If we don't want to throw stones, why do we have our pockets so full of them? The answer, and the solution, may surprise you.

A Pocket Full of Stones

Her long, dark veil of hair couldn't shield her from their contemptious eyes as the chant of the crowd arose until every tongue echoed the awful decree: "Stone her!" Passing by, I queried a spectator. "She was caught in the act of adultery," the stranger replied. Tramp! I thought, and I felt a curious weight sag my pocket. For several blocks my mind tortured the woman, and I returned to find the Pharisees had shuffled her through the crowd to Jesus' feet. "He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone," I heard Jesus say. Their stones were silent. Then Jesus turned to me I was chilled by his solemn stare. Guilt settled upon me like a fog as my hands nervously fumbled my pockets, and I trembled to find that they were filled with stones. "But I didn't gather these," I pleaded. His voice was steady. "Will you cast with your tongue the stones which your mind has collected?" I turned to hide in the crowd, but one by one they had gone, and I stood alone. So I emptied my pockets and made the stones an altar at his feet. Smiling warmth, he said to us-- the adulterous woman and me-- "Hath no man condemned thee? Neither do I condemn thee: go, and sin no more.