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Topic: Acceptance (01/12/04)
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TITLE: The DirtWriter By John Whitfield 01/19/04 |
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by John Whitfield
The Master Teacher had been teaching daily, and now, for over three years, vigorously preparing his twelve chosen foot soldiers to carry on the ministry. He was often tired,weary,and depleted, once even exhaustedly sitting down by a well in mid day while the men went to purchase food. Yet, even then He found time to give drink to another who was thirsty.
He once escaped the throngs of people across a lake, only to find others waiting, needing, listening to the teachings. Hungry Himself, He paused to feed over five thousand.
And He even cut His own sleep short to arise early in the morning, before Day. He, the Need Meeter, was needing to meet with His Father. In Prayer.
He was THE ONE, the one that humankind was in so desperate need of. He came to minister.
And This One, the blessed Teacher, was the one they brought "her" to. Yes, He was teaching and preaching and ministering into people's lives, and, yes, answering their questions. All of their questions-even their trick questions.
So, they had caught "her." Yes, in the act, the very act.
How embarassing. For everyone.
For them. For the people around. For the community.
For Him.
For her.
They threw her down at His feet, taking no time to even supply a robe or cloth of minimum modesty. Just flung down on the ground, like the carcass of a conquered king.
"Moses said to stone her! What do YOU say?" they sarcastically swelled and arrogantly bombasted.
How ironic, that in this surreal moment, in all of her shame and immodesty, no one was actually looking at her. All eyes were fixed on Him. It suddenly was not what did she do? It was what would He do?
He amazed them all when He didn't even speak. He just turned around, bent down, and wrote something on the ground.In the dirt.
Can you imagine the eyes and necks straining to see what the Teacher had written? Was it an Old Testament verse? A scripture? The Ten Commandments?
Or, could it have possibly been the very sins that had been committed by these pious, drooling accusers? These slobbering vultures, moving in on a dying soul?
At last, He did speak. Not loudly, but oh, so directly. With the eye contact of the Creator looking His Creation in the eye, He slowly and softly said, "Let him who is without sin cast the first stone."
There was a stone dead pause in the air.
Then. Thunk.
A stone fell to the ground.
Thunk.
Another stone.
Thunk . . thunk . . thunk.
The oldest accuser left first. Then, one by ashamedly one, head bowed, feet shuffling. Out. Away. The roar of the silence became deafening.
No more stones.
No more stony hearts.
No sound.
He turned. Slowly.
He looked down on her head. Her long hair, she twistedly held down over her shoulders, to try to somehow cover herself.
"Woman," He said.
She didn't want to, but, she looked up. But she looked up into the kindest eyes she had ever seen. Eyes that did not condemn, but eyes that seemed to say that they felt her pain, her embarassment, her shame, her agony. But, at the same time, eyes that offered something. Something wonderful.
Hope. They offered Hope. These eyes offered Hope.
And with eyes locked, He said quietly, but sternly, "Where are your accusers?"
With a mysterious awareness settling over her, she looked around and saw no one but Him.
Then, somehow, through the lump in her throat,the tears, the running nose, the broken floodgates of her eyes,she saw no one but Him, and sobbed out, "There are none, Lord."
He leaned over, took off His robe and laid it over her, leaving only her head and hair exposed. He then took her by the hand, cupped His other hand over hers,and, staring straight through her eyes into her soul,said softly, yet encouragingly, "Neither do I condemn thee; go, and sin no more."
They stood up.
She went.
She never did that again.
She was accepted.
Accepted in the beloved.