Before I Throw a Stone, Teach Me to Bend Down

What would you write about me?

Learning to exchange accusation for humility and judgment for love.

Recently, a client asked me a question that has lingered in my heart.

“Why do we keep falling into pits? Why can’t we become mindful enough to avoid them?”

It’s a question I’ve wrestled with myself.

Why do I keep finding myself in familiar places of frustration, disappointment, and judgment? Why, after all these years of walking with Jesus, do I still struggle with thoughts I wish I didn’t have?

Shouldn’t I know better by now?

Shouldn’t I be further along?

And there it is.

The subtle voice of accusation.

Sometimes it’s directed toward myself. Other times, toward the people I love most.

I’ve been noticing how easily I can become irritated when someone in my family isn’t doing what I think they should be doing. Or when they’re doing something I think they shouldn’t.

Before I know it, I’ve created an entire conversation in my head.

Why don’t they see what needs to be done?

Why would they make that choice?

Why am I the one who has to think about everything?

And although I may never speak those words aloud, something has already shifted in my heart.

I’ve moved from curiosity to criticism.

From connection to accusation.

From love to judgment.

And lately, Jesus has been inviting me to see something different.

The God Who Bent Down

In John 8:1–11, we encounter a woman caught in adultery.

The religious leaders drag her before Jesus, publicly exposing her sin. They want to know what He thinks should happen to her.

They have the law on their side. They have their arguments prepared. And they have stones they are ready to throw.

But Jesus does something unexpected.

He bends down.

“But Jesus bent down and started to write on the ground with his finger.”

— John 8:6, NIV

I’ve read this passage many times, wondering what Jesus wrote in the dirt.

Was He writing their sins? Was He pointing back to Jeremiah 17:13, where those who turn away from the Lord are described as being written in the dust? Was there a connection to the finger of God that wrote the Law on the tablets given to Moses?

Scripture doesn’t tell us.

But I’m beginning to wonder whether I’ve been so focused on what Jesus wrote that I’ve missed something beautiful about what He did.

Jesus bent down.

While everyone else stood in accusation, Jesus lowered Himself.

While others demanded judgment, Jesus interrupted the moment.

And while they were focused on exposing the woman’s sin, Jesus was preparing to expose something in their own hearts.

He eventually stood and said:

“Let any one of you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.”

— John 8:7, NIV

And then He bent down again.

One by one, the accusers walked away.

I can’t say for certain why Jesus chose to bend down. John doesn’t explain His posture. But as I examine my own heart, that image has become a powerful invitation.

Before I throw another stone in my mind, perhaps I need to bend down.

Not to write out someone else’s sins.

But to humble myself before Jesus.

When My Thoughts Become Stones

I’ve discovered that I don’t need an actual stone in my hand to become an accuser.

Sometimes my stones look like expectations.

Sometimes they look like disappointment.

Sometimes they sound like, They should know better.

And sometimes they are disguised as righteousness.

After all, isn’t it good to want people to make wise choices? Isn’t it right to desire responsibility, kindness, and consideration?

Of course.

But I’m learning that I can desire something good while approaching it from a heart that isn’t particularly loving.

I can be right about a circumstance and wrong in my posture toward the person.

Ouch.

Jesus reminds us in Matthew 11:29:

“Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart.”

— NIV

Notice what Jesus invites us to learn.

Not merely better behavior.

Not perfect decision-making.

Not how to make everyone around us do what we believe is right.

He invites us to learn His heart.

Gentle.

Humble.

What would happen in my family if, before responding to something that irritates me, I became curious about what was happening in my own heart?

What am I afraid of?

What expectation am I holding?

Am I trying to control an outcome?

Am I assuming I know someone’s motives?

And perhaps most importantly:

Jesus, how would You love this person right now?

What If the Pit Isn’t the Problem?

This brings me back to my client’s question.

Why do we keep falling into pits?

I think we often believe that becoming spiritually mature means learning to avoid every pit.

If we could just become more mindful, more disciplined, more aware, perhaps we would never find ourselves struggling again.

But I’ve noticed something about that way of thinking.

It can quietly turn our spiritual growth into a performance.

We begin measuring our righteousness by how well we’re doing.

And when we stumble, we condemn ourselves.

When someone else stumbles, we wonder why they haven’t learned better.

Suddenly, we’re standing with the religious leaders, examining someone else’s failure rather than recognizing our shared need for grace.

What if we’ve misunderstood the goal?

What if the purpose of walking with Jesus isn’t to become so good at avoiding pits that we no longer need Him?

What if spiritual maturity is learning to recognize our need for Jesus more quickly, wherever we find ourselves?

Psalm 40:2 gives us this beautiful picture:

“He lifted me out of the slimy pit, out of the mud and mire; he set my feet on a rock and gave me a firm place to stand.”

