WEBVTT

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He ever felt like the dust on your life was the

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only honest thing left? Like maybe God knew your

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name, but only because someone told on you? Well,

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tonight's not a pep talk. It ain't a list of

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moral improvements or five easy steps to holiness.

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It's a story, a sacred one, about a woman caught

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in the act and a God who didn't flinch. You're

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listening to The Semi -Seminarian, and this is

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Write This Down, a gospel about a God who kneels.

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Tonight, we're stepping into John chapter 8,

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but we're not just going to read it. We're going

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to walk it barefoot, slow, right through the

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dirt. Because sometimes the only way to hear

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the gospel is to feel the ground Jesus knelt

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on when everybody else was reaching for a stone

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to throw. And if this is the kind of storytelling

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that hits you where you live, go ahead, like,

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share, subscribe. Not because I need the algorithm

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to bless me, but because someone else might be

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down in the dust tonight too, waiting to hear

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their name said in mercy. So come close. Don't

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clean up. Don't flinch. We're not climbing any

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ladders here. We're building a porch. Let's go.

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I'll see you on the other side. Last couple weeks,

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the last couple times at least, it started last

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week at Bible study where it was a story that

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I thought was kind of hard. The story about when

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Jesus, when people start leaving Jesus. That's

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one of those I classify as hard stories of the

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Bible, because when you read it, man, that doesn't

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fit with the rest of the story. And then we looked

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at the story on Sunday about Abraham and Isaac,

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and that's a hard story. And one of the things

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I discovered a couple weeks ago was, I feel like

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when we take that scripture and we actually treat

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it like a story that we can put ourselves in,

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It seems to help us get more out of the story

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than just a regular sermon. And I think it's

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because hard stories in the Bible are hard because

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we don't want to see ourselves in them. We don't

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like the implications of what's happening in

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the story, and we certainly don't want it to

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apply to our lives. So we think of them as hard.

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We don't want to see ourselves in those stories.

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I think intentionally putting ourselves in the

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story opens up this whole new lens on what that

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particular story is trying to teach us today,

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not just a story about something that happened

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2 ,000 years ago, but what impact does it have

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on my life today? So I'm going to try and do

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that again. If you are interested, tonight I'll

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be looking at John 8. where we'll find the story.

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It's a very well -known story. But what I want

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to share with you guys tonight isn't just a retelling

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for your intellect, but rather an invitation

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for your imagination. Because we're stepping

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into a sacred space tonight. A woman is caught,

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not in rumor, not in theory, but in the act.

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She's dragged out, half -clothed, shamed. used

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as bait for a theological trap. And Jesus, he

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stoops in the dirt with her. Now, before I say

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anything else, before I continue with the story,

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I want us to feel it. I want us to smell the

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dust, hear the crowd. You might know this story.

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Don't rush to the ending. Let's walk through

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it slow together. Their sandals on the ground.

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So now, with our hearts open, our imaginations

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awakened, let's step into the moment as it was

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recorded. Not just to hear it, but to feel it.

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So listen closely to the words of John 8, verses

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3 -11. The teachers of the law and the Pharisees

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brought in a woman caught in adultery. They made

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her stand up before the group, and Jesus said

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to Jesus, Teacher, this woman was caught in the

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act of adultery, and the law of Moses has commanded

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us to stone such women. Now what do you say?

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They were using this question as a trap in order

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to have a basis for accusing him. But Jesus bent

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down and started to write on the ground with

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his finger. When they kept questioning him, He

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straightened up and said to them, Let any of

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you who is without sin be the first to throw

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a stone at her. Again, he stooped down and wrote

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in the ground. At this, those who heard began

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to go away one at a time, the older ones first,

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until only Jesus was left with the woman still

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standing there. Jesus straightened up and asked

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her, Woman, where are they? Has no one condemned

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you? No one, sir, she said. Then neither do I

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condemn you, Jesus declared. Go now. Leave your

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life for sin. Thus ends the reading of the word.

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That's a scene. A woman dragged and exposed.

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A question loaded like a weapon. Silence. Pregnant

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with power. But now let's slow it down even more.

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Let's stay in that courtyard a little longer.

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Let the dust cling to our feet. Because this

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is where imagination meets incarnation. This

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is where her story begins to sound a lot like

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ours. You wake up with gravel in your hair. You

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don't remember falling asleep. You don't remember

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the walk home. You barely remember the night

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and only fragments of his voice. The weight of

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his hands. The sound of your name. And now it's

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morning. Your mouth tastes like ashes. The linen

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sheet tangled around your leg isn't yours. The

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man who whispered promises in the dark is now

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gone. Like they always are. Gone like the others.

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Gone like the hope you had as a young girl. Gone

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like the dream that maybe, just maybe, someday

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someone would stay. You wrap the sheet around

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you and you sit up. Maybe if you move slowly

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enough, you can unshatter last night. But before

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you can stand, the door bursts open. Hands grab,

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voices shout, religious men, their robes spotless,

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their eyes already full of verdicts. You know

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their faces. Some of them watched you grow up.

