Are You Still Holding a Stone?

Have you ever found yourself in a storm—one so fierce you couldn’t see God anywhere on the horizon?

Maybe you’ve felt like a bruised reed at the edge of the water—bent, weary, no longer standing tall. Life hits hard sometimes. Harsh words. Angry loved ones. Friends who weren’t really friends. Judgment from religious leaders. And worst of all, the heavy weight of your own mistakes. Confidence drains, shame creeps in, and you’re left wondering if you’ll ever rise again.

That’s where I was.

And it’s where I imagine the woman in John 8 found herself. She had no name, no voice, no defense—only an accusation. Her morning might have begun in calm, but by noon, she was dragged into chaos, standing in the middle of a circle of condemnation. Surrounded by stone throwers. Trapped under the full weight of the law.

Jesus had to come down from a mountain and walk into the storm to meet her. To show her that even at her lowest, He would be there. That even covered in dust and shame, she could stand again.

“Teacher,” they said, “this woman was caught in the act. The law says we should stone her. What do You say?”

Silence.

Jesus didn’t argue. He didn’t even look up at them at first. Instead, He stooped down and began to write in the dirt. Then came the words that cracked the air and stopped every heart:

“Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.”

One by one, the stones hit the ground. From the oldest to the youngest, they walked away. The crowd melted. And she was left—trembling, exposed, alone… except for Jesus.

“Where are your accusers?”

“Is there no one left to condemn you?”

“No one, Lord,” she whispered.

“Then neither do I. Go, and sin no more.”

We love this story because it moves us. We admire Jesus’ mercy. We imagine ourselves in that crowd—or maybe even as the woman.

But here’s the hard truth: sometimes, we are the ones holding the stones.

They may not be heavy. Sometimes they’re just a glance. A comment. A silence. A judgment hidden behind a polite smile. A “truth” spoken without love. Still, they land with a sting.

We throw them at the recovering addict.

At the single mom walking into church.

At the one who doesn’t fit our mold.

At those who believe, look, or love differently.

And we justify it:

“It’s just how I feel.”

“It’s just honesty.”

“It’s just a small thing.”

But those small things become a pile. A weight.

And I’ve felt them too. The unspoken rejection. The subtle exclusion. The quiet condemnation. It doesn’t take long before you start believing you are the woman in the dust—discarded and judged.

But Jesus still kneels.

He still meets us in the dirt. Still lifts our heads. Still says what our souls ache to hear:

“I do not condemn you.”

That’s the heart of it, isn’t it?

We all need grace.

We all need to drop our stones.

We all need to remember that mercy didn’t just triumph for her—it triumphed for all of us.

So today, before we speak, before we act, before we judge—look down at your hands.

And if you’re holding a stone, let it fall.

Because none of us—not one—has earned the right to throw it.

And Jesus? He’s still writing in the dirt.

Amen.