Shame

Shame

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 raised 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 raised 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 until 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. Perhaps 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?

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.

Was it shame? Everyone she knew, and thousands she didn’t, had heard the humiliating details of her tragedy. And the stigma of her shame was tattooed deeper with the newspaper ink of every headline. She had been raped. She had been violated. She had 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, don’t they? Gorges of never-ending guilt. Canyon walls painted with the greens and 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. 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. So here’s my question. 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?” (v. 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. Merely 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 mistreatment. 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 and the two would 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. So, what exactly does Jesus do? 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 these 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