(No Audio – did not record)
“Guilty–Be Set Free in Jesus!”
Pastor Jerry
John 8:1-11; Ephesians 7:1
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There are many who are discouraged, lonely, ashamed, waiting for a light to shine… (Max Lucado was the inspiration for this sermon after reading his book: He Still Moves Stones).
Rebecca Thompson fell twice from the Fremont Canyon Bridge. She died both times. The first fall broke her heart; the second broke her neck. She was only eighteen years of age when she and her eleven year-old sister were abducted by a pair of hoodlums near a store in Casper, Wyoming. They drove the girls forty miles southwest to the Fremont Canyon Bridge, a one-lane, steel-beamed structure rising 112 feet above the North Platte River.
The men brutally beat and raped Rebecca. She somehow convinced them not to do the same to her sister Amy. Both were thrown over the bridge into the narrow gorge. Amy died when she landed on a rock near the river, but Rebecca slammed into a ledge and was ricocheted into deeper water. With a hip fractured in five places, she struggled to the shore. She wedged herself between two rocks and waited until the dawn.
But the dawn never came for Rebecca. Oh, the sun came up, and she was found. The physicians treated her wounds, and the courts imprisoned her attackers. Life continued, but the dawn never came.
The blackness of her night of horrors lingered. She was never able to climb out of the canyon. So in September 1992, nineteen years later, she returned to the bridge. Against her boyfriend’s pleadings, she drove seventy miles-per-hour to the North Platte River. With her two-year-old daughter and boyfriend at her side, she sat on the edge of the Fremont Canyon Bridge and wept. Through her tears she retold the story of that terrible night. The boyfriend didn’t want the child to see her mother cry, so he carried the toddler to the car.
That’s when he heard her body hit the water. And that’s when Rebecca Thompson died her second death. The sun never dawned on Rebecca’s dark night. Why? What took the light from her world?
Fear? Perhaps. She had testified against the men, pointing them out in the courtroom. One of the murderers had taunted her by smirking and sliding his finger across his throat. On the day of her death, the two had been up for parole. Perhaps the fear of a second encounter was too great.
Was it anger? Anger at her rapists? Anger at the parole board? Anger at herself for the thousand falls in the thousand nightmares that followed? Or anger at God for a canyon that grew ever deeper and a night that grew ever blacker and a dawn that never came?
Was it guilt? Some think so. Despite Rebecca’s attractive smile and appealing personality, friends say that she struggled with the ugly fact that she had survived and her little sister had not.
Was it shame? Everyone she knew and thousands she didn’t had heard the humiliating details of her tragedy. The stigma was tattooed deeper with the newspaper ink of every headline. She had been raped. She had been violated. She had been shamed. And try as she might to outlive and outrun the memory…she never could.
So nineteen years later she went back to the bridge.
Canyons of shame run deep. Gorges of never-ending guilt. Walls ribboned with the greens and grays of death. Unending echoes screams. Put your hands over your ears. Splash water on your face. Stop looking over your shoulder. Try as you might to outrun yesterday’s tragedies—their tentacles are longer than your hope. They draw you back to the bridge of sorrows to be shamed again and again and again.
If it was your fault, it would be different. If you were to blame, you could apologize. If the tumble into the canyon was your mistake, you could respond. But you weren’t a volunteer. You were a victim. Sometimes your shame is private. No one else knows. But you know.
Sometimes it’s public. Told to others in a way you didn’t want. Communicated through others you never expected. And whether it’s actually in their eyes or just in your imagination, you have to deal with it—you are marked.
Whether private or public, shame is always painful. And unless you deal with it, it is permanent. Unless you get help the dawn will never come.
You’re not surprised when I say there are Rebecca Thompson’s in every city and Fremont Bridges in every town. And there are many Rebecca Thompsons in the Bible. You’ve met many in this book. Each acquainted with the hard floor of the canyon of shame. But there is one woman whose story embodies them all. A story of failure. A Story of abuse. A story of shame.
And a story of miracle – a story of being set free!
Can you see her, the woman standing in the center of the circle? The men around her are religious leaders. Pharisees, they are called. Self-appointed custodians of conduct. And the other man, the one in the simple clothes, the one sitting on the ground, the one looking at the face of the woman, that’s Jesus.
