In his account of the Savior's brief earthly ministry, the apostle John includes the story of a woman taken in adultery. This story is often used to portray our Lord's mercy and compassion, which is abundant, but I would like to focus specifically on the experience of the woman. I wish we knew her name, but perhaps because we don't it is easy to step into her shoes and live the experience again and again with her.
The scribes and pharisees, ever clamoring to find fault with Jesus, drag this nameless woman through the streets and publicly declare her sins to the throngs of people. Tossing her roughly at Jesus' feet they say, Master, this woman was taken in adultery. Now Moses in the law commanded us, that such should be stoned: but what sayest thou?"
Jesus doesn't immediately answer their incessant voices. Instead, he kneels on the ground and begins to write in the sand. The scribes and pharisees badger relentlessly, repeating the question that mocks the woman who can only wait to hear her fate decided. Our Lord stands, beholding a crowd eager for blood, and says simply: He who is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone.
The answer is as unexpected as it is bold. The raging crowd quiets, and one by one they disperse as their own consciences convict them. Finally, the woman is left alone with the Savior of the world kneeling beside her. The words He next speaks are not for the crowd, but saved wholly for her:
Hath no man condemned thee?
Her response shows a sorrow and regret that all of us have known. Her public accusers have left, yes, but now she is face to face with a perfect man whose unblemished nature seems to her to highlight her own stains. Her untold and disregarded story, the cruelty of her situation making her now the only cast member, plays behind her eyes. No man, Lord. In other words, she seems to be saying, Have I not condemned myself?
Surely self-forgiveness is one of the most difficult tests of trust in the Savior. God's love is a rather enigmatic concept for those of us wandering through mortality. We preach that "God is love," we testify that His love for us is as a perfect father for his children, we believe that his love was enough to send a perfect Son to die for the sins of the world. But though these truths build the foundation of our faith, they do not explain the minute details of individual lives thirsty for that love. This thirst is not just metaphysical, it is not just a yearning for more doctrine, it is a craving for living waters to seep into the very soul beyond the mental reservoirs that grasp words without yet grasping feeling. Mortality is draining and exhausting, and the love of God is the I.V. that delivers life-sustaining nutrients into souls desperate for spiritual life.
This need for divine love is constant and eternally real. There are times, however, when that love seems very far away; when we feel far away and far below the throne of grace, and when that distance is self-inflicted and self-sustained. I am talking about times when our failures and mistakes balloon in our minds, distorting our own images in the mirror and permeating all waking thoughts and feelings. Times when our choices have clearly limited progression, times when despair--however constantly repressed--springs back into the landscape of our minds, taunting continual attempts at happiness. Times when we feel we have disappointed those we love, when we have been less than our best selves and when bad habits have become lifestyles. Times when the mistakes of others haunt every moment and when cruel words seem etched into our minds. It is these times that place us in the shoes of the biblical woman taken in adultery. Perhaps we feel foolish, recognizing mistakes or shortcomings. Perhaps we feel anguish, fear, even hopelessness as we look at the landscape of seemingly wrecked lives and devastated futures. Others have forgiven us, loved ones still love us, we have made amends and patched up old wounds. We have tried again and again, we have sought and felt the forgiveness of the Savior, we have applied every conference talk and every scripture in an attempt to live as we should, but still we look at our lives and feel disgust.
Have I not condemned myself?
A quiet moment in Jerusalem now lives for every one of us as we read words spoken by the Lamb of God, responding to the woman whose sins are ringing in her ears.
Neither do I condemn thee. Go thy way and sin no more.
I submit that the greatest act of trust the Savior has placed in us is reflected in that simple phrase. It is in the gift of agency that God's love is made manifest, and it is trust in the personal use of agency that the Savior shows with forgiveness. Forgiveness is only possible because of Christ's infinite atonement, so to believe in Christ is to believe in forgiveness, and to believe in forgiveness is also to believe in ourselves. By every act of forgiveness our Lord is freeing us to release the past and embrace the beautiful future. He believes in the majesty of each individual soul, so why should we cling to the ugliness of mistakes? Let them wash away with the tide of His love.
Go thy way and sin no more.
What greater vote of confidence could she have been given? The perfect, unblemished Jehovah believed that she could rise up and live a beautiful life. He believed that she was not her mistakes, and He gave her and all of us the chance to live, not burdened by what we once were but lifted by what we are becoming. Indeed, He comes to bring "beauty from ashes," and how desperately we each need that redemptive transformation.
Self-forgiveness is an act of faith. As Jeffrey R. Holland says, "faith is always pointed toward the future." God's love can fill empty hearts and become the life blood sustaining our eternal souls, but we must release the pressure and the ashes that are inevitable in this moral journey. Christ has made the future beautiful for all who choose to cling to Him, so forgive yourself and let Him fill the vacancy with the endless ocean of His love.
"let all go--the
big small middling
tall bigger really
the biggest and all
things--let all go
dear
so comes love."
e. e. cummings
Absolutely beautiful. I love it. Thank you.
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