From Condemnation to Communion

John 8:1–20

Introduction

We live in a world quick to throw stones. Maybe not literal stones, but words and actions can cut just as deep.

Think about what happens in our culture when someone is exposed publicly—when a mistake is caught on camera, or an old post resurfaces on social media. Before long, an avalanche of judgment falls. Strangers pile on. Careers end. Families are devastated. We even have a name for it: cancel culture.

At the heart of it is exposure without redemption. There’s no pathway back, no room for growth, no mercy.

Now imagine that same intensity—not on a screen, but in the flesh. That’s the scene in John 8.

It’s early morning. Jesus is teaching in the temple courts. A crowd is gathered. Suddenly the lesson is interrupted. A group of religious leaders push their way forward, dragging a woman behind them. She’s been caught “in the act” of adultery.  The law of Moses is clear: death by stoning. And the men who dragged her there are ready to enforce it. Stones are already in their hands.

But here’s the twist: the whole scene is a trap. They don’t really care about the woman. They care about trapping Jesus.

• If He shows mercy, they’ll accuse Him of ignoring the law.
• If He demands her death, they’ll report Him to Rome, because Jews weren’t allowed to carry out executions without Roman approval.

Either way, they think they’ve got Him.

It’s a tense, humiliating, dangerous moment.  But instead of giving them an immediate answer, Jesus bends down, silent, and begins to write in the dirt.

This morning, we’re going to sit with this story. We’re going to let the tension build as it did that day. And we’re going to see how Christ—the only innocent one present, the only one with the right to throw a stone—chose instead to stand in the gap. He took the judgment that was hers, and ours.

Here’s our theme for today: In a world quick to throw stones, Jesus offers mercy that leads to transformation—just as we experience at the Lord’s Table.

“Today, we’ll see how this story reveals God’s grace, calling us from condemnation to communion.”

The Accusation and the Trap (vv. 1–6)

The woman is guilty. John tells us she was caught “in the act” — the Greek phrase is ep’ autophōrō (ἐπ᾽ αὐτοφώρῳ), which doesn’t leave room for debate or speculation. It literally means “caught red-handed,” caught at the very moment of the offense. There were no rumors whispered behind closed doors, no circumstantial pieces of evidence to be pieced together, no secondhand testimonies that might be questioned or challenged. She was apprehended in the very act itself. In the eyes of her accusers, this was an open-and-shut case. Guilt was undeniable.

But immediately a question arises: where is the man? The Law of Moses is clear on this matter. Deuteronomy 22:22 says, “If a man is found sleeping with another man’s wife, both the man who slept with her and the woman must die.” The law demanded accountability for both participants in the sin, not just one. Yet here, only the woman is dragged into the temple courts. The glaring absence of the man exposes the hypocrisy of the accusers. Their motives are not righteous, not concerned with justice, not truly about upholding the holiness of God’s law. Instead, their motives are political and manipulative. They are weaponizing the law in order to trap Jesus. They are using this woman as a pawn in their schemes, caring little for her life or soul.

Notice also the setting: this entire drama unfolds in the temple courts, the very place that symbolized God’s presence among His people, the place where worship was meant to rise, where forgiveness was sought through sacrifice, and where holiness was proclaimed. And yet here, in this sacred space, the leaders of the people orchestrate a public spectacle. They drag this woman in front of Jesus not only to humiliate her but also to entangle Him. Her shame is laid bare before the eyes of the crowd, her dignity stripped from her as the leaders press their accusations. What should have been a place of prayer and atonement has been twisted into a courtroom of shame and manipulation.

The tension in this moment is not only personal but also deeply legal and political. According to the Mosaic law, adultery was a capital offense. Leviticus 20:10 is clear: both the man and woman involved were to be put to death. But the reality on the ground in first-century Judea was complicated. Rome ruled the land, and one of Rome’s strict controls was that the Jewish people were not allowed to carry out capital punishment without Roman approval. That is why later in John’s Gospel, when Jesus is condemned, the Jewish leaders have to bring Him to Pilate. They did not have the authority to execute Him themselves.

