Tonight, James talked through a passage in John 8:1-11 at Hope Students. It's the woman who is accused of adultery and Jesus calls the Pharisees out and tells the woman to leave and sin no more. James pointed out that Jesus writes something in the sand and he thinks that it was a name of a girl that all the Pharisees would have known because they had committed adultery. The same sin this girl was about to be stoned over.
This story messes me up. Because I often feel like her. Called out among the masses (even if the masses are the multiple people having conversations in my head) by the name of my sin. My name doesn't stay Melissa in those moments. It is the name of every wrong-doing, heartbreak, anxiety, stress, mistake, and SIN. ((deep breath)) So many words came into my head as James was telling the story and I just want to share it with you because I think we realize that we are all that woman who was about to be stoned. The rocks were about to hit and kill us but YET, GRACE. Great, great grace. Grace that is greater than all my sins. Go here with me for a minute.
I could hear them. They were coming.
I knew it was me. They were coming for me.
They were saying my name.
They grabbed my arm.
They being these "religious men" I knew far too well.
Did they really believe that I was the guilty one and they were the innocent?
I knew I wasn't innocent. I had committed a great crime.
And now I. I was guilty. And I knew it. I couldn't deny it.
So, as they grabbed my arm, I couldn't even fight the urge to not be stoned.
I knew I deserved it. I was deeply embarrassed.
As they dragged me through the streets, I could hear them.
Laughing. Moaning. Saying it. My name. The only thing I felt I had left. My name.
By now, my dignity had been stripped.
I had no integrity and there was nothing to hide anymore.
I was in the middle of the square and through tear-filled eyes, I looked up.
I realized that everyone was looking DOWN.
Deep down at me.
It was as if they weren't just accusing me of one. But all.
So many sins.
My word, will they read it on a scroll to the crowd?
Will they expose my pain as a healing to their greed of my life?
Yes, yes, I knew they would. As soon as they were given a chance.
Because the exposure of my pain would mean.
It would mean that for one seemingly vast moment, theirs would disappear.
They could be hidden because my name was destroyed.
I kept looking down. Fighting the voices out loud.
Fighting the voices in my head.
And then I saw His finger. It traced through the sand so easily.
So quickly. So fully confident.
Would He defend me?
Would He write my name there?
I had to look away for I was now fearful.
Their knuckles cracked. They yelled at Him.
As He wrote, they argued and talked about me.
They used my name.
His finger, barely moved, from an earthy dust, upward into the air.
And He looked. He looked at "those" religious men.
Straight in the face.
And then they too looked down.
For the words written there. In that dry heat was theirs.
It wasn't just me anymore.
It was someone, something they knew well.
And I couldn't read it. I couldn't bare the thought.
I could only hope that it wasn't me. Not my name.
And He began to write again.
The more intensely He wrote, the more silent the earth fell.
And then I could hear. Much more clearly this time.
Their knuckles stopped popping.
The sound of the stone being thrown up in the air and caught.
Quit. It was as if time stood still and in a moment's notice.
Drop. Drop. Drop. Drop. Drop. Drop.
Dirt splashed. Droplets of sand and tiny pebbles hit the hem of my dress.
And it wasn't on purpose.
The drops became louder and as I peeked from behind tear-stained eyes,
I realized the rocks were there. They were on the ground.
The men who had shouted my name were walking away.
They were STILL looking down.
But it wasn't my shame anymore, it wasn't my guilt anymore.
It was their own. And I wondered. How? Just how am I left?
Physically unscathed. No bruises or marks.
Just wet cheeks and red eyes.
He looked at me. He looked down at me.
He said my name.
My name.
The name that had been shouted and abused in the streets only moments before.
He grabbed my arm. But it wasn't the same.
It was gentle and willing and compassionate.
And He said my name again.
He looked at my dark eyes and war-torn face and said, "Go."
Where would I go? To whom would I go to?
"Go and sin no more."
He would not stop looking me straight in the face.
He would not stop loving me with compassion in His eyes.
He would not stop saying my name with His heart.
I was shamed. But I was innocent.
I was forgotten. But I was found.
I was broken. But I was healed.
I was worn out. But I was redeemed.
He said my name. For my name to go and live.
For my name to continue in forgiveness.
My name. Covered in grace and mercy.
And enough love to willingly die for the entire world.
And the people who would rebel against Him.
I could tell He knew it well. And it still sounded brand new on His lips.
My name. Joy. Peace. Forgiven. Redemption. That's my name.
He said my name.
Grateful for a new name. A brand new name. -Melis
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