Day 70

Numbers 23-24 | John 8:1-11

She had been caught.

Not suspected. Not accused. Caught.

Dragged from wherever she was, through the streets, thrown into the dirt before a crowd—and before Jesus.

The law was clear. The penalty was death. And the religious leaders were ready to make an example of her.

But this wasn’t about justice.

It wasn’t about righteousness.

It was a trap.

A woman’s life was being leveraged as bait to catch Jesus in a no-win scenario. If He condemned her, His message of grace would collapse. If He let her go, He would be accused of rejecting the Law of Moses.

But Jesus didn’t play their game.

Instead, He knelt in the dirt.

The Accuser’s Voice

I don’t know what Jesus wrote in the dirt that day. No one does. But I do know that while He was writing, the accusations didn’t stop.

The men standing around her—self-righteous, indignant, eager to see judgment fall—demanded an answer.

And Jesus gave them one.

“Let him who is without sin among you be the first to throw a stone at her.” (John 8:7)

Silence.

Then the sound of rocks hitting the ground.

One by one, her accusers walked away.

And when the dust settled, only Jesus and the woman remained.

No condemnation. No punishment. No stones.

Only mercy.

When the Accuser Lives in Me

I think about that woman.

The shame she must have felt. The weight of knowing she was guilty. The terror of what she thought was coming.

And yet, even when all the Pharisees had walked away, I wonder if another accuser remained. The one in her own mind. The one that whispers, ‘You don’t deserve to be free.’

Because sometimes, my accuser isn’t a Pharisee. Sometimes, it’s me.

I know what it’s like to carry guilt.

To hear the voice that says I should have healed faster. That my faith should be stronger. That I am not good enough. That I should be doing more or doing something entirely different.

I know what it’s like to accuse myself.

And maybe you do too.

Maybe your past still haunts you. Maybe there are wounds from childhood you won’t talk about—memories that make you flinch. Maybe you replay your worst failures, convinced they are the truest thing about you. Maybe, deep down, you struggle to believe that Jesus could look at you and offer anything but condemnation.

What Jesus Actually Says

The Pharisees left. The woman stayed. And Jesus spoke:

“Neither do I condemn you; go, and from now on sin no more.” (John 8:11)

Not a dismissal of sin. Not a denial of truth. But a gift of grace.

Mercy doesn’t excuse sin. It doesn’t pretend it didn’t happen.

It acknowledges the guilt—then cancels the punishment.

Jesus didn’t say, “Try harder.” He didn’t say, “Make it up to Me.”

He said: I don’t condemn you.

And if Jesus—the only One who had the right to throw a stone—refused to condemn her, why do we so often condemn ourselves?

When Mercy Is All That’s Left

Numbers 23-24 reminds us that what God has declared cannot be undone.

“Behold, I have received a command to bless: He has blessed, and I cannot revoke it.” (Numbers 23:20)

God had spoken blessing over Israel, and no scheme of man—no enemy, no opposition, no outside force—could undo it.

And the same is true for us.

If Jesus has declared no condemnation, no voice in hell or on earth—not even our own—can override it.

So why do we keep trying to pick up the stones He already told us to drop?

Living Like the Forgiven

The woman in John 8 walked away free.

No chains. No sentence. No death.

And I want to live like that too.

Not under the weight of my past. Not under the burden of shame. Not listening to the voice of the accuser—whether it’s someone else’s or my own.

But resting in the mercy of the One who knelt in the dirt.

Because He’s the same One who died on the cross. And He did it all for me.

Lord, I drop my stones. The ones I hold against myself. And the ones I hold ready to throw at others. I receive Your mercy. I rest in Your grace. Let me go and sin no more—not to earn Your love, but because I already have it. Amen.