by Max Lucado
Only moments before she was in bed with a man who was not her husband. Was this how she made her living? Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe her husband was gone, her heart was lonely, the stranger’s touch was warm, and before she knew it, she had done it. We don’t know.
But we do know that a door was jerked open and she was yanked from a bed. She barely had time to cover her body before she was dragged into the street by two men the age of her father. What thoughts raced through her mind as she scrambled to keep her feet?
Curious neighbors stuck heads through open windows. Sleepy dogs yelped at the ruckus.
And now, with holy strides, the mob storms toward the teacher. They throw the woman in his direction. She nearly falls.
“We found this woman in bed with a man!” cries the leader. “The law says to stone her. What do you say?”
Cocky with borrowed courage, they smirk as they watch the mouse go for the cheese.
The woman searches the faces, hungry for a compassionate glance. She finds none. Instead, she sees accusation. Squinty eyes. Tight lips. Gritted teeth. Stares that sentence without seeing.
Cold, stony hearts that condemn without feeling.
She looks down and sees the rocks in their hands—the rocks of righteousness intended to stone the lust out of her. The men squeeze them so tightly that their fingertips are white. They squeeze them as if the rocks were the throat of this preacher they hate.
In her despair she looks at the teacher. His eyes don’t glare. “Don’t worry,” they whisper, “it’s okay.” And for the first time that morning she sees kindness.
When Jesus saw her, what did he see? Did he see her as a father sees his grown daughter as she walks down the wedding aisle? The father’s mind races back through time watching his girl grow up again—from diapers to dolls. From classrooms to boyfriends. From the prom date to the wedding day. The father sees it all as he looks at his daughter.
As Jesus looked at this daughter, did his mind race back? Did he relive the act of forming this child in heaven? Did he see her as he had originally made her?
“Knitted together” is how the psalmist described the process of God making man.2 Not manufactured or mass-produced but knitted. Each thread of personality tenderly intertwined. Each string of temperament deliberately selected.
God as Creator. Pensive. Excited. Inventive.
An artist, brush on pallet, seeking the perfect shade.
A composer, fingers on keyboard, listening for the exact chord.
A poet, pen poised on paper, awaiting the precise word.
The Creator, the master weaver, threading together the soul.
Each one different. No two alike. None identical.
On earth, Jesus was an artist in a gallery of his own paintings. He was a composer, listening as the orchestra interpreted his music. He was a poet, hearing his own poetry. Yet his works of art had been defaced. Creation after battered creation.
He had created people for splendor. They had settled for mediocrity. He had formed them with love. They had scarred each other with hate.
When he saw businessmen using God-given intelligence to feed Satan-given greed . . .
When he saw tongues he had designed to encourage used as daggers to cut . . .
When he saw hands that had been given for holding used as weapons for hurting . . .
When he saw eyes into which he’d sprinkled joy now burning with hatred . . .
I wonder, did it weary him to see hearts that were stained, even discarded?
Jesus sees such a heart as he looks at this woman. Her feet are bare and muddy. Her arms hide her chest, and her hands clutch each other under her chin. And her heart, her heart is ragged, torn as much by her own guilt as by the mob’s anger.
So, with the tenderness only a father can have, he sets out to untie the knots and repair the holes.
He begins by diverting the crowd’s attention. He draws on the ground. Everybody looks down. The woman feels relief as the eyes of the men look away from her.
The accusers are persistent. “Tell us, teacher! What do you want us to do with her?”
He could ask why they didn’t bring the man. The Law indicted him as well. He could ask why they are suddenly blowing the dust off an old command that has sat on the shelves for centuries. But he doesn’t.
He just raises his head and offers an invitation, “I guess if you’ve never made a mistake, then you have a right to stone this woman.” He looks back down and begins to draw on the earth again.
Someone clears his throat as if to speak, but no one speaks. Feet shuffle. Eyes drop. Then thud . . . thud . . . thud . . . rocks fall to the ground.
And they walk away. Beginning with the grayest beard and ending with the blackest, they turn and leave. They came as one, but they leave one by one.
Jesus tells the woman to look up. “Is there no one to condemn you?” He smiles as she raises her head. She sees no one, only rocks—each one a miniature tombstone to mark the burial place of a man’s arrogance.
“Is there no one to condemn you?” he asked. There is still one who can, she thinks. And she turns to look at him.
What does he want? What will he do?
Maybe she expected him to scold her. Perhaps she expected him to walk away from her. I’m not sure, but I do know this: what she got, she never expected. She got a promise and a commission.
The promise: “Then neither do I condemn you.”
The commission: “Go and sin no more.”
The woman turns and walks into anonymity. She’s never seen or heard from again. But we can be confident of one thing: on that morning in Jerusalem, she saw Jesus and Jesus saw her. And could we somehow transport her to Rio de Janeiro and let her stand at the base of the Cristo Redentor, I know what her response would be.
“That’s not the Jesus I saw,” she would say. And she would be right. For the Jesus she saw didn’t have a hard heart. And the Jesus who saw her didn’t have blind eyes.
