So, the story goes… a bunch of red-in-the-face Pharisees drag a terrified woman over to the place where Jesus had been teaching and praying. Who knows how long they drug her through the dust and the streets, wrangling in her crazed limbs along the way.

When they arrive, the men throw her to the ground beside Jesus and form a circle around the two of them. Perhaps Jesus sees her out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t look. The woman, I’m sure of it, keeps her head down, dodging the ire of her accusers and the curiosity of passersby.

Finally, one of the men says, “She’s been caught in adultery, Jesus. Our law says to stone her. What do you say?”

The tension is so high we wouldn’t blame Jesus for blurting out an answer or freezing up. But he doesn’t. He calmly drops down to his knees, and (strangely) begins to draw in the dust.

Perhaps you are tempted to look into the dust and find some shortcut to the meaning of all this. It isn’t there.

I’ve heard people say: “I know what verse he wrote in the dust!” No way! Seriously, no way. There’s no way.

John doesn’t nosedive into the dirt because it’s not the point of the story.

The men put the woman on trial. They’ve accused her and made Jesus judge. They gather to hear what he says, and for a time, he says nothing.

The eyes that were fixed on the woman have now turned to the one drawing in the dirt. He’s taken all the attention off of her. What is he doing? What is he thinking? What is he going to say?

Jesus drops down into the dust, begins to draw, and takes the place of the woman. He is now on trial. Pause there for a moment.

The season of Epiphany is about an encounter with love. It is when we sit for a while in our recollection of baptism and hear the words of the Father to the Son, and therefore the Father to each of us: you are my beloved child. I have always loved you. And before you have done a single significant thing, I am pleased with you.

What stands in the way of receiving this declaration? Let’s call it the anxious soul. The anxious soul is the soul that diminishes a friend in order to be affirmed (it is Cain killing Abel because he does not believe there is enough blessing for the both of them). The anxious soul is the one which will never have enough, and so it will take from the most vulnerable, killing off the life of others while gorging itself to death. The anxious soul cannot trust, fear is its melody.

This is not medically diagnosable anxiety, but the posture of the soul which is always-on-guard and has no level ground to stand on. The insecurely attached soul. The soul that does not believe it can be loved and therefore uses avoidance and violence and addiction and distraction as a means of safety. (So, each of us has a share in this.)

When God brought Israel out of Egypt, they were the epitome of the anxious soul. Their infancy as a nation was defined by the conditions that crush our spirits and keep us constantly on guard, watching for danger.

Their childhood was the beginning of a long adoption process. God teaching them to walk again (Hosea 11). To walk is to trust in the language of the spirit. The anxious soul cannot walk because it will not trust there will be anything there to support its footing.

So, God was teaching Israel to walk.

He gave them food, right down from heaven so that they knew where it came from. But not too much food. Because too much food for the anxious soul is not abundance but self-medication. (Been to the fridge to soothe your anxiety lately?)

He led them, step by step. But the landscape was barren and alien. Like a good rehab center, their healing happened out of the way, in the wilderness, away from the shiny things of the city and distraction of human attachments. No pain relievers here.

Teaching Israel to walk was an education in trust. The life and love at the center of things is for you.

This education is an unlearning of the angst which makes love unbearable. Because love is what makes a life human and good.

The words in Micah 6:1-8 are held in a courtroom. God calls upon the mountains, his ever-present witness. Israel is on trial. Didn’t I rip you from your captors? Didn’t I provide for your every need; give you leaders, thwart the plans of enemies? Did I not teach you to walk again? Did I not teach you the steps of trust and the pace of love?

God wants to know. How have you become idolatrous, giving your soul to idols that make you spiritually indulgent and greedy when I have always encouraged real, true life in you?

How, my child, have you become violent when your identity was grounded in security in the one who loves you?

Remember! God says through the prophet, remember how you were young and I taught you what it was like to be at peace in the presence of one who has your best interest in mind. When I taught you to have faith in my love, and how I would have done it over and over, a million rounds in that desert if that’s what you needed, so patient was my love.

Israel responds: Okay, okay! We’ll burn a thousand rams! We’ll light all our incense at one time! Is that what you want? We’ll do whatever is required! What is required?

When we left Jesus and the woman, they too were on trial. The law announced, a judgement proposed on the woman, what is Jesus going to say?

The woman, like Israel as a child, is at the beginning of her wilderness journey. Anxious soul. Actually, with the accusation and the public example they made of her when they toured her violently through the streets, now sitting in the midst of her accusers, she is experiencing the physical manifestation of shame. The glow of eyes burning on her most vulnerable places, none of them wishing her any good.

Jesus knows what is required for travel through the wilderness, to educate the ashamed and anxious soul.

Everything he does is so mysteriously perfect. He must know what is required.

1.      He quiets down. They have put her fate in his hands, and he will not deal recklessly with her life, even if he knows the answer outright. Nor will he be too overbearing a master, not telling her off or lecturing her before he acquits her.

Walk humbly. True wisdom is the wisdom of the cross. Blessed are those who are poor in spirit. Come to me all who are anxious and ashamed, and I will give you rest from the overbearing world and the tremulous spirit within you. I will teach you to trust again.

2.      He does not use this as an opportunity to gain a social-religious stronghold. He had already been through the wilderness himself. He had already let his own accuser tempt him with all the shiny things the world could offer. A more anxious messiah would have been thrown into self-doubt here. No one would remember this woman’s story. He could side with these guys and walk with a little more credibility from the temple. It would be so easy to grab power here. But neither does he power-grab, nor does he miss an opportunity to speak truth to power. Throw the first stone, you who have not sinned.

Act justly. Blessed are those who are meek, who do not grab at power for their own sake, who earn the trust of the ones beaten down by shame, who teach them to have faith in love again. Blessed are those who thirst, who earnestly seek, opportunities to put things to right again.

3.      By the time he turns to the woman, the eyes of shame, of the men who accused her, had all gone. Jesus could have said, o better not embarrass her more. Improper. I’ll let her go quietly. He could have waited there, eyes still hung down at the dust. But she must be seen again. She must be seen again and again with eyes that shine with the light that is the life of the world, and be told, you are free. Your accusers are clowns. Go and live in the freedom that acceptance brings. You are not condemned. The life at the center of things is FOR YOU.

 Love mercy. Blessed are the merciful. Those who do not merely give it, but love mercy. Who relish it and seek it out.

 The power of the story exhibits itself in the reader who says, I am the woman. I have not yet learned to walk to the beat of love; I have a long way to go to learn to trust the love of another.

 The power of the story exhibits itself in the reader who also says, I am the gang of angry men. Hell bent on righteousness, my own darkness disgusts and terrifies me. I am that gang of men and my purity is a disguise and my accusations of the sins of others is a ploy to not be seen.

To the part inside that is the woman, Jesus grows quiet. He puts himself on trial, turns back to you and says, I will walk this with you. Let’s do it. They’re all gone now. You’re free, you don’t have to be afraid, you’re really free.

To the part inside that is the pharisee, Jesus laughs and gently pushes the spotlight back toward us. Not all the way (we must take the actual step inside!). You’re afraid of yourself and of the world, but your fear and your purity will not save you from the hell of pride and secret darkness. RE – LAX. Come into the light. It will only hurt a moment.

He knew what was required. Everything he did in that tiny scene was mysterious and perfect. Like love.