I remember the first time I truly saw myself in John 8—not as one of the accusers, not even as a passive observer in the crowd, but as the woman caught in adultery. It was a quiet morning, and I had just finished praying when the Lord led me to that passage again. You see, I’ve preached on that story many times. I’ve talked about grace and hypocrisy and the mercy of Jesus. But this time, the Spirit wasn’t asking me to explain it. He was asking me to live it.
That woman, they never gave her a name. The Bible simply calls her “the woman caught in adultery.” That label, that shame, that public humiliation, my heart aches every time I read it. Because labels are heavy. They stick. And if you’re not careful, they begin to define you. I’ve met many women, and even men, who carry labels that were slapped on them in moments of failure: divorced, barren, addict, fallen, broken, rejected. And I’ve carried some labels myself. Not all of them were public. Some were private torments—mistakes I repented for, but still whispered to me in the dark hours.
That morning, as I read about her being dragged through the streets—hair wild, tears staining her cheeks, surrounded by men eager to stone her—I saw my own seasons of brokenness. I saw the time I almost gave up on ministry because I felt I had disappointed God having been caught in lies, in pride, in rebellion, in unforgiveness. I saw the years I wrestled with self-worth, trying to be perfect in front of others while feeling unworthy before God. I saw the accusatory fingers that weren’t from Pharisees, but from my own heart and mind.
And yet, there was Jesus.
You see, that’s what changes everything. The woman was guilty. Let’s not pretend otherwise. Scripture is clear—she was caught in the very act. But so were we, weren’t we? Caught in lies, in pride, in rebellion, in lust, in unforgiveness. Caught in secret sins that never made it to the public square. And still, Jesus stoops down.
That’s the part that undoes me. He didn’t stand and shout. He didn’t rush to condemn or even defend. He stooped. I believe He stooped so low because He wanted to meet her where she was—on the ground, in her shame, at the very lowest point. That’s how He met me, too. Not from a distance. Not from the church. But in the quiet, messy places of my soul where no one else could reach.
I don’t know what He wrote in the sand that day, and truth be told, I don’t need to know. Because what mattered most wasn’t what He wrote—it was that He paused. In the middle of chaos and rage and accusation, Jesus paused to write. He silenced the crowd without even speaking. Isn’t that just like Him? Sometimes, the greatest battles are won not through shouting, but through holy silence.
And then, one by one, the stones dropped.
I’ve heard stones fall in my own life. The expectations I couldn’t meet. The criticisms from people I tried to please. The inner voices telling me I’d never be good enough. But when Jesus is present, stones lose their power. One by one, they fall to the ground.
“Woman, where are your accusers?” He asked.
And when she looked up, they were all gone.
Let me pause here and speak to the heart of someone reading this. Maybe you’ve been walking with your head down, expecting judgment, expecting the stones to fly. Maybe you’ve messed up. Maybe you’re sitting in the middle of consequences, shame, and fear. But lift your head. Jesus is still asking, “Where are your accusers?” Because when grace stands between you and your guilt, condemnation has no authority.
Jesus didn’t condone her sin. He didn’t say, “Go, and do it again.” He said, “Go and sin no more.” And that’s the power of true grace—it empowers holiness. It doesn’t excuse the sin; it frees you from it. I’ve learned this in my own walk. God’s mercy isn’t a license to continue in rebellion; it’s a pathway to transformation.
There was a time early in my ministry when I battled a deep sense of unworthiness. I kept trying to earn God’s favor—preaching harder, praying longer, fasting more. But inside, I felt like a fraud. One evening, while preparing a sermon, I broke down. I cried out, “God, why would You use someone like me?” And in the stillness, I felt Him whisper, “Because you know what it means to be forgiven.”
The woman in John 8 never went back to her old life. I believe she became a follower of Jesus. Maybe she was one of the women who stood at the cross. Maybe she was in the upper room when the Spirit fell. I like to believe she was never the same again. And I know I’m not.
Dear reader, I don’t know what your story is. Maybe you’ve been the one holding the stone, quick to judge. Maybe you’ve been the one crouched on the ground, drenched in shame. Or maybe you’re somewhere in between. But I want to remind you today: Jesus still stoops. He still writes in the sand. He still defends the broken and calls us higher.
The church needs to remember that. As preachers, we must preach truth, yes—but let it be truth wrapped in compassion. Let it be truth that reaches down, not up. Let it be truth that offers redemption, not rejection. Because the heart of Jesus beats for the ones others are ready to throw away.
I see myself in that woman. But more than that, I see my Savior—the One who stood beside her when everyone else walked away. The One who looked past her past and saw her future. The One who didn’t just save her life, but restored her dignity.
If you’re reading this and you feel unworthy, unloved, or irreparably broken, I want to say this with all the love in my heart: There is no pit so deep that God’s grace can’t find you. And there is no sin so great that His mercy won’t cover it.
Let the stones fall. Let the shame go. Lift your head. Jesus is near.
Need prayer?
If you’re struggling with guilt, shame, or anything that’s weighing your spirit, don’t walk this journey alone. Reach out to us at Victoria Christian Ministries. We’re here to pray with you, walk with you, and remind you that mercy still speaks.
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With love and grace,
Ev. Victoria