— NIV

Notice who does the lifting.

He does.

The psalmist doesn’t celebrate becoming clever enough to never fall again. He celebrates the faithfulness of the God who rescues.

Certainly, wisdom helps us recognize dangerous patterns. God invites us to grow, mature, and make choices that lead to life.

But avoiding pain is not the same thing as becoming righteous.

And never struggling is not the evidence that we belong to Jesus.

Our righteousness is rooted in Him.

The Mind of Christ

Paul writes in Philippians 2:3–5 that we are to act with humility, value others above ourselves, and have the same mindset as Christ Jesus.

He goes on to describe Jesus, who humbled Himself and took the nature of a servant.

Think about that.

Jesus didn’t need to prove His importance.

He didn’t need to defend His position.

He didn’t need to stand above others to demonstrate His authority.

He humbled Himself.

And He loved.

I’m realizing how often my irritation is connected to my desire for things to go the way I believe they should.

My plans.

My expectations.

My understanding of what’s best.

But the mind of Christ invites me into something entirely different.

Not the abandonment of truth, responsibility, or healthy boundaries.

Rather, the surrender of my need to be the judge of everyone else’s heart.

I can speak truth without accusation.

I can express disappointment without condemnation.

I can establish boundaries without withholding love.

And I can acknowledge my own struggles without turning them into evidence that I’m failing Jesus.

Romans 12:2 reminds us that transformation comes through the renewing of our minds.

This is where I want Jesus to meet me.

Not merely after I’ve spoken harshly or allowed resentment to grow.

But in that quiet moment when the first accusing thought begins.

Jesus, renew my mind right here.

Apart From Me, You Can Do Nothing

Perhaps the most freeing part of this discovery is remembering Jesus’ words in John 15:5:

“I am the vine; you are the branches. If you remain in me and I in you, you will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing.”

— NIV

I cannot manufacture the humility of Jesus through sheer determination.

I cannot produce His gentleness simply by trying harder.

And I cannot love like Jesus while remaining disconnected from His love for me.

The fruit comes from abiding.

From remaining.

From returning.

Again and again.

Even when I find myself in the same pit.

Even when my thoughts become accusatory.

Even when I discover that I have been more concerned with being right than being loving.

These moments don’t have to become invitations to condemn myself.

They can become invitations to return to Jesus.

To pause.

To bend down.

To remember whose I am.

And to allow His love to reshape the way I see the person standing in front of me.

Before I Rise, Let Me Bend Down

There’s one more detail in John 8 that I find beautiful.

Jesus didn’t remain bent down.

He rose and spoke.

And when the accusers were gone, He spoke directly to the woman.

“Then neither do I condemn you,” Jesus declared. “Go now and leave your life of sin.”

— John 8:11, NIV

Grace and truth.

Mercy and transformation.

Jesus didn’t pretend her choices didn’t matter.

But He didn’t use her failure as an opportunity to humiliate her.

He invited her into a different way of living.

And isn’t that what He continues to do with us?

When I recognize the judgment in my heart, He doesn’t invite me to pile condemnation on top of it.

He invites me to come to Him.

To learn from Him.

To remain in His love.

And then to rise and love others from that place.

I’m beginning to see that humility isn’t thinking poorly of myself.

It’s releasing my need to stand above another person.

It’s remembering that the same grace I desperately need is the grace Jesus desires to extend through me.

So the next time irritation begins to rise, I want to remember the image of Jesus bending down.

Before I rehearse someone’s failures.

Before I decide what they should have done.

Before I pick up a stone in my thoughts.

Jesus, teach me to bend down.

Not to write their sins in the dirt.

But to surrender my accusations at Your feet.

And when I rise, may I rise with Your heart.

Gentle.

Humble.

Full of truth.

And overflowing with love.

⸻

A Prayer for a Humble Heart

Jesus,

You know how quickly my mind can move from love to judgment.

You see the expectations I hold, the frustrations I carry, and the accusations I sometimes rehearse in silence.

Teach me to recognize those moments as invitations to return to You.

When I want to stand above someone in judgment, remind me to bend down in humility.

When I find myself in another pit, remind me that Your grace has not run out.

When I am tempted to measure my righteousness by my performance, remind me that my life is rooted in You.

Renew my mind.

Soften my heart.

Teach me to be curious before I am critical, gentle without abandoning truth, and loving even when circumstances don’t meet my expectations.

I don’t simply want to behave more like You.

I want my heart to belong so completely to You that Your love becomes the way I see others.

In Jesus’ name, amen.

⸻

Rooted in Truth. Transformed by Grace.

Rhythms of Grace Life Coaching

An Invitation to Reflect

Where have you been holding stones in your thoughts toward yourself or someone you love?

And what might change if, before responding, you paused long enough to ask Jesus to show you His heart?