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Some looked the other way when you were young

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and hungry and survived however you could. Some

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of them know your name, knew your father's name.

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They don't ask what's happened. They don't ask

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if you were a coerced. They don't even ask his

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name. They say the word adultery like it stains

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the air. like your name should be carved on a

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tombstone. You try to cover your face, try to

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keep the sheet wrapped tight, but they don't

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care because you're just a lesson now, a prop

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in a sermon they want to preach. They drag you

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through the streets, dirt on your knees, stone

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under your heel. You wonder if this is how the

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dogs feel when they're stoned to death outside

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the camp. You wonder if that's where they're

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taking you. You pass a woman carrying bread.

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She turns away. A child stares until his mother

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pulls him close. The shame crawls up your spine

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like heat. A man spits. Another man quotes the

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Torah. Not loud enough to accuse, but loud enough

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to condemn. But instead of the back alley or

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the edge of town, they take you to a man. He's

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sitting in the temple courtyard. He's been teaching

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all morning, surrounded by a crowd. Ordinary

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folks, farmers, widows, teenagers. Some came

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to hear about the kingdom, some to be healed.

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Some just needed hope to cost less than a sacrifice.

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John chapter 8, 3 through 5. The teachers of

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the law and the Pharisees brought in a woman

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caught in adultery. They made her stand before

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the group and said to Jesus, Teacher, this woman

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was caught in the act of adultery. in the law

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of Moses, commands us to stone such women. Now

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what do you say? And they say it like a trap.

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Not for you. They've already made up their mind

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about you. For him. You? You're just bait. And

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he says nothing. The crowd shifts uncertain.

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The men who brought you here puff their chests

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out a little bit like they've already won. Some

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in the crowd avert their eyes. Some watch him

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waiting for a reaction. But he doesn't move like

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other men. He doesn't posture. He doesn't protest.

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Verse 6, but Jesus bent down and started to ride

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on the ground with his finger. He doesn't look

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at you. He doesn't look at them. He just kneels.

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The sound of his robe brushing the dirt is louder

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than you expect. It's the sound of someone choosing

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not to fight. He writes in the dirt. His finger

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moves slow. Not like someone scribbling out of

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nervous habit, but rather someone inscribing

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something meant to last. No one can see what

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he's writing. That doesn't stop the murmuring.

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You hear one of the Pharisees shift his weight

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impatiently. Another adjusts his sash like that

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might somehow strengthen his righteousness. You

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stay still, bare knees in the sand. Crowd now

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seems impossibly large. All of them watching

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you, watching him. Wanting and waiting to see

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just what kind of Messiah this might be. One

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who draws swords, one who draws silence. And

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you, you just want to disappear. You just want

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to become the dust he's writing in. Maybe, maybe

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he's writing their names. Maybe their sins. Maybe

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he's writing yours. Maybe he's reminding them

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of what they have forgotten. That the dust they're

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standing on, that she's kneeling in, was once

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holy the moment God breathed on it. And it still

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is. Someone scoffs. Another one says your name

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with disgust. The older ones shift their weight

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like they're ready to throw their stones. The

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men start pressing him again, only louder this

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time, like they're trying to rile a judge to

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anger. Their words are sharp, measured. Practiced.

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The kind of certainty that never comes from grace,

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only from fear. They say Moses, they say law,

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they say God's command, but the word made flesh

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says nothing. He just breathes. And in the middle

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of their shouts and of their demands, he speaks.

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John 8, verse 7. When they kept on questioning

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him, he straightened up and said to them, let

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any of you who's without sin be the first to

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throw a stone at her. And then he kneels again.

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Still no eye contact. Still no raised voice.

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Just grace whispered in the dust. And then you

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hear it before you see it. A rock. trying to

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burrow itself in the sand. And one by one, stones

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begin to hit the ground. Some fall slow, some

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fast. The oldest men go first. The younger ones

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take longer. Maybe some of them don't even know

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why they're letting go, only that something in

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this moment demands it. Something about that

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silence pulls the rage right out of their fists.

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One stone rolls to stop at your feet, and you

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don't dare touch it. Another clatters behind

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you. Another lands behind the hem of your sheet.

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And then, for what felt like an eternity, nothing.

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No words, no footsteps, just the sound of judgment.

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Losing its grip. You don't look up, but you can

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feel them leave. The voices fade down the street.

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The verdicts disappear. But still you stay hunched

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over, bracing for what comes next. Because sometimes

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silence feels like a second kind of violence.

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And then... There's only one man left. He stands

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up. His shadow moves across the ground towards

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you. For a moment, you can't breathe. Not from

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fear, but from the weight of being seen. You

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brace for his judgment. But his voice is different.

