It is a scene from a nightmare. Yet it turns out well.

Pretend that you are the woman in Sunday’s Gospel. You have been “caught in adultery.” The officials shove you into a mob of people.

These see your hot shame and how it burns. They recite the ancient law of Moses: “The sacred law says you must be stoned to death for your crime.”

Stoned to death!

There was a man everyone called the “Teacher.” He had been captivating the crowd just before you were dragged in. Now you, the woman, have become the center of attention.

By means of your disgrace the accusers try to trap the Teacher and shame you. They are using you for this purpose. They question the Teacher. Doesn’t he agree you should be stoned to death? They have him in their snare, this "teacher," this dreamer who always preaches about forgiveness and love. If he defends you for the sake of his so-called love, he will break the law of Moses! If he does not defend you, he must follow the law, pick up a stone and throw it.

Teacher leans down and scratches absently in the dirt. People hold their breath, and the accusers worry. Why is he silent and what will he say? Now they have some nerves of their own.

  “My Abba has loved each of you through all ages, no matter whether you were sinners or not.”

For “Father” he uses an Arabic word that expresses both familiarity and respect, “Abba.” Abba always begged them, “be my people. Love one another. I love you, and I forgive your sins.” But hatred is their motto, not love. They want death to happen.

They shout again. “What is your answer? Shall we follow the law and stone this sinful woman?” Remember, you are that woman, and you stand in humiliation, cheeks hot and tears falling. Your heart says in terror, “the accusers are right!”

Now the teacher lifts his head. He utters a sentence that sums up the Gospel and all of Lent.

  “Let the one among you who is without sin throw the first stone.”

The crowd creeps away quietly, submerged in their own consciences.

Now you stand alone before this quiet Teacher, and your terror has subsided. There is something about him that supports you, brings you out to solid ground.

  “Well, where are they,” he asks. “Has no one condemned you?” You say, “No one, sir.” He also asks, “Do you condemn yourself?” You, the woman, spend a long time on this answer because it is so very hard. Finally you whisper, “I do not want to condemn myself, Teacher.”

  “Neither do I condemn you,” answers Jesus. “Go and sin no more.”

This scene could refashion the whole earth. If we could each accept our own sinfulness as well as the forgiveness that surrounds it, we would have peace. We would drink in the compassion of God, who has been there all along, tracing in our souls.

We stammer at last, “I believe, Lord. Help my unbelief.”