He ever felt like the dust on your life was the
only honest thing left? Like maybe God knew your
name, but only because someone told on you? Well,
tonight's not a pep talk. It ain't a list of
moral improvements or five easy steps to holiness.
It's a story, a sacred one, about a woman caught
in the act and a God who didn't flinch. You're
listening to The Semi -Seminarian, and this is
Write This Down, a gospel about a God who kneels.
Tonight, we're stepping into John chapter 8,
but we're not just going to read it. We're going
to walk it barefoot, slow, right through the
dirt. Because sometimes the only way to hear
the gospel is to feel the ground Jesus knelt
on when everybody else was reaching for a stone
to throw. And if this is the kind of storytelling
that hits you where you live, go ahead, like,
share, subscribe. Not because I need the algorithm
to bless me, but because someone else might be
down in the dust tonight too, waiting to hear
their name said in mercy. So come close. Don't
clean up. Don't flinch. We're not climbing any
ladders here. We're building a porch. Let's go.
I'll see you on the other side. Last couple weeks,
the last couple times at least, it started last
week at Bible study where it was a story that
I thought was kind of hard. The story about when
Jesus, when people start leaving Jesus. That's
one of those I classify as hard stories of the
Bible, because when you read it, man, that doesn't
fit with the rest of the story. And then we looked
at the story on Sunday about Abraham and Isaac,
and that's a hard story. And one of the things
I discovered a couple weeks ago was, I feel like
when we take that scripture and we actually treat
it like a story that we can put ourselves in,
It seems to help us get more out of the story
than just a regular sermon. And I think it's
because hard stories in the Bible are hard because
we don't want to see ourselves in them. We don't
like the implications of what's happening in
the story, and we certainly don't want it to
apply to our lives. So we think of them as hard.
We don't want to see ourselves in those stories.
I think intentionally putting ourselves in the
story opens up this whole new lens on what that
particular story is trying to teach us today,
not just a story about something that happened
2 ,000 years ago, but what impact does it have
on my life today? So I'm going to try and do
that again. If you are interested, tonight I'll
be looking at John 8. where we'll find the story.
It's a very well -known story. But what I want
to share with you guys tonight isn't just a retelling
for your intellect, but rather an invitation
for your imagination. Because we're stepping
into a sacred space tonight. A woman is caught,
not in rumor, not in theory, but in the act.
She's dragged out, half -clothed, shamed. used
as bait for a theological trap. And Jesus, he
stoops in the dirt with her. Now, before I say
anything else, before I continue with the story,
I want us to feel it. I want us to smell the
dust, hear the crowd. You might know this story.
Don't rush to the ending. Let's walk through
it slow together. Their sandals on the ground.
So now, with our hearts open, our imaginations
awakened, let's step into the moment as it was
recorded. Not just to hear it, but to feel it.
So listen closely to the words of John 8, verses
3 -11. The teachers of the law and the Pharisees
brought in a woman caught in adultery. They made
her stand up before the group, and Jesus said
to Jesus, Teacher, this woman was caught in the
act of adultery, and the law of Moses has commanded
us to stone such women. Now what do you say?
They were using this question as a trap in order
to have a basis for accusing him. But Jesus bent
down and started to write on the ground with
his finger. When they kept questioning him, He
straightened up and said to them, Let any of
you who is without sin be the first to throw
a stone at her. Again, he stooped down and wrote
in the ground. At this, those who heard began
to go away one at a time, the older ones first,
until only Jesus was left with the woman still
standing there. Jesus straightened up and asked
her, Woman, where are they? Has no one condemned
you? No one, sir, she said. Then neither do I
condemn you, Jesus declared. Go now. Leave your
life for sin. Thus ends the reading of the word.
That's a scene. A woman dragged and exposed.
A question loaded like a weapon. Silence. Pregnant
with power. But now let's slow it down even more.
Let's stay in that courtyard a little longer.
Let the dust cling to our feet. Because this
is where imagination meets incarnation. This
is where her story begins to sound a lot like
ours. You wake up with gravel in your hair. You
don't remember falling asleep. You don't remember
the walk home. You barely remember the night
and only fragments of his voice. The weight of
his hands. The sound of your name. And now it's
morning. Your mouth tastes like ashes. The linen
sheet tangled around your leg isn't yours. The
man who whispered promises in the dark is now
gone. Like they always are. Gone like the others.
