oldest, until only Jesus was left in the middle of the crowd with the woman." (v. 9) But Jesus wasn't finished. He stood one final time and asked the woman, "Where are your accusers?" (v. 10) What a question. But it wasn’t just for her. He asks you the same.

Voices of condemnation shout at us as well. "You aren't good enough." "You'll never improve." "You failed – again." The voices in our world. The voices in our head. Who is this morality law enforcement officer who issues a citation at every stumble? Who reminds us of our every mistake? Doesn’t he ever shut up? No. Because Satan never shuts up. The apostle John called him the Accuser. (Rev. 12:9-10) Day after day. Hour after hour. Relentless; tireless. The Accuser makes a career out of accusing. He’s a pro at it. Unlike the conviction of the Holy Spirit, Satan's condemnation doesn’t bring about repentance or resolve, just regret. He has one aim: "to steal, and to kill, and to destroy." (John 10:10) He steals your peace, kills your dreams, and destroys your future. He even enlists people to help peddle his poison. Friends dredge up your past. Preachers preach all guilt and no grace. Even parents, some of whom, it seems, own a travel agency specializing in guilt trips.

Condemnation is the preferred commodity of Satan. He will repeat the adulterous woman scenario as often as you let him, marching you through the city streets and dragging your name through the mud. He pushes you into the center of the crowd and megaphones your sin: this person was caught in an act of immorality . . . stupidity. . . dishonesty . . . irresponsibility. But he won’t have the last word.

Jesus has already acted on your behalf. He stooped for you, just like he did for the woman. Low enough to sleep in a manger, work in a carpentry shop, and sleep in a fishing boat. Low enough to rub shoulders with crooks and lepers. Low enough to be spat on, slapped, nailed and speared. Low enough to be buried. And then he stood. Up from the slab of death. Tall. High. He stood up for the woman and silenced her accusers, and he does the same for you. He is “in the presence of God at this very moment sticking up for us." (Rom. 8:34) Let that sink in for just a moment. In the presence of God, in defiance of Satan, Jesus Christ rises to your defense. Christ offers unending intercession on your behalf.

Jesus said farewell to your earthly condemnations: Stupid. Unproductive. Slow. Fast talker. Quitter. Cheapskate. You are, instead, who he says you are: Spiritually alive. Heavenly positioned. Connected to God. A billboard of mercy. An honored child. That’s the "aggressive forgiveness we call grace." (Rom. 5:20) Satan’s been left speechless and without ammunition because who can accuse the people God has chosen? No one – God’s the one who makes them right. Who can say God's people are guilty? No one – Jesus died, was raised from the dead and now sits at the right hand of God appealing to God for us. (Rom. 8:33-34) Against that onslaught, the accusations of Satan sputter and fall like the leaves during the season that bears their descent.

So why then do we still hear them? The accusations. Why do we, as Christians, still feel guilt? Not all guilt is bad, mind you. God uses appropriate doses of guilt to awaken us to sin. We know guilt is God-given when it causes "indignation . . . alarm . . . longing . . . concern . . . ." (2 Cor. 7:11) God's guilt brings enough regret to change us. Satan's guilt, on the other hand, brings enough regret to enslave us.

Curiously, or maybe ironically, the character for the word righteousness in Chinese is actually a combination of two words: the word, “Lamb,” written over the word, “Me.” The lamb is on top, covering the person. And whenever God looks down at you, that’s what he sees: the perfect Lamb of God covering you. So, it really boils down to this: Do you trust your Advocate or your Accuser? Your answer to that question has serious implications. It certainly did for Jean Valjean.

Victor Hugo introduced us to this character in his classic, Les Misérables. A just-released prisoner, Jean Valjean has wandered for days in the Alpine chill but can’t find a place to stay. No one will take him in. He’s a convicted felon. No one wants to expose their home and safety to an ex-con. Not until Valjean knocks on the door of the bishop's house. Monseigneur Myriel is seventy-five, and the French Revolution has taken its toll on him, too – all of his valuables were confiscated, except some silverware, a soup ladle, and two candlesticks. Touched, the bishop asks the visitor to warm himself by the fire and then takes the ex-prisoner to a table where they dine on soup and bread, figs, and some cheese with wine using the bishop's remaining silverware. Afterward, he shows Valjean to a bedroom. But in spite of the comfort, the ex-thief can't sleep. In spite of the kindness of the bishop, he can't resist the temptation. So, he stuffs the silverware into his knapsack. The priest, meanwhile, sleeps through the robbery and Valjean disappears into the night. But he doesn't get far. The police catch him and march him back to the bishop's house. Valjean knows what his capture means – prison for the rest of his life.

But then something astonishing happens. Before the officer can explain the crime, the bishop steps forward. "Oh! There you are! I'm so glad to see you. I can't believe you forgot the candlesticks! They are made of pure silver as well.... Please take them with the forks and spoons I gave you." Valjean is stunned. The bishop dismisses the policemen and then turns and says, "Jean Valjean, my brother, you no longer belong to evil, but to good. I have bought your soul from you. I take it back from evil thoughts and deeds and the Spirit of Hell, and I give it to God." Valjean has a choice: believe the priest or believe his past. Fortunately, Jean Valjean believes the priest. He becomes the mayor of a small town. He builds a factory and gives jobs to the poor. He takes pity on a dying mother and raises her daughter. Grace changed him, and it can change you, too.

Don’t listen to Satan's voice. You "have an Advocate with the Father, Jesus Christ the righteous." (1 John 2:1) As your Advocate, he defends you and says on your behalf, "There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus." (Rom. 8:1) And wasn't that the message of Jesus to the woman? "Where are your accusers? Didn't even one of them condemn you?" "No, Lord," she said. And Jesus said, "Neither do I. Go and sin no more." (John 8:10-11) Within a few moments the courtyard was empty. It was just Jesus and the woman. Her critics had all left and there she was, alone with Jesus.

She sees the rocks on the ground, abandoned and unused. And she looks at the scribbling in the dust. It's the only sermon that Jesus ever wrote. And even though we don't know the words, maybe Jesus wrote: My grace is bigger than your sin because grace is the God who stoops – even for you.

Grace,

Randy