Lifter of my head- The woman in the dust
In body language, a completely lowered head with slumped shoulders speaks volumes, according to author James Borg, “you’re looking down because you’re feeling down”. It speaks sadness, depression, guilt, defeat, hiding. No wonder the ostrich hides its head in the sand, the big bird often can’t deal with the danger above there, so make it simple, disappear from them- the accusers, the problems, the failures, the mistakes, the regrets. There are things that have knocked us down and maybe kept us down,…questioning whether we will ever be good enough for a God that is so pure and beautiful.
On the temple floor, there is a mob of self-righteous angry men thirsty for blood, waiting for the barbaric thrill of stoning a human being to death. Curious teenage boys, hot-blooded young men, the middle-aged and the elderly united with one quest; “kill the adulteress!”…she represented all their deepest darkest fantasies, all that made them scrub their skin with hot water and soap hoping that the cleanliness of their bodies would somehow clean out the murk and grotesque diseases of their hearts. Much like the Archdeacon in the children’s classic- the Hunchback of Notre Dame, they reasoned that by destroying this gypsy, this exotic morally decadent beauty that they would somehow have done God a favour by removing one more sinner from the face of the earth. Perhaps this act would be a generous penance for their own sins.
On the ground, a completely lowered head with slumped shoulders, a picture of submission and total surrender to her superiors. Awaiting the wages of her sin. Past caring, not worthy to be angry, not worthy of anything really. Her life of shame flashes before her, uncontained passions, amorous relationships that wouldn’t fix the loneliness and hurt inside, a purse full of gold and the little presents on her nightstand that mocked her. Daily reminders that she was only worth the full value of the little nothings. The look of disgust and regret as each lover left her embrace every other night. They were right, she didn’t deserve to live. She didn’t want to live anymore,...her self-loathing had become a permanent fixture in her mind. Make it quick she dully thinks, as she imagines the first rocks hitting her tanned ivory skin. A total picture of failure and defeat.
The noise stops, the men are leaving one by one. Their consciences weirdly amped up to a hundred percent. A body swap had just occurred and they realized that poor creature on the floor was every one of them. They could see clearly now, and the picture wasn’t right. Fight or flight instinct kicks in, one look at the master and they were no match for the power emanating from him, the power of compassion, the power of conviction. Flight it is.
“Where are your accusers, didn’t even one of them condemn you”? he asks, voice cultured and clear. Full of kindness and strength. Full of mercy and compassion. A rhetorical question loaded with meaning.
“No”. With the power of speech she testifies. A simple no, perhaps a whisper but a roar in the spirit. NO!, They are gone. My accusers are gone. No longer a label, no more a failure, no more the person that I used to be. NO! she screams inside, I AM NOT CONDEMNED. “..Neither do I condemn you. Freedom, sanctification, salvation. Suddenly she raises her head, a gesture body language experts may call hope and fearlessness. A new dawn. Forgiven. Redeemed. Saved. From the downtrodden stance of a condemned woman to the regal pose of a daughter. Beloved. Sanctified. Washed clean by a single sentence from a worthy Father.
The lyrics of the hymn it is well with my soul comes to mind, “My sin, not in part but the whole was nailed to the cross and I bear it no more,..”
He is God, He is the lifter of our heads and we no longer stand condemned. Jesus Christ heals the broken parts, let him heal you. Let Him free you.
On the temple floor, there is a mob of self-righteous angry men thirsty for blood, waiting for the barbaric thrill of stoning a human being to death. Curious teenage boys, hot-blooded young men, the middle-aged and the elderly united with one quest; “kill the adulteress!”…she represented all their deepest darkest fantasies, all that made them scrub their skin with hot water and soap hoping that the cleanliness of their bodies would somehow clean out the murk and grotesque diseases of their hearts. Much like the Archdeacon in the children’s classic- the Hunchback of Notre Dame, they reasoned that by destroying this gypsy, this exotic morally decadent beauty that they would somehow have done God a favour by removing one more sinner from the face of the earth. Perhaps this act would be a generous penance for their own sins.
On the ground, a completely lowered head with slumped shoulders, a picture of submission and total surrender to her superiors. Awaiting the wages of her sin. Past caring, not worthy to be angry, not worthy of anything really. Her life of shame flashes before her, uncontained passions, amorous relationships that wouldn’t fix the loneliness and hurt inside, a purse full of gold and the little presents on her nightstand that mocked her. Daily reminders that she was only worth the full value of the little nothings. The look of disgust and regret as each lover left her embrace every other night. They were right, she didn’t deserve to live. She didn’t want to live anymore,...her self-loathing had become a permanent fixture in her mind. Make it quick she dully thinks, as she imagines the first rocks hitting her tanned ivory skin. A total picture of failure and defeat.
The noise stops, the men are leaving one by one. Their consciences weirdly amped up to a hundred percent. A body swap had just occurred and they realized that poor creature on the floor was every one of them. They could see clearly now, and the picture wasn’t right. Fight or flight instinct kicks in, one look at the master and they were no match for the power emanating from him, the power of compassion, the power of conviction. Flight it is.
“Where are your accusers, didn’t even one of them condemn you”? he asks, voice cultured and clear. Full of kindness and strength. Full of mercy and compassion. A rhetorical question loaded with meaning.
“No”. With the power of speech she testifies. A simple no, perhaps a whisper but a roar in the spirit. NO!, They are gone. My accusers are gone. No longer a label, no more a failure, no more the person that I used to be. NO! she screams inside, I AM NOT CONDEMNED. “..Neither do I condemn you. Freedom, sanctification, salvation. Suddenly she raises her head, a gesture body language experts may call hope and fearlessness. A new dawn. Forgiven. Redeemed. Saved. From the downtrodden stance of a condemned woman to the regal pose of a daughter. Beloved. Sanctified. Washed clean by a single sentence from a worthy Father.
The lyrics of the hymn it is well with my soul comes to mind, “My sin, not in part but the whole was nailed to the cross and I bear it no more,..”
He is God, He is the lifter of our heads and we no longer stand condemned. Jesus Christ heals the broken parts, let him heal you. Let Him free you.
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