MARRIAGE, DIVORCE AND REMARRIAGE (6): The Setup

Early in the morning, Jesus returned to the temple, and all the people gathered around Him. He sat down and began to teach them. Then the scribes and Pharisees brought before Him a woman who had been caught in adultery. They placed her in the center and said, “Teacher, this woman was caught in the very act of adultery. Now Moses, in the Law, commanded that such a person should be stoned. But what do You say?” They said this to test Him, hoping to find something with which to accuse Him. But Jesus bent down and began to write on the ground with His finger, as though He did not hear them. When they kept pressing Him for an answer, He stood up and said, “Let the one among you who has no sin be the first to throw a stone at her.” Then He stooped down again and continued writing on the ground. When they heard His words, they were convicted by their own conscience and began to leave one by one, starting with the oldest until only Jesus was left, with the woman still standing there. When Jesus straightened up and saw no one but her, He said, “Woman, where are your accusers? Has no one condemned you?” She answered, “No one, Lord.” And Jesus said, “Neither do I condemn you. Go, and sin no more.” (John 8:2–11)

It was early morning in Jerusalem. The city was stirring awake when Jesus walked once more into the temple courts. The cool air still held the hush of dawn, and the people gathered around Him as they always did. There was something about His presence that drew the broken and the curious, the hungry and the proud. He sat down to teach them—the posture of calm authority, the Teacher among His people.

But even as the gentle words of life flowed from His lips, another plan was taking shape in the shadows. The scribes and the Pharisees were plotting, whispering among themselves, rehearsing a question meant to trap the Son of God. They had long grown weary of His mercy, of the way He welcomed sinners and made the learned look small. They would craft a snare too clever, they thought, even for Him.

They burst into the quiet circle, dragging a woman behind them. Her eyes were wild, her shame uncovered before the multitude. They threw her into the midst as though she were evidence, not a soul. “Teacher,” they said with forced respect, “this woman was caught in adultery, in the very act. Now Moses in the Law commanded us that such should be stoned. But what do You say?”

Their words dripped with calculation. It was not justice they desired but blood—the blood of accusation, whether hers or His. If He said, let her go, they could call Him a lawbreaker. If He said, stone her, they could say He was no friend of sinners. They thought they had cornered Him between holiness and compassion. But they did not know that in Him holiness and compassion are one.

Then came the divine pause. Jesus stooped down. The crowd leaned forward. His finger traced letters in the dust of the temple floor. The accusers pressed Him, their voices rising with urgency.

What did He write? The Bible does not tell us, but perhaps the Law itself: “The adulterer and the adulteress shall surely be put to death” (Leviticus 20:10). If she was caught “in the very act,” where was the man? The Law condemned both. To bring one without the other was not obedience—it was deceit. Their trap was built on half-truths and hidden sin.

So Jesus stood and said, “He who is without sin among you, let him throw a stone at her first.” Then He stooped again, silent, writing once more upon the ground. The weight of His words settled over them like judgment itself. One by one, their hands loosened. Stones fell, striking the earth with the sound of defeated hypocrisy. The oldest went first, then the younger, until only the whisper of wind remained.

Why did they leave? Because the conscience knows its own guilt. He was not speaking of sin in general, as though no man on earth could ever act in judgment. The law of Moses had been practiced for centuries; it did not demand perfect men but honest ones. No, Christ was piercing them with a sharper sword: “Let him who is without this sin—this very sin—cast the first stone.” They were guilty. Some in secret, some in memory, some in imagination, but all unclean. Their own hearts accused them more loudly than the woman’s shame ever could.

Now the temple was quiet again. Dust hung in the sunlight. Jesus lifted Himself up and looked upon her—the woman who had stood in silence through her trial. He asked, “Woman, where are those accusers of yours? Has no one condemned you?” She said softly, “No one, Lord.” And He, the only one who had the right to condemn, said, “Neither do I condemn you; go, and sin no more.” In that moment, mercy triumphed over judgment. Grace stooped lower than sin had fallen.

This scene is more than history; it is the Gospel written in dust and tears. The same Christ still stoops to lift the guilty. He does not excuse sin, yet He refuses to let it have the last word. He exposes the hypocrisy of the self-righteous while extending pardon to the truly penitent. What He did that morning He does every day in the hearts of those who come to Him broken and ashamed.

And yet, how little has changed since that dawn in Jerusalem. The Pharisees still live—polished, proper, and blind. They quote Scripture as if it were a weapon rather than a lamp. They have forgotten that the hand holding the stone is just as unclean as the one it aims to strike. They speak loudly of others’ failures while quietly excusing their own. They boast of being “the husband of one wife,” though they have defiled that very covenant in thought, in spirit, in secret lust. They condemn those who have stumbled publicly, yet they themselves are prisoners of the same sin cloaked in respectability.

They stand in pulpits and pews, wrapped in ceremony, pointing fingers at those who have fallen more visibly. They forget that mercy is not compromise, and that forgiveness is not weakness. The Lord who wrote in the dust still writes on the hearts of men, and His words are the same: “Neither do I condemn you; go, and sin no more.”

Let every heart hear that sentence—the heart of the sinner who needs hope, and the heart of the Pharisee who needs humility. The woman left the temple forgiven and transformed. The accusers left unchanged, still bound by their pride. It is better to walk away weeping in mercy than to stand upright in judgment and walk home empty.

Christ alone could stand that day without shame. He alone could look upon sin and not share in it. The Law found its voice in Him, and mercy found its throne. The One who wrote upon the ground now writes upon the cross. The dust of the temple floor has long since blown away, but His mercy endures forever.

And that is how you deal with people whose lives have been broken by sin.

Bryan Dewayne Dunaway