Writing in the dirt

John 8:3-11 Writing in the Dirt

Rough hands in the daylight,

Poisoned pious words spit at me.

The men close in around me

like a brick wall falling down.

Child, cousin, sister, daughter,

no longer.

Naked I wear this sin.

I am devoured by their eyes.

Caught.

I knew not

to go but thought

I was in control

when he said to meet him in the afternoon quiet

when it was too hot to work

and all would be sleeping except us.

He would never use my name

never truly knowing me

but knowing me all the same.

The words and shame and spit

Hit me a thousand times.

Was I ever child, cousin, daughter, sister?

Or just the thing secretly wanted.

Who will throw the first stone?

Friend, brother, father, lover.

They will kill me

to kill their own sin.

The stones will be a mercy.

I am made to stand

Before the Rabbi

The holy man

With healing hands

from Galilee.

The Rabbi’s eyes gently hold my face.

He bends to the ground,

drawing in the pebbles and sand.

His voice is clear and strong

in the hot afternoon.

Daring them to move.

My breath is ragged,

loud in my ears.

Who will throw the first stone?      

Friend, brother, father, lover.

Caught,

in this spot of dirt

bound by the weight of this Shame.

I cannot breath.

He stoops down again

and stirs the dust with his fingers.

I cannot see what he has written.

There is only

the sound of sandals

moving in the dirt .

I close my eyes to the inevitable.

“Woman, where are they?

Has no one condemned you?”

The Rabbi’s question hangs in the thick silence.

The Rabbi stands up

alone in front of me.

Will he be both judge and executioner?

His eyes gently hold my face.

“Then neither do I condemn you.

Go and leave your life of sin.”

Freed,

No longer caught.

Named

His child, His friend, His daughter.

Clothed,

No longer naked in sin.

Free.