So the Pharisees think they’ve devised the perfect trap. If Jesus says, “Yes, stone her,” they can accuse Him of defying Roman authority and stirring up rebellion. If He says, “No, don’t stone her,” they can accuse Him of disregarding the law of Moses and being soft on sin. Either way, they believe they’ve cornered Him. This is their no-win scenario.

But let’s pause and look more deeply. Isn’t adultery in Scripture often a metaphor that runs deeper than the act itself? Time and again in the Old Testament, God uses adultery to describe the unfaithfulness of His people. The prophet Hosea is commanded to marry an unfaithful wife so that his own life becomes a living parable of Israel’s betrayal of the covenant. Jeremiah, Ezekiel, and other prophets likewise accuse Israel of committing “spiritual adultery” by running after idols, forsaking their covenant with the Lord, and seeking satisfaction in other gods.

In that sense, this woman becomes more than an individual sinner in this story. She becomes a symbol of all of us. We may not have been caught in the act of this particular sin, but every single one of us has been unfaithful to God. Every one of us has sought satisfaction in something other than Him. Every one of us has betrayed His love and chosen idols of our own making.

So when this woman stands in the temple courts, exposed, humiliated, guilty, and vulnerable, she is not just standing there for herself—she is standing there for us. She is a mirror of our condition before a holy God. We too stand guilty. We too are exposed. We too deserve judgment. And like her, we are powerless to defend ourselves.

That’s the weight of this moment. This is not just a story about an ancient trial or a clever legal trap. This is a story about the human condition. It’s about what it means to stand guilty before the Law, stripped of excuses, stripped of defenses, and in desperate need of mercy.

If you were dragged into the open and your worst sin was shouted for all to hear, how would you feel?

The Challenge and Conviction (vv. 7–9)

The Pharisees keep pressing Jesus. They demand an answer. “Teacher, what do you say?” Their words are sharp, insistent, designed to corner Him. The tension is unbearable. The crowd holds its breath. Stones are heavy in clenched fists. Every eye is fixed on Him.

And then—He doesn’t answer. At least, not in the way they expect. Instead, He bends down low and begins to write on the ground with His finger.

This small, almost quiet action is one of the most debated gestures in the entire Gospel of John. What did He write? Why did He write? Scholars and preachers through the centuries have speculated. Some imagine Him listing the sins of the accusers one by one. Others suggest He was simply buying time, letting the weight of the moment settle in. But one passage in particular resonates deeply with me—and I am convinced it may be at the heart of what was happening: Jeremiah 17:13.

“Lord, you are the hope of Israel; all who forsake you will be put to shame. Those who turn away from you will be written in the dust because they have forsaken the Lord, the spring of living water.”

Can you hear the power of that prophecy echoing in this scene? Here stand the Pharisees, supposedly the most faithful men of Israel, yet in truth they are rejecting the very Lord who is the spring of living water, standing in front of them. And here is Jesus, bending down and inscribing in the dust. Could it be that in that moment He was enacting Jeremiah’s words—writing their judgment in the earth itself because they had turned away from the living God?

And there’s more. Notice the alliteration of Scripture whenever the “finger of God” or the “hand of God” is mentioned. It is never casual. It is always climactic. In Exodus 31:18, the Ten Commandments are given, “written by the finger of God” on tablets of stone. The very law these Pharisees cling to so tightly was etched by that divine finger. Later, in Daniel 5, when King Belshazzar of Babylon holds his blasphemous banquet, “the fingers of a human hand appeared and wrote on the plaster of the wall.” Mene, Mene, Tekel, Parsin. Judgment declared by the hand of God.

Every time the finger of God moves in Scripture, something monumental is taking place: revelation on Sinai, judgment in Babylon, and now—mercy in the temple courts.

