It Should Have Been Me

(From John 8)

I followed along, not knowing where they were going, nor knowing why I was not arrested along with her. Was there some mistake? Had my important position shielded me from arrest? Or was it because of my friends in high places?

Whatever it was, something had protected me. And whatever it was, it had failed for her. She was in custody, being herded ever so quickly to a swift trial and immediate judgment. Was it just because of her gender? Or did she already have a reputation? If she did, I think it undeserved, though I had not known her for long.

I followed at a distance, curious, but not wishing to remind anyone that I was a party to this transgression. Someone in the arresting group could easily remember and begin a search for her partner in this violation of the law. I shielded my face as best I could, while still following. Her fate was important to me, I had to admit, but only because of my sharing in her guilt. Why would she be punished while I remained free? 

Was I willing to use my position and influence with my friends on her behalf? I had to think that one over. You see, I had much to lose. And there seemingly wasn’t much time. 

From my vantage point, I could see not only her face of grief and shame, but also their faces of grim determination. There was even a hint of enthusiasm in their demeanor, as if they were finding some distorted pleasure in applying what they considered to be justice.

Just so you know, she was in truth, guilty. But so, of course, was her partner – me. The evidence against us was all too strong. In her defense, and to my knowledge, she was not a frequent adulterer, nor was I. The origin of this sin was probably all too typical, in the passion of the moment, the sudden seemingly perfect opportunity, and the sense of safety.

Of course, that sense of safety failed us, didn’t it? The law required at least two witnesses whose stories were consistent. And to my shame, there were even more than two. Keeping us safe was my job, my responsibility. And so, my guilt was twofold: first for the transgression itself and second, for my failure to keep it safe from detection.

As I followed, I noticed that the arresting party picked up additional accusers along the way. Mostly, they were Pharisees and scribes of the faith, some of whom were the very same highly placed friends who likely would keep me out of trouble. Why, I wondered, were they needed? There were already more than enough witnesses.

And another thing: if they were aiming for a quick trial, they should have been moving toward the council chamber. But instead, they were heading toward the temple. The temple is a place of prayer and worship, not a court of justice. Why this detour?

By now, the arresting party had become a mob. I truly feared for my partner, as the crowd seemed to gather momentum on their way to execute what they considered to be justice. The penalty for her (our) crime was death by stoning. And even under Roman rule, we Jews were allowed to apply our justice for such crimes. In effect, the Romans looked the other way. Likely they simply reasoned that one less Jew was one less troublemaker.

Boldly, I joined the outer fringes of the arresting party. There were over thirty by now, and I easily blended in, attracting no attention to myself. And clearly, our path was aimed directly at the temple. Why? The party was moving swiftly now, literally driving the terrified woman in front of them.

Entering the vast temple complex, we turned a corner into an enclosed courtyard, one with high stone walls on three sides. Inside the courtyard was a group of people listening to a young rabbi, seated as he taught. They seemed totally focused on his words, which were beyond my hearing.

Shoving the frightened woman into the center of the courtyard, the chief constable prepared to cite the charges against her. But before he could get a word out, one of the Pharisees interrupted him, addressing the rabbi, whom he seemed to know. 

“Teacher,” he announced, “This woman was caught in the very act of committing adultery. Now in the law, Moses commanded us to stone such women. Now what do you say?”

Everyone in the rabbi’s group looked up at the Pharisee and at the unfortunate woman, who was now sobbing. 

While the rabbi’s group was silent, the arresting party was buzzing. This young rabbi, Jesus was his name, was a Galilean, new to Jerusalem, and stirring up trouble. The Pharisees brought the woman here to put him on the spot, to see if he would be strict in enforcing the Law of Moses.

But Jesus didn’t respond. Still seated, he had bent down, writing something with his finger in the sand of the courtyard. Had he heard the question? It did not seem so. Why was he silent? Would he answer?

