PAGE 45 The Gospel of Second Changes Continued from P.44
the teacher. They throw the woman in his direction. She nearly falls. “We found this woman in bed with a man!” cries the leader. “The law says
to stone her. What do you say?” Cocky with borrowed courage, they smirk as they watch the mouse go for the cheese.
The woman searches the faces, hungry for a compassionate glance. She
finds none. Instead, she sees accusation. Squinty eyes. Tight lips. Gritted teeth. Stares that sentence without seeing. Cold, stony hearts that condemn without feeling. She looks down and
sees the rocks in their hands — the rocks of righteousness intended to stone the lust out of her. The men squeeze them so tightly that their fingertips are white. They squeeze them as if the rocks were the throat of the preacher they hate.
In her despair she looks at the Teacher. His eyes don’t glare. “Don’t worry,”
the eyes whisper, “it’s okay.” And for the first time that morning she sees kind- ness.
When Jesus saw her, what did he see? Did he see her as a father sees
his grown daughter as she walks down the wedding aisle? The father’s mind races back through time watching his girl grow up again — from diapers to dolls. From classrooms to boyfriends. From the prom date to the wedding day. The father sees it all as he looks at his daughter. As Jesus looked at this daughter, did his mind race back? Did he relive the
act of forming his child in heaven? Did he see her as he had originally made her?
“Knitted together” is how the psalmist described the process of God mak- ing man. Not manufactured or mass-produced, but knitted. Each thread of per- sonality tenderly intertwined. Each string of temperament deliberately selected.
God as creator. Pensive. Excited. Inventive. An artist, brush on pallet, seeking the perfect shade.
A composer fingers on keyboard, listening for the exact chord. A poet, pen poised on paper, awaiting the precise word. The Creator, the master weaver, threading together the soul. Each one different. No two alike. None identical.
On earth, Jesus was an artist in a gallery of his own paintings. He was
a composer listening as the orchestra interpreted his music. He was a poet hearing his own poetry. Yet his works of art had been defaced. Creation after battered creation. He had created people for splendor. They had settled for mediocrity. He had formed them with love. They had scarred each other with hate.
When he saw businessmen using God-given intelligence to feed Satan- given greed…
When he saw tongues that had been designed to encourage used as daggers to cut… When he saw hands that had been given for holding used as weapons for hurting… When he saw eyes into which he’d sprinkled joy now burning with hatred… I wonder, did it weary him to see hearts that were stained, even discarded?
Jesus saw such a heart as he looked at this woman. Her feet were bare
and muddy. Her arms hid her chest and her hands clutched at each other under her chin. And her heart was ragged; torn as much by her own guilt as by the mob’s anger. So, with the tenderness only a father can have, he set out to untie the
knots and repair the holes. He begins by diverting the crowd’s attention. He draws on the ground. Everybody looks down. The woman feels relief as the eyes of the men look away from her. The accusers are persistent. “Tell us, Teacher! What do you want us to
do with her?” He could have asked why they didn’t bring the man. The Law indicted him as well. He could have been asked why they were suddenly blow- ing the dust off an old command that had sat on the shelves for centuries. But he didn’t. He just raised his head and offered an invitation, ”I guess if you’ve never
made a mistake, then you have the right to stone this woman.” He looked back down and began to draw on the earth again. Someone cleared his throat as if to speak, but no one spoke. Feet shuffled. Eyes dropped. Then thud…thud… thud…rocks fell to the ground. And they walked away. Beginning with the gray- est beard and ending with the blackest, they turned and left. They came as one, but they left one by one. Jesus told the woman to lookup. “Is there no one to condemn you?” He smiled as she raised her head. She saw no one, only rocks — each one a min- iature tombstone to mark the burial place of a man’s arrogance.
1 John 8:1-11. 2 Psalm 139:13 The Gospel of Second Chances Published by Up- Words Ministries © 1989 by Max Lucado Edited by Karen Hill “Forgiven Forever” taken from Six Hours One Friday © 1989 by Max Lucado. “Forgotten Forever” taken from God Came Near © 1987 by Multnomah Press Unless otherwise indicated, all Scripture references are from the Holy Bible, New
International Version, © 1973, 1978, 1984, by the International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Bible Publishers. Scripture references marked RSV are from the Revised Standard Version of the
Bible, © 1946, 1952, 1971, 1973 Division of Christian Education, National Council of the Churches of Christ in the USA.
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“Is there no one to condemn you?” he’d asked. There is still one who can, she thinks. And she turns to look at him. What does
he want? What will he do? Maybe she expected him to scold her. Perhaps she expected him to walk
away from her. I’m not sure, but I do know this: What she got, she never ex- pected. She got a promise and a commission.
The promise: “Then neither do I condemn you.” The commission: “Go and sin no more.”
The woman turns and walks into anonymity. She’s never seen or heard
from again. But we can be confident of one thing: On that morning in Jerusa- lem, she saw Jesus and Jesus saw her. And could we somehow transport her to Rio de Janeiro and let her stand at the base of the Christo Redentor, I know what her response would be. “That’s not the Jesus I saw,” she would say. And she would be right. For
the Jesus she saw didn’t have a hard heart. And the Jesus that saw her didn’t have blind eyes. However, if we could somehow transport her to Calvary and led her stand at the base of the cross…you know what she would say. “That’s him,” she would whisper. “That’s him.” She would recognize his hands. The only hands that held no stones that
day were his. And on this day they still hold no stones. She would recognize his voice. It’s raspier and weaker, but the words are the same, “Father, forgive them…” And she would recognize his eyes. How could she ever forget those eyes? Clear and tear-filled. Eyes that saw her not as she was, but as she was intended to be.
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