However, if we could somehow transport her to Calvary and let her stand at the base of the cross . . . you know what she would say. “That’s him,” she would whisper. “That’s him.”
She would recognize his hands. The only hands that held no stones that day were his. And on this day they still hold no stones. She would recognize his voice. It’s raspier and weaker, but the words are the same, “Father, forgive them. . . .” And she would recognize his eyes. How could she ever forget those eyes? Clear and tear filled. Eyes that saw her not as she was but as she was intended to be.
CHAPTER 10
THE GOLDEN GOBLET
Flames leap from the hill. Pillows of smoke float upward. Orange tongues crack and pop.
From the midst of the blaze comes a yell—the protest of a prisoner as the dungeon door is locked; the roar of a Lion as he feels the heat of the burning jungle.
The cry of a lost Son as he looks for his Father.
“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
The words ricochet from star to star, crashing into the chamber of the King. Couriers from a bloody battlefield, they stumble into the King’s presence. Bruised and broken, they plea for help, for relief.
The soldiers of the King prepare to attack. They mount their steeds and position their shields. They draw their swords.
But the King is silent. It is the hour for which he has planned. He knows his course of action. He has awaited those words since the beginning—since the first poison was smuggled into the kingdom.
It came camouflaged. It came in a golden cup with a long stem. It was in the flavor of fruit. It came not in the hands of a king, but the hands of a prince—the prince of the shadows.
Until this moment there had been no reason to hide in the Garden. The King walked with his children, and the children knew their King. There were no secrets. There were no shadows.
Then the prince of shadows entered the Garden. He had to hide himself. He was too ugly, too repulsive. Craters marred his face. So he came in darkness. He came enc
ircled in ebony. He was completely hidden; only his voice could be heard.
“Taste it,” he whispered, holding the goblet before her. “It’s sweet with wisdom.”
The daughter heard the voice and turned. She was intrigued. Her eyes had never seen a shadow. There was something tantalizing about his hiddenness.
The King watched. His army knew the prince of shadows would be no contest for their mighty legion. Eagerly they awaited the command to attack.
But no command was given.
“The choice is hers,” the King instructed. “If she turns to us for help, that is your command to deliver her. If she doesn’t turn, if she doesn’t look to me—don’t. The choice is hers.”
The daughter stared at the goblet. Rubies embedded in gold filigree invited her touch. Wine wooed her to taste. She reached out and took the cup and drank the poison. Her eyes never looked up.
The venom rushed through her, distorting her vision, scarring her skin, and twisting her heart. She ducked into the shadow of the prince.
Suddenly she was lonely. She missed the intimacy she was made to know. Yet rather than return to the King, she chose to lure another away from him. She replenished the goblet and offered it to the son.
Once again the army snapped into position. Once again it listened for the command of the King. His words were the same. “If he looks to me, then rush to him. If he doesn’t, then don’t go. The choice is his.”
The daughter placed the goblet into the hands of the son. “It’s all right,” she assured. “It’s sweet.” The son looked at the delight that danced in her eyes. Behind her stood a silhouetted figure.
“Who is he?” the son asked.
“Drink it,” she insisted. Her voice was husky with desire.
The goblet was cold against Adam’s lips. The liquid burned his innocence. “More?” he requested as he ran his finger through the dregs on the bottom and put it to his mouth.
The soldiers looked to their King for instructions. His eyes were moist.
“Bring me your sword!” The general dismounted and stepped quickly toward the throne. He extended the unsheathed blade before the King.
The King didn’t take it; he merely touched it. As the tip of his finger encountered the top of the sword, the iron grew orange with heat. It grew brighter and brighter until it blazed.
The general held the fiery sword and awaited the King’s command. It came in the form of an edict.
“Their choice will be honored. Where there is poison, there will be death. Where there are goblets, there will be fire. Let it be done.”
The general galloped to the Garden and took his post at the gate. The flaming sword proclaimed that the kingdom of light would never again be darkened by the passing of shadows. The King hated the shadows. He hated them because in the shadows the children could not see their King. The King hated the goblets. He hated them because they made the children forget the Father.
But outside the Garden the circle of the shadow grew larger and more empty goblets littered the ground. More faces were disfigured. More eyes saw distortedly. More souls were twisted. Purity was forgotten, and all sight of the King was lost. No one remembered that once there was a kingdom without shadows.
In their hands were the goblets of selfishness.
On their lips was the litany of the liar. “Taste it; it’s sweet.”
And true to the words of the King, where there was poison, there was death. Where there were goblets, there was fire. Until the day the King sent his Prince.
The same fire that ignited the sword now lit a candle and placed it amidst the shadows.
His arrival, like that of the goblet bearer, did not go unnoticed.
“A star!” was how his coming was announced. “A bright light in a dark sky.” A diamond glittering in the dirt.
“Burn brightly, my Son,” whispered the King.
Many times the Prince of Light was offered the goblet. Many times it came in the hands of those who’d abandoned the King. “Just a taste, my friend?” With anguish Jesus would look into the eyes of those who tried to tempt him. What is this poison that would make a prisoner try to kill the One who came to release him?
