To say my heart plunged into my stomach when the Pharisee burst into my room was an understatement. The moment he grabbed my arm, pulling me away from the man in my bed, I knew that I was going to die. I clutched at blankets and discarded clothing, anything to hide my immodestly dressed figure. I screamed as I landed on the clay ground and the lump in my throat made breathing even more difficult than the cloud of dust our scuffle had caused to invade my lungs. The angry man wrenched me to my bare feet and slapped me, leaving bold red marks across my face.
“What do you want?” I cried, trying to regain any of my confidence.
“What do I want?” he sneered. “He will answer. And he will pay.” My eyes flashed to the man in the corner, who was hurriedly dressing. He looked back at me with cold, blank eyes and I realized quickly that he wasn’t the man that the Pharisee was talking about. If it wasn’t him, who were they after?
He pulled me out the door and into the city streets quickly. I struggled, but I was nothing against the power of this man’s anger. He reached the temple courts and threw me at a man’s feet. The rabbi Yeshua. I had only heard about this man—performing miracles, giving sermons, and spending time with outcasts—people like me. I barely heard the shouts of the Pharisees. The calmness and gentleness that radiated from this man, this teacher, overpowered me.
The man who had dragged me from my home spoke. “Teacher, I found this woman in the act of adultery. In the Law of Moses, we are commanded to stone such women.” He paused, it seemed, for effect. “What then do you say?”
I couldn’t see this man’s face, but I stared at his feet from my place on the ground, tears rolling down my face. I cursed the white fabric of my undergarment that clung to every curve I had. No one would ever forgive me. I didn’t deserve any forgiveness—I was an adulteress, a sinner, an outcast. The teachers had found in the law that I was unworthy to live any longer, and I was about to die.
The man kneeled on the ground. I felt his eyes on me for a brief moment before he started to write on the ground. I glanced up at him, incredulous. What was he doing? The teachers still taunted him, asking questions, almost daring him to answer. He stood, and the crowd and the teachers hushed, waiting with bated breath for his answer, hoping, praying, that he would condemn himself by answering. “If any one of you is without sin, let him be the first to throw a stone at her.” He stooped back down beside me and continued his scribbling on the ground.
I threw my arms over my head, waiting for the self-righteous Pharisees to throw their stones and incite everyone else to violence. The stones never came. The shuffle of retreating footsteps began, and I raised my head. I watched in amazement as everyone left, the older citizens first, and the Pharisees reluctantly last, surely cursing this Yeshua in their heads, and already beginning more scheming of how to trap him in another way.
He stopped scribbling in the dirt and rose to his feet, brushing the sand from his garments, and held out a hand to me. I hesitated, but took his hand, which was worn with calluses like a carpenter, but at the same time, warm, comforting, and gentle. He pulled me to my feet and asked, “Woman, where are they? Has no one condemned you?”
“N-no one, sir,” I stammered, unsure of what to say. Surely a man so good would have a few words to say about the actions I had committed.
He pulled the wide sash of fabric from around his waist and gently wrapped it around my shoulders, his eyes filled with a love I hadn’t seen since my father had died. “Then neither do I condemn you. Go on your way and sin no more.” And he was gone.
I fell to my knees and cried. The fabric around my shoulders was still warm from his touch. I felt lighter than I had in years. I had deserved the punishment that the Pharisees had been ready to give me. How could this ordinary man, who traveled around teaching, have been able to fill a void in my heart that had been there as long as I could remember? I rose to my feet slowly, wiping away my tears. Why? By vouching for me, he could have suffered the fate of stoning himself. Then I knew. The rumors that this man, this Yeshua, was our Messiah were true. I wouldn’t need married men or empty pleasures to fill the void any longer. My God has stopped for a moment, held out his hand, and forgiven me of it all.
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