Gone like the hope you had as a young girl. Gone
like the dream that maybe, just maybe, someday
someone would stay. You wrap the sheet around
you and you sit up. Maybe if you move slowly
enough, you can unshatter last night. But before
you can stand, the door bursts open. Hands grab,
voices shout, religious men, their robes spotless,
their eyes already full of verdicts. You know
their faces. Some of them watched you grow up.
Some looked the other way when you were young
and hungry and survived however you could. Some
of them know your name, knew your father's name.
They don't ask what's happened. They don't ask
if you were a coerced. They don't even ask his
name. They say the word adultery like it stains
the air. like your name should be carved on a
tombstone. You try to cover your face, try to
keep the sheet wrapped tight, but they don't
care because you're just a lesson now, a prop
in a sermon they want to preach. They drag you
through the streets, dirt on your knees, stone
under your heel. You wonder if this is how the
dogs feel when they're stoned to death outside
the camp. You wonder if that's where they're
taking you. You pass a woman carrying bread.
She turns away. A child stares until his mother
pulls him close. The shame crawls up your spine
like heat. A man spits. Another man quotes the
Torah. Not loud enough to accuse, but loud enough
to condemn. But instead of the back alley or
the edge of town, they take you to a man. He's
sitting in the temple courtyard. He's been teaching
all morning, surrounded by a crowd. Ordinary
folks, farmers, widows, teenagers. Some came
to hear about the kingdom, some to be healed.
Some just needed hope to cost less than a sacrifice.
John chapter 8, 3 through 5. The teachers of
the law and the Pharisees brought in a woman
caught in adultery. They made her stand before
the group and said to Jesus, Teacher, this woman
was caught in the act of adultery. in the law
of Moses, commands us to stone such women. Now
what do you say? And they say it like a trap.
Not for you. They've already made up their mind
about you. For him. You? You're just bait. And
he says nothing. The crowd shifts uncertain.
The men who brought you here puff their chests
out a little bit like they've already won. Some
in the crowd avert their eyes. Some watch him
waiting for a reaction. But he doesn't move like
other men. He doesn't posture. He doesn't protest.
Verse 6, but Jesus bent down and started to ride
on the ground with his finger. He doesn't look
at you. He doesn't look at them. He just kneels.
The sound of his robe brushing the dirt is louder
than you expect. It's the sound of someone choosing
not to fight. He writes in the dirt. His finger
moves slow. Not like someone scribbling out of
nervous habit, but rather someone inscribing
something meant to last. No one can see what
he's writing. That doesn't stop the murmuring.
You hear one of the Pharisees shift his weight
impatiently. Another adjusts his sash like that
might somehow strengthen his righteousness. You
stay still, bare knees in the sand. Crowd now
seems impossibly large. All of them watching
you, watching him. Wanting and waiting to see
just what kind of Messiah this might be. One
who draws swords, one who draws silence. And
you, you just want to disappear. You just want
to become the dust he's writing in. Maybe, maybe
he's writing their names. Maybe their sins. Maybe
he's writing yours. Maybe he's reminding them
of what they have forgotten. That the dust they're
standing on, that she's kneeling in, was once
holy the moment God breathed on it. And it still
is. Someone scoffs. Another one says your name
with disgust. The older ones shift their weight
like they're ready to throw their stones. The
men start pressing him again, only louder this
time, like they're trying to rile a judge to
anger. Their words are sharp, measured. Practiced.
The kind of certainty that never comes from grace,
only from fear. They say Moses, they say law,
they say God's command, but the word made flesh
says nothing. He just breathes. And in the middle
of their shouts and of their demands, he speaks.
John 8, verse 7. When they kept on questioning
him, he straightened up and said to them, let
any of you who's without sin be the first to
throw a stone at her. And then he kneels again.
Still no eye contact. Still no raised voice.