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Gentle. Sad. John chapter 8, 10 and 11. Jesus

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straightened up and asked her, Woman, where are

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they? Has no one condemned you? No one, sir,

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she said. Then neither do I condemn you, Jesus

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declared. Go now and leave the life of sin. And

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he says it to her like it's a blessing, like

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it's a promise, not a threat. Not a finger pointed,

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but a hand offered. The kind of hand that reaches

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into the dust and lifts you up. The kind that

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doesn't flinch at your story. The kind that doesn't

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recoil from your name. The kind that doesn't

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want to give you your dignity back because it

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never left. It's just waiting for someone to

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notice it. And maybe, just maybe, that someone

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was you. Maybe you don't even know how to stand

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yet what you've been seeing. Not as a scandal,

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not as a symbol, but as a soul. And somehow,

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that's enough. Grace doesn't erase the past,

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but it refuses to weaponize it. And in the dust,

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beneath the weight of all... that we've done

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or all that we've failed to do, Jesus still kneels,

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still writes, still waits. And maybe you've tried

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to change. And maybe you've begged God to fix

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you in the dark. And maybe you've made promises

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you couldn't keep. sworn you'd never go back,

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only to wake up in the same old ruins again.

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And maybe, maybe despite your best efforts, you

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fall back into that same old place. It's still

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grace. It's still restoration. It's still Jesus

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kneeling beside you, not flinching, not leaving,

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not ashamed of you, not disappointed. Just waiting

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like he always has, not to condemn, but to restore.

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And maybe this is the first time in a long time

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you've heard someone say it quite like that.

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Maybe you've lived your whole life thinking God

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was holding his breath, watching, waiting for

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you to just mess up again. But he's not holding

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his breath. He's holding out his hand. And if

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you listen closely, friends, in the quiet, after

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the stones have dropped, you can hear the sound

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of grace clearing its throat, ready to speak

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your name again, gently, without judgment, without

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shame. Because you were never just a case to

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be argued. You were never just a category of

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sin. You were never just what you did. You were

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always a person, a soul worth saving, a daughter

00:18:39.700 --> 00:18:43.119
worth defending, a name worth saying out loud

00:18:43.119 --> 00:18:50.740
in the presence of mercy. So maybe, maybe, it's

00:18:50.740 --> 00:18:56.480
time to stop running. Maybe it's time to stop.

00:18:56.779 --> 00:18:59.500
cowering in the dirt waiting for a stone that's

00:18:59.500 --> 00:19:03.720
never coming. And maybe it's time to stand back

00:19:03.720 --> 00:19:08.859
up. Not because you're clean. Not because you're

00:19:08.859 --> 00:19:15.099
sure. Because grace called you by name. And it

00:19:15.099 --> 00:19:21.319
sounded just like love. Amen? Amen. Well, thanks,

00:19:21.339 --> 00:19:32.960
guys. And maybe you've been there, on your knees,

00:19:33.140 --> 00:19:38.839
not in prayer, but in shame. Maybe grace sounded

00:19:38.839 --> 00:19:41.059
like judgment for so long you forgot it could

00:19:41.059 --> 00:19:45.539
actually sound like love. But if tonight's story

00:19:45.539 --> 00:19:47.579
whispered anything true, it's this. You were

00:19:47.579 --> 00:19:52.000
never just what you did. You were never just

00:19:52.000 --> 00:19:55.099
your worst moment, and you are still worth saying

00:19:55.099 --> 00:19:59.910
out loud in the presence of mercy. So, maybe

00:19:59.910 --> 00:20:02.130
it's time to let go of the stone in your own

00:20:02.130 --> 00:20:06.049
hand. Or, maybe it's time to stop bracing for

00:20:06.049 --> 00:20:09.390
the one you think is coming. Either way, he's

00:20:09.390 --> 00:20:11.869
still kneeling there beside you, still writing,

00:20:12.069 --> 00:20:17.529
still refusing to flinch. This is the gospel.

00:20:18.309 --> 00:20:22.150
The whole, dusty, scandalous, undeserved gospel.

00:20:22.250 --> 00:20:28.329
And it's got your name written all over it. If

00:20:28.329 --> 00:20:30.829
this episode made something sacred stir in you,

00:20:30.930 --> 00:20:33.230
drop a comment. Share it with someone who needs

00:20:33.230 --> 00:20:35.670
a little gospel without the guilt. Or hit subscribe

00:20:35.670 --> 00:20:38.009
so you don't miss the next one. I ain't here

00:20:38.009 --> 00:20:41.509
for your loyalty, but I am here after your liberation.

00:20:43.049 --> 00:20:45.390
Because this isn't a performance. It's a porch

00:20:45.390 --> 00:20:49.970
light. And I'll keep it on. As long as you need.

00:20:51.170 --> 00:20:54.309
Until next time, I'm Pastor Jim. And this has

00:20:54.309 --> 00:20:57.380
been the Semi -Seminarian. Grace and peace, y

00:20:57.380 --> 00:21:01.759
'all. And maybe just a little dust on our knees.