Jesus has been teaching. The woman has been cheating. And the Pharisees are out to stop them both. “Teacher, this woman was caught in the act of adultery” (John 8:4 NIV). The accusation rings off the stone walls. “Caught in the act of adultery.” The words alone are enough to make you blush. Doors shammed open. “In the act.” In the arms. In the moment. In the embrace. “Caught.” Aha! What have we here? This man is not your husband. Put on some clothes! We know what to do with women like you!
In an instant she is yanked from a private space to public spectacle. Heads poke out of windows as the posse pushes her through the streets. Dogs bark. Neighbors stare. The city sees. Clutching a thin robe around her shoulders, she hides her nakedness. But nothing can hide her shame.
From this second on, she’ll be known as an adulteress. When she goes to the market, women will whisper. When she passes, heads will turn. When her name is mentioned, the people will remember. Moral failure finds easy recall.
The greater abuse, however, goes unnoticed. What the woman did is shameful, but what the Pharisees did is despicable. According to the law, adultery was punishable by death, but only if two people witnessed the act. There had to be two eyewitnesses.
Question: “How likely is two people to be eyewitnesses to adultery?” What are the chances of two people stumbling upon this forbidden embrace? Unlikely. But if you do, odds are it’s not a coincidence. So we wonder. How long did the men peer through tile window before they barged in? How long did they lurk behind the curtain before they stepped out?
And what of the man? Adultery requires two participants. What happened to him? Could it be that he slipped out? The evidence leaves little doubt. It was a trap. She’s been caught. But she’ll soon see that she is not the catch—she’s only the bait.
“The law of Moses commands that we stone to death every woman who does this. What do you say we should do?” (v. 5). Pretty cocky, this committee of high ethics. Pretty proud of themselves, these agents of righteousness. This will be a moment they long remember the morning they foil and snag the mighty Nazarene.
As for the woman? Why, she’s immaterial. Merely a pawn in their game. Her future? It’s unimportant. Her reputation? Who cares if it’s ruined? She is a necessary, yet dispensable, part of their plan.
The woman stares at the ground. Her sweaty hair dangles. Her tears drip hot with hurt. Her lips are tight, her jaw is clenched. She knows she’s been framed. No need to look up. She’ll find no kindness. She looks at the stones in their hands. Squeezed so tightly that fingertips turn white. She thinks of running. But where? She could claim mistreatment. But to whom? She could deny the act, but she was seen. She could beg for mercy, but these men offer none.
The woman has nowhere to turn.
You’d expect Jesus to stand and proclaim judgment on the hypocrites. He doesn’t. You’d hope that he would snatch the woman and the two would he beamed to Galilee. That’s not what happens either. You’d imagine that an angel would descend or heaven would speak or the earth would shake. No, none of that.
Once again, Jesus is still. But, once again, his message is unmistakable. What does Jesus do? (If you already know, pretend you don’t and feel the surprise.) Jesus writes in the sand. He stoops down and draws in the dirt. The same finger that engraved the 10 commandments on Mt. Sinai and painted the warning on Belshazzar’s wall now scribbles in the courtyard floor. And as he writes, he speaks: “Anyone here who has never sinned can throw the first stone at her” (v. 7).
The young people look to the old people. The old look in their hearts. They are the first to drop their stones. And as they turn to leave, the young do the same. The only sound is the thud of rocks and the shuffle of feet.
Jesus and the woman are left alone. And the woman awaits his verdict. Surely, a sermon is coming. No doubt, he’s going to demand that she apologize. But he doesn’t speak. His head is down, perhaps he’s still writing in the sand. He seems surprised when he realizes that she is still there.
“Woman, where are they? Has no one judged you guilty?” She answers, “No one, sir.” Then Jesus says, “I also don’t judge you guilty. You may go now, but don’t sin anymore” (10-11). If you have ever wondered how God reacts when you fail, frame these words and hang them on the wall. Read them. Ponder them. Drink from them. Stand below them and let them wash over your soul: “In Jesus you are set free!”
Or better still; take him with you to your canyon. Your canyon of shame. Invite Christ to journey with you back to the Fremont Bridge of your world. Let him stand beside you as you retell the events of the darkest nights of your soul.
And then listen. Listen carefully. He’s speaking. “I don’t judge you guilty.”
And watch. Watch carefully. He’s writing. He’s leaving a message. Not in the sand, but on a cross. Not with his hand, but with his blood.
His message has two words: Not guilty. He has set you free!
It’s a miracle! You can be pronounced not guilty and set free!
Why? Because God loves you!
He sent Jesus as the Light to show you the way!
How can you be set free? By giving your life to Christ! Let Him Change You!