Just grace whispered in the dust. And then you
hear it before you see it. A rock. trying to
burrow itself in the sand. And one by one, stones
begin to hit the ground. Some fall slow, some
fast. The oldest men go first. The younger ones
take longer. Maybe some of them don't even know
why they're letting go, only that something in
this moment demands it. Something about that
silence pulls the rage right out of their fists.
One stone rolls to stop at your feet, and you
don't dare touch it. Another clatters behind
you. Another lands behind the hem of your sheet.
And then, for what felt like an eternity, nothing.
No words, no footsteps, just the sound of judgment.
Losing its grip. You don't look up, but you can
feel them leave. The voices fade down the street.
The verdicts disappear. But still you stay hunched
over, bracing for what comes next. Because sometimes
silence feels like a second kind of violence.
And then... There's only one man left. He stands
up. His shadow moves across the ground towards
you. For a moment, you can't breathe. Not from
fear, but from the weight of being seen. You
brace for his judgment. But his voice is different.
Gentle. Sad. John chapter 8, 10 and 11. Jesus
straightened up and asked her, Woman, where are
they? Has no one condemned you? No one, sir,
she said. Then neither do I condemn you, Jesus
declared. Go now and leave the life of sin. And
he says it to her like it's a blessing, like
it's a promise, not a threat. Not a finger pointed,
but a hand offered. The kind of hand that reaches
into the dust and lifts you up. The kind that
doesn't flinch at your story. The kind that doesn't
recoil from your name. The kind that doesn't
want to give you your dignity back because it
never left. It's just waiting for someone to
notice it. And maybe, just maybe, that someone
was you. Maybe you don't even know how to stand
yet what you've been seeing. Not as a scandal,
not as a symbol, but as a soul. And somehow,
that's enough. Grace doesn't erase the past,
but it refuses to weaponize it. And in the dust,
beneath the weight of all... that we've done
or all that we've failed to do, Jesus still kneels,
still writes, still waits. And maybe you've tried
to change. And maybe you've begged God to fix
you in the dark. And maybe you've made promises
you couldn't keep. sworn you'd never go back,
only to wake up in the same old ruins again.
And maybe, maybe despite your best efforts, you
fall back into that same old place. It's still
grace. It's still restoration. It's still Jesus
kneeling beside you, not flinching, not leaving,
not ashamed of you, not disappointed. Just waiting
like he always has, not to condemn, but to restore.
And maybe this is the first time in a long time
you've heard someone say it quite like that.
Maybe you've lived your whole life thinking God
was holding his breath, watching, waiting for
you to just mess up again. But he's not holding
his breath. He's holding out his hand. And if
you listen closely, friends, in the quiet, after
the stones have dropped, you can hear the sound
of grace clearing its throat, ready to speak
your name again, gently, without judgment, without
shame. Because you were never just a case to
be argued. You were never just a category of
sin. You were never just what you did. You were
always a person, a soul worth saving, a daughter
worth defending, a name worth saying out loud
in the presence of mercy. So maybe, maybe, it's
time to stop running. Maybe it's time to stop.
cowering in the dirt waiting for a stone that's
never coming. And maybe it's time to stand back
up. Not because you're clean. Not because you're
sure. Because grace called you by name. And it
sounded just like love. Amen? Amen. Well, thanks,
guys. And maybe you've been there, on your knees,
not in prayer, but in shame. Maybe grace sounded
like judgment for so long you forgot it could
actually sound like love. But if tonight's story
whispered anything true, it's this. You were
never just what you did. You were never just
your worst moment, and you are still worth saying
out loud in the presence of mercy. So, maybe
it's time to let go of the stone in your own
hand. Or, maybe it's time to stop bracing for
the one you think is coming. Either way, he's
still kneeling there beside you, still writing,
still refusing to flinch. This is the gospel.
The whole, dusty, scandalous, undeserved gospel.
And it's got your name written all over it. If
this episode made something sacred stir in you,
drop a comment. Share it with someone who needs
a little gospel without the guilt. Or hit subscribe
so you don't miss the next one. I ain't here
for your loyalty, but I am here after your liberation.
Because this isn't a performance. It's a porch
light. And I'll keep it on. As long as you need.
Until next time, I'm Pastor Jim. And this has
been the Semi -Seminarian. Grace and peace, y
'all. And maybe just a little dust on our knees.