The tension growing, the Pharisee asked again, raising his voice, “Teacher, we have witnesses, as required by the law. She is undoubtedly guilty of adultery. Should she be stoned? What do you say?”

At this, the teacher, Jesus, stopped writing in the sand, straightened up, slowly and deliberately looked at the mob and replied so that all could hear him: “Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to cast a stone at her.” 

That was all he said. Then he bent down again and resumed writing in the sand.

There was an uneasy silence. The woman’s sobs were the only sound to be heard in the now quiet courtyard. 

Christ with the Woman Taken in Adultery, by Guercino, 1621

This response was clearly not what the Pharisee expected or wanted to hear. Nor anyone else, for that matter. Uneasy glances were exchanged among the arresting crowd. No words were spoken. It seemed that the response from Jesus struck deeply to the heart of each man. 

After a long pause, one man, an elderly Pharisee, dropped his stone and slowly walked away. Then another, followed by another, including the arresting constable, and finally, all of the scribes.

At the end, only the accusing Pharisee, the one who’d tried to put Jesus on the spot, was left, along with the traumatized woman. Jesus had returned to the sand, again writing with his finger. Was he ignoring the accuser?

I could feel the hatred of this Pharisee, whom I knew by reputation. Animosity literally radiated from him, aimed at Jesus, not at the woman. In actuality, she suddenly seemed incidental, a bystander, a witness to the real purpose of this exchange. There was bad blood here, and it was between the Pharisee and Jesus. It was out in the open and plain to see, more hatred than I’d ever observed in my life. Honestly, it shocked me to observe such hatred.

But finding himself alone, and with his support gone, he, too, dropped the stone from his tightly clenched fist and without a word, walked away. This battle with Jesus was lost.

I hid myself around the corner from the courtyard. But in the silence, I could hear the young rabbi as he spoke to my lover: “Woman, where are they? Has no one condemned you?”

Illustration by Judy Gordon

“No one, sir,” came her tearful reply.

“Then neither do I condemn you,” came his response. “Go your way and sin no more.”

She rushed past me on her way exiting the courtyard. I did not try to stop her or have any word with her. It seemed best to leave this entire experience to the past and just close the door on it. And I wondered what price Jesus would pay for his defiance of a prominent Pharisee.

What’s more, I might add, that keeping quiet allowed me to keep my shame to myself. She could have publicly incriminated me, naming me as her partner. But she did not. She kept quiet, neither contesting the charge against her nor dragging me down with her, claiming that I had led her into adultery (which was, at least in part, true). What courage on her part!

Had I shown any shred of courage, I would have stopped her as she ran out. I would have apologized, tried to make amends for my part in this near-tragedy. I would have styled a story that at least attempted to help her regain some of her honor, even at the expense of my own. In short, I would have taken the lion’s share of the blame.

I did none of this.  I did none, at least, for a week.

But that was an amazing week, a week that turned my world upside-down. You see in that same week, the young rabbi, Jesus, was arrested, convicted on trumped-up charges, and crucified by the Romans. 

As I stood watching Pilate appeal to the crowd to release Jesus, I could feel again such hatred aimed at him. Hatred aimed at a man who had preached love and forgiveness. Hatred aimed at an innocent man. The man who had stood up to hatred was to be crucified by it.

I witnessed his crucifixion. For a reason unknown even to myself, I could not stay away. Somehow, I was connected to this man. This man who saved my lover, who had won mercy for her but was denied it for himself. 

I had hidden myself as she was being dragged through the streets in shame. I even watched, without coming forward for my share of whatever justice demanded. My reputation was intact while hers was destroyed.

And now, to witness the brutal execution of this dispenser of mercy. What could it mean? Where did it leave me in my sin? Could I live with myself after the events of this week?

I could not. I would do what I could to restore, not only her and her honor, but equally important, to somehow restore my relationship with God and his justice. All I could think of was the mercy shown by the man, Jesus, and ask for that same mercy to be granted to me.