Stooped
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. Before she felt 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 Jerusalem became a jury and rendered its
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 crowed.
Caught in the very
act. In the moment. In the arms. In the passion. Caught in the very act by the
Jerusalem Council on Decency and Conduct. "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 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 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 down even farther. The teacher’s prone to stoop,
however. He stooped to wash feet; to embrace children. He stooped to pull Peter
out of the sea; to pray in the Garden. He stooped before the Roman whipping
post; stooped to carry the cross. Grace is a God who stoops. Here, he stooped
to write in the dust.
Maybe Jesus
wrote in the soil 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, alright, but not to preach – his words would be very few. And not for
long – 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
down again and wrote 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, who seem to 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 the 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 a deflated balloon.
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.
In Chinese, the character
for the word righteousness 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 Miserables. 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, some cheese with wine, using the
bishop's remaining fine 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 wonderful happens. Before the officer can explain the crime, the
bishop steps forward. "Oh! Here 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. 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 to 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. 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 Jesus ever wrote. And even though we don't know
the words, maybe Jesus wrote: My grace is
bigger than your sin.
Grace,
Randy
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