The goblet still bore the seductive flavor of promised power and pleasure. But to the Son of Light its odor was vile. The very sight of the goblet so angered the Prince that he knocked it out of the hand of the tempter, leaving the two alone, locked in an intense glare.
“I will taste the poison,” swore the King’s Son. “For this I have come. But the hour will be mine to choose.”
Finally that hour came. The Son went for one last visit with his Father. He met Him in another garden. A garden of gnarled trees and stony soil.
“Does it have to be this way?”
“It does.”
“Is there no one else who can do it?”
The King swallowed. “None but you.”
“Do I have to drink from the cup?”
“Yes, my Child. The same cup.”
He looked at the Prince of Light. “The darkness will be great.” He passed his hand over the spotless face of his Son. “The pain will be awful.” Then he paused and looked at his darkened dominion. When he looked up, his eyes were moist. “But there is no other way.”
The Son looked into the stars as he heard the answer. “Then, let it be done.”
Slowly the words that would kill the Son began to come from the lips of the Father.
“Hour of death, moment of sacrifice, it is your moment. Rehearsed a million times on false altars with false lambs, the moment of truth has come.
“Soldiers, you think you lead him? Ropes, you think you bind him? Men, you think you sentence him? He heeds not your commands. He winces not at your lashes. It is my voice he obeys. It is my condemnation he dreads. And it is your souls he saves.
“Oh, my Son, my Child. Look up into the heavens and see my face before I turn it. Hear my voice before I silence it. Would that I could save you and them. But they don’t see, and they don’t hear.
“The living must die so that the dying can live. The time has come to kill the Lamb.
“Here is the cup, my Son. The cup of sorrows. The cup of sin.
“Slam, mallet! Be true to your task. Let your ring be heard throughout the heavens.
“Lift him, soldiers. Lift him high to his throne of mercy. Lift him up to his perch of death. Lift him above the people that curse his name.
“Now plunge the tree into the earth. Plunge it deep into the heart of humanity. Deep into the strata of time past. Deep into the seeds of time future.
“Is there no angel to save my Isaac? Is there no hand to redeem the Redeemer?
“Here is the cup, my Son. Drink it alone.”
God must have wept as he performed his task. Every lie, every lure, every act done in shadows was in that cup. Slowly, hideously they were absorbed into the body of the Son. The final act of incarnation.
The Spotless Lamb was blemished. Flames began to lick his feet.
The King obeys his own edict. “Where there is poison, there will be death. Where there are goblets, there will be fire.”
The King turns away from his Prince. The undiluted wrath of a sin-hating Father falls upon his sin-filled Son. The fire envelops him. The shadow hides him. The Son looks for his Father, but his Father cannot be seen.
“My God, my God . . . why?”
The throne room is dark and cavernous. The eyes of the King are closed. He is resting.
In his dream he is again in the Garden. The cool of the evening floats across the river as the three walk. They speak of the Garden— of how it is, of how it will be.
“Father . . . ,” the Son begins. The King replays the word again. Father. Father. The word was a flower, petal-delicate, yet so easily crushed. Oh, how he longed for his children to call him Father again.
A noise snaps him from his dream. He opens his eyes and sees a transcendent figure gleaming in the doorway. “It is finished, Father. I have come home.”
CHAPTER 11
COME HOME
England. Nineteenth century. Christmas. In a small town there is the tradition of a village party where all the children receive gifts. It is a festive occasion: the bright smiles of the youngsters, a tall tree at the square, colorful packages. There is a young retarded man in the town who, because of his handicap, is the victim of many cruel jokes. The trick being played on him this Christmas Day is the cruelest of all.
As the mountain of gifts becomes smaller and smaller, his face grows longer and longer. He is too old for a gift, but he doesn’t know that. His childlike heart is heavy as he watches everyone receive presents except himself. Then some of the boys come to him with a gift. His is the last one under the tree. His eyes dance as he looks at the brightly wrapped package. His excitement soars as he tears away the ribbons. His fingers race to rip away the paper. But as he opens the box, his heart sinks.
It’s empty.
The packaging was attractive. The ribbons were colorful. The outside was enough to get him into the inside; but when he got to the inside, the box was empty!1
Ever been there?
Many people have—
A young mother weeps silently into her pillow. All her life she had dreamed of marriage. “If only I could have a home. If only I could have a husband and a house.”
So now she’s married. The honeymoon has long since ended. The tunnel she dug out of one prison only led her to another. Her Land of Oz has become a land of dirty diapers, car pools, and bills.
She shares a bed with a husband she doesn’t love. She listens to the still sleep of a child she doesn’t know how to raise. And she feels the sand of her youth slide through her fingers.
A middle-aged businessman sits in his plush office staring blankly out the window. A red German sports car awaits him in the parking lot. There is a gold ring on his finger and a gold card in his wallet. His name is in brass on a walnut door and a walnut desk. His suit is tailored. His shoes are hand sewn, his name well known.
