They drag me through the streets. Crowds jeering, hurling insults at me. Yet, the dung they sling is a warranted damning.
My knees are scraped and bleeding from my literal fall from grace. In open contempt, men drag me by my hair and women spit at my face.
Salty tears sting the cuts in my cheeks. Ripped fabric is my only covering.
I know he will not follow me. Sins, such as these, fall on the woman, not him.
Propelled forward to the Rabbi's feet, my limbs start shaking. I know the verdict already- guilty.
Thrown at his mercy, I dare not raise my eyes. His, no doubt, rage with Hell's fire.
"Here is a woman caught in promiscuity. Rabbi, what would you have us do?"
Each man and woman selects their weapon of choice. My reckoning will be by stones.
I feel his eyes on me. "Let the sinless person throw first."
Convinced of imminent bludgeoning I brace myself for the onslaught; such punishment is my just deserve.
Maddening minutes' pass and no one moves. Then I hear the first stone bounce off the ground...and not me.
After that first, many others follow. Involuntarily, I wince as each stone hits the other.
When every stone is dropped and the crowd has dispersed, I hear the rattle of my unbroken bones.
"Woman," says the Rabbi, "Who has condemned you?"
Quivering I respond, "No one, my Lord."
"Then neither do I condemn you. Go, leave the past, and walk in freedom," he locks eyes with me.
Bowing low, I remain humbly prostrate. He raises me up off the gravel and I gaze at the stones plopped haphazardly around.
My shaking hand reaches out to grab a stone; a memento of grace.
Weeks later, I still itch under my acquittal's covering. So I grab the stone and beat myself as they should've done.
Drawing my own blood and bruising my own skin, I seek absolution; unwilling to accept forgiveness.
With each beating my mind chants, "Guilty, guilty, guilty, guilty!"
I am unworthy of grace. The charge "not guilty" is a farce.
Choking on my shame, I dare not meet the Rabbi's eyes. Therein, I see merciful deliverance, but my chains are more comfortable.
Reaching out His hand, the Rabbi takes the stone and shatters the chains. Throwing them into the fire, he holds onto my wrists.
He grasps the place where my chains used to be.
"I am the Judge and I do not convict you. Stop condemning yourself."
Eventually, the cuts become scabs and then are covered by new skin. Years later, my wrists do not yearn for the heavy chains.
Forgiveness is freeing. Drop the stones of condemnation. Use them to build an altar. Celebrate the new verdict, "Not guilty."