Do you see it? The same divine hand that carved the law into stone now stoops down into the dust of the earth. The eternal Word made flesh presses His finger into the soil of creation, as though He is reminding them—and us—that He is Lord of both the Law and of mercy. He is the God who wrote commandments, the God who pronounced judgment, and the God who now chooses to stoop low to offer grace. Whenever the hand of God appears, heaven and earth are about to shake.

The accusers keep pressing Him, but His silence speaks louder than words. They are waiting for a trap to spring shut, but Jesus is setting the stage for revelation. Finally, He stands and speaks the words that pierce through the tension:

“Let the one who is without sin—anamartētos (ἀναμάρτητος)—cast the first stone.”

He doesn’t dismiss the law. He doesn’t contradict Moses. In fact, He upholds the law precisely. According to Deuteronomy, the witnesses of a crime were required to cast the first stones in an execution. Jesus agrees—but with one critical condition: the witness must be without sin. In other words, only the truly righteous have the right to condemn.

The specific passage is Deuteronomy 17:6–7:

“On the evidence of two witnesses or of three witnesses, the one who is to die shall be put to death; a person shall not be put to death on the evidence of one witness. The hand of the witnesses shall be first against him to put him to death, and afterward the hand of all the people. So you shall purge the evil from your midst.”

Here’s what that means in context:

Verse 6 establishes the legal requirement that capital punishment could only be carried out on the testimony of at least two or three witnesses — ensuring fairness and protection against false accusation.

Verse 7 then requires that those very witnesses—the ones who testified to the person’s guilt—must be the first to throw the stones.

This was both symbolic and practical:

• It forced the witnesses to take personal responsibility for their testimony. If they lied, they were shedding innocent blood.
• It emphasized that justice must never be detached from conscience.

So when Jesus says in John 8:7, “Let the one among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone,” He is directly invoking Deuteronomy 17:7.

He isn’t overturning the law—He’s applying it perfectly. He’s saying, “If you truly believe you stand as righteous witnesses before God, bound by His law, then go ahead—obey it. Begin the execution.”

The effect is devastating. One by one, beginning with the elders—the very ones who should have recognized their own hypocrisy first—the stones begin to drop. Can you hear it? The sound of rocks falling onto dust, thudding against the temple pavement, echoing through the courtyard. Each stone a confession that no one present is qualified to stand in judgment.

What a picture. The very men who moments before had come in with fury, with their fists clenched around heavy stones, walk away in silence, their weapons of condemnation abandoned at the feet of Jesus.

But of course, none of them could. Because the One before them who actually was without sin wasn’t holding a stone. He was holding out grace.

The Mercy and the Mandate (vv. 10–11)

Now the crowd is gone. The shuffling of feet has faded into silence. The angry voices of the Pharisees are no longer pressing their accusations. The clatter of stones has ceased, their weight abandoned in the dust of the temple courts. What began as a public spectacle has ended in a sacred hush. And there, in that quiet courtyard, only two remain: Jesus and the woman.

Can you picture her? Moments earlier she had been dragged in humiliation, forced to stand exposed in front of an entire crowd. Her face flushed with shame, her life dangling on the edge of death, she braced herself for the sting of stones. Now, for the first time, she dares to lift her eyes—and finds herself alone with Jesus.

And He speaks. Not with fury, not with accusation, but with tenderness:
“Woman, where are they? Has no one condemned you?”

Her voice is likely trembling, still uncertain if this reprieve is real:
“No one, Lord.”

Then come the words that change everything:
“Neither do I condemn you. Go, and sin no more.”

Notice the depth of what is happening here. First, Jesus does not deny her guilt. He doesn’t pretend she is innocent. He doesn’t excuse or minimize her sin. He acknowledges it fully. She had broken the law of God. Under the Law of Moses, adultery required death. There was no ambiguity about the penalty: sin demanded judgment.

The Greek word John uses here is katakrinō (κατακρίνω) — judicial condemnation, the legal pronouncement of a sentence. Jesus withholds that condemnation. But why? Is He ignoring the law? Is He soft on sin? No—He is not setting aside justice. Rather, He knows something the woman cannot yet see: death is still required. Judgment is still coming. But it will not fall on her. It will fall on Him.

