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What she was doing was wrong, and she knew it. So did her lover. But it was deliciously exciting. Each time they were together was better than the previous time. It was ecstasy to be with him. It was wrong, but her body and mind made it feel right.

The enchantment turned to terror when they were caught. It was terrifying and humiliating all at the same time. And then, suddenly, she was being dragged from the house into the street. The noisy proclamations of her accusers told bystanders she'd been caught with a man other than her husband. The shame descended on her like a heavy black cape, weighing her down, suffocating her. Then she was seized with even deeper terror—she was going to die …

A loaded question
I was on a weekend spiritual retreat and I was there, at least in part, because for many months I had wrestled with the mystery of how and why God forgives sins—especially mine. I thought a retreat might give me some insight.

I went to parochial schools for 12 years, and there I learned that God forgave my sins if I had "perfect sorrow" for them. Perfect sorrow came purely from the pain of knowing I had offended God. Imperfect sorrow came from fear of punishment in either this world or the next. The only valid contrition, the way I heard it, was contrition offered because I was sorry for having done wrong.

During a conference with the retreat leader, I shared my beliefs about forgiveness and my doubts about God forgiving me, since I didn't even know if or why I was sorry for my transgressions.

"Have you ever been stoned?" he asked. Before I could answer he added, "I'm not talking about drugs or alcohol. I mean, have you ever had a dozen people throw stones at you, trying to kill you?" In Christ's time, he explained, that was how they dealt with things like blasphemy, witchcraft, and adultery. They stoned the perpetrators to death.

He told me to read and meditate on John 8:3-11—the story of a woman caught in the act of adultery. "Use your imagination and see it through the woman's eyes," he said. "Then do it from the perspective of those who caught her and dragged her to Jesus for judgment."

I read it, meditated on it, and put myself into the scenes.

Through her eyes
In just a few minutes she would be condemned. Neighbors and accusers would surround her and would literally knock the life out of her with stones. She would be publicly mocked and despised. She would die an outcast.

Her own pain and shame would be heavy enough, but she also felt the humiliation her family would endure: They would live in disgrace that their daughter, mother, and wife had died the death of an adulteress.

All of these thoughts raced through her mind as she was being dragged to where the young rabbi, Jesus, was teaching. She had heard He was able to drive out demons from people. But He wouldn't be exorcising her demons. It was too late. He would, however, confirm her death sentence.

When the menagerie reached Jesus, the Pharisees pushed her into the dirt at His feet. Pompously they explained the situation to Jesus. She was an adulteress, and the punishment for adultery, under the Law of Moses, was stoning. "Now what do you say?" they demanded of Jesus.

It was no accident that they brought her to Jesus. He had expressed radical ideas about forgiving sins, and they wanted to test Him. He talked about love and forgiveness, but how could He consider forgiving her? After all, God gave Moses the Ten Commandments, and one of them reads: "Thou shall not commit adultery."

If He didn't condemn her, then He would be violating a commandment of God. And if He did condemn her, then where was the love and forgiveness for sinners that He professed?

With great detail they told Jesus her situation. Jesus looked around at the would-be executioners and said, "If any one of you is without sin, let him be the first to throw a stone at her." Jesus wasn't addressing the crowd; He was talking directly to the witnesses. Under the Mosaic Law, the witnesses were obligated to throw the first stones.

Along with her heart-pounding fear, the woman felt totally alone. No one was crying for her, begging for her life. There was no one pleading that she be given a second chance.

Then Jesus started writing in the sand. Scripture doesn't reveal what He wrote, but perhaps it was something like this: "Are you, ______ (leaving a space for a name to be filled in later), without sins of the flesh? You covet your neighbor's wife and even plot ways to be with her. You have touched many of your female servants in a sinful way. Are you without sin?"

As Jesus wrote, those who brought the woman to Him felt their fear rise. He knew what each one of them had done, was doing, or was planning to do. They, like the accusers, were suddenly being accused—by their own consciences.

Quietly stones slipped from hands. The crowd and the woman's accusers eased away.

Infinite mercy
Jesus said to the adulteress, "Woman, where are they?" Startled, she opened her eyes. Jesus was standing in front of her, alone. The mob was gone. "Has no one condemned you?" He asked.

"No one, Teacher," she whispered, her throat dry with fear. "Then neither do I condemn you," said Jesus. "Go now and leave your life of sin."

Jesus forgave her sins, from the largest to the smallest, instantly and completely. And quite suddenly, I realized that He forgave her not because she was heartily sorry for her sins but simply because He was—and is—just and merciful.

He forgave her not because she was perfectly sorry but because she needed forgiveness. He forgave her because she was in pain and in need of a new life.

Using my imagination to become a part of John's Gospel narrative, I could plainly see God's forgiveness for each of us, over and over.

When Peter came to Jesus and asked, "Lord, how many times shall I forgive my brother when he sins against me? Seven times?" Jesus answered, "I tell you, not seven times, but seventy times seven" (Matt. 18:21-22). That translates into an infinite number of times. If Jesus told us to forgive an unlimited number of times, then how can we expect God to be any less forgiving?

God has an unlimited capacity to love us. He isn't hindered, as we are, by an imperfect nature. He forgives infinitely because, as Scripture points out, "His mercy endures forever" (Ps. 107:1). Even when we see ourselves as undeserving, unlovable, and unforgivable, God doesn't see us that way. If we ask for forgiveness, He gives it fully—without judgment, without stones.

Richard J. Bauman is a writer from West Covina, California. He is the author of Awe-full Moments: Spirituality in the Commonplace (iUniverse).

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