Through the still sleeping streets I make my way towards the temple. I love the temple in the predawn stillness. It seems my best chance of hearing God. How I long to hear him speak forgiveness to my soul.  Isaiah's words ring, mocking in my ears:

"Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow, though they are red as crimson, they shall be like wool." Scarlet sins I know.

There is no silence in the courts this dawn. Already, Jesus, the young new rabbi, sits teaching. I know of him by reputation. He turned water into vintage wine, fed 5,000 with next to nothing, restored a man to health who had spent 38 years of his life staking his faith on a superstition.  I slip up behind a pillar where I can see and hear, but not be seen. I have heard his reputation for being a friend of sinners, yet I dare not venture into his presence. Shame prevents.

A commotion draws the crowdís attention. It parts like the Red Sea to a small mob of men dragging a woman obviously caught in the wrong bed, hair down, head uncovered, scanty clothing with which she desperately tries to cover herself. Already, a few of the men cradle stones in their hands. Wait, I know some of them--Scribes and Pharisees--men who know my address, men I do not want to know I'm here.

One face is missing. His face. He knew my childhood history--"A father to you," he said. An answer to my longing heart. In his presence I felt chosen, alive. Subtly his attention changed. He spun his web around my heart. Ensnared. Seduced. But who would believe me--a nobody--against him--a priest. It was not far from him to the others. The others, now dragging her to Jesus.

I catch a glimpse of her face and see my own mirrored there. Hers retains an innocence I lost long ago. She does not belong in the clutches of these men. And where was he?  The Law of Moses clearly states both parties were to be stoned, not that stoning was even in vogue any more.

I know the answer. This is a set-up. The other party escaping out the back as the woman was dragged out the front. My worst nightmare played before my eyes.

With haughty arrogance the Scribes and Pharisees fling her at Jesus' feet. "Teacher, this woman was caught in the act of adultery. In the Law, Moses commanded us to stone such women. Now what do you say?"

Clever. Either way, they have him. If he says "set her free"--he's disregarding Moses. If he says "stone her," they accuse him to the Romans.

Either way, she loses.

As if deaf to the accusations, Jesus bends down and silently begins to write in the dust. Annoyed at his casual indifference to their  status and their question, they urge their query. "What do you say?"

Jesus straightens, ìIf any one of you is without sin, let him be the first to throw a stone at her.î

The woman cowers further, awaiting the first blow. Jesus calmly resumes his writing on the ground. From my secluded vantage point, it looks as if he is writing in code, his position such that only one at a time can truly decipher his writing. In rank order, beginning with the oldest, each presses in to see. I study their faces. Exposed. Just like the woman. They slink away, each man's robe erasing the record carved in the dust. Jesus continues writing. The last accuser leaves. The last stone drops. Only the woman and Jesus are left. Abject misery in the presence of absolute mercy.

Tenderly, Jesus claims her eyes. "Woman, where are they? Has no one condemned you?"

I strain to hear her response. "No one, sir."

"Then neither do I condemn you, go and sin no more."

I leave. White as snow.