This moment in John 8 is not cheap grace; it is costly grace. Jesus can say, “Neither do I condemn you” because He knows that very soon, He Himself will be condemned in her place. The law’s demand for death will be met—not by the stoning of the guilty woman, but by the crucifixion of the innocent Son. He stands in the gap, absorbing the judgment she deserved. The only One qualified to throw the stone chooses instead to bear the weight of the cross.

This is substitution at its clearest. The righteous for the unrighteous. The sinless for the sinner. Jesus does not erase the penalty—He transfers it to Himself. As Paul would later write, “God made Him who knew no sin to be sin for us, so that in Him we might become the righteousness of God” (2 Cor. 5:21).

But Jesus doesn’t stop there. He doesn’t merely say, “Neither do I condemn you,” and then dismiss her. He speaks a second word:
“Go, and sin no more.”

The Greek phrase here is mēketi hamartane (μηκέτι ἁμάρτανε), literally, “Do not continue in sin any longer.” It is forward-looking grace. He is not pretending her past didn’t matter, but He is declaring that her future can be different. This is not license to remain in sin; it is liberation to walk in holiness. Mercy meets her where she is, but it does not leave her there. Forgiveness becomes the doorway into transformation.

This is mercy and holiness together. Forgiveness that transforms. Grace that changes the very trajectory of her life. Jesus is both Savior and Sanctifier—the One who releases us from condemnation and calls us into new creation living.

The Old Testament pointed to this moment. Jeremiah 31 promised a new covenant, one in which God would forgive sins and write His law on the hearts of His people. That promise is unfolding here. The law carved in stone, once used to condemn, is now being inscribed by the Spirit upon a forgiven heart. She is free—not to return to her old ways, but to walk in the light of life.

And here lies the key truth: The only One qualified to throw the stone chose instead to take her place. The Judge steps off the bench, kneels beside the guilty, and bears the sentence Himself. The law’s demand for death is not denied—it is fulfilled on the cross. And because of that, the guilty walk free.

This is why, when we gather at the Table, we hold bread and cup. The bread reminds us of His body broken—not hers, not ours. The cup reminds us of His blood poured out—the death that was required, but not demanded of us. Each time we eat and drink, we remember that Christ took our condemnation so we could receive His communion.

Application and Theological Depth

So what about us?

Don’t we still do the same thing today? We may not carry stones in our hands, but we carry them in our hearts—every time we hold someone else to a standard we couldn’t keep ourselves. We do it on social media, in our workplaces, even in our homes—when we expect perfection from others while excusing our own failings. Jesus’ words echo through time to us as well: ‘If you are without sin, cast the first stone.’ And in that light, all of us have to loosen our grip. Because the truth is, there’s only ever been one who was without sin—and instead of throwing stones, He chose to stretch out His hands on a cross

So that leads to a question, what stones are you holding? Maybe against someone who hurt you. Maybe against a whole group of people you judge. Maybe even against yourself, because you can’t seem to let go of shame.

This story exposes the danger of self-righteousness. The Pharisees were so eager to condemn that they forgot their own need for mercy.

And it also exposes the beauty of grace. The woman didn’t earn it. She didn’t ask for it. But she walked away forgiven because Jesus stood in the gap.

That’s what Communion is.

At the Table, we hold bread and cup—the proof that Jesus bore our condemnation. The stone that should have struck us fell upon Him. His body was broken. His blood was poured out.

The woman deserved death. The law was clear. And Jesus—the only innocent one—had every right to condemn her. But He didn’t.

Why? Because He was preparing to take her place. To take our place.

And on the cross, He did.

That’s why, when we come to this Table, we come not as perfect people, but as forgiven people. The stone has been dropped. The judgment has been taken. The bread and cup are our reminder: “Neither do I condemn you. Go, and sin no more.”

As we prepare our hearts for the table, I want to invite everyone into a moment of silence. Imagine the stones you’ve been carrying—judgment, bitterness, shame—and drop them at the foot of the cross.