03-22-2026 | Rooted in Justice, Mercy, and Faithfulnass
“The Good News is. . .
Rooted in Justice, Mercy, and Faithfulness”
John 8:2–11
Matthew 23:23
Preached by
Rev. Dr. Marvin Lance Wiser
Eden United Church of Christ
Cherryland, CA
22 March 2026
There’s a question underneath everything we’re holding in Lent this year: Tell me something good. And if we’re honest, that’s not always an easy request. Because the world can feel heavy. Because the news is complicated. Because even the movements and leaders we trust can and do disappoint us. And yet, the Gospel insists: there is good news. Not shallow good news. Not denial. But deep, grounded, hard-won good news. And today, Jesus tells us exactly where to find it: rooted in justice, mercy, and faithfulness.
Dime algo bueno. No siempre resulta fácil: la vida es pesada; el mundo, complicado. Sin embargo, el Evangelio insiste en que existe una buena nueva, real y sólida: se halla en la justicia, la misericordia y la fidelidad.
In the Gospel according to John, Jesus is teaching in the Temple. And suddenly, the teaching is interrupted. A woman is dragged into the center. Not named. Not protected. Not dignified. She is “caught in adultery,” they say. And then the trap is set. The academics and religious leaders turn to Jesus: “The law of Moses commands us to stone such women. What do you say?” It’s a lose-lose situation. If Jesus upholds the letter of the law, he participates in violence. If he rejects it, he undermines the Torah.
But Jesus does something unexpected. Jesus does not take the bait. He bends down and writes in the dirt. We do not know what he wrote. Theologians and preachers have speculated for two thousand years. Maybe it doesn’t matter what he wrote. What matters is what the gesture communicated: I will not be rushed by your urgency. I will not play your game.
And then he stands, and says the words that have echoed through the centuries: “Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.” He bends down again and writes. One by one they leave. Until there is no one left but Jesus and the woman, standing in the morning light. And he says to her: “Neither do I condemn you. Go your way, and from now on, do not sin again.”
Jesús está enseñando en el Templo cuando todo se ve interrumpido. Una mujer es arrastrada hacia el centro —sin nombre, desprotegida, despojada de su dignidad— «sorprendida en adulterio», dicen. Los líderes religiosos se dirigen a Jesús con una trampa: «La ley de Moisés nos ordena apedrear a tales mujeres. ¿Qué dices tú?». Es una pregunta sin salida: o acatar la ley y participar en la violencia, o rechazarla y socavar la Torá.
Pero Jesús se niega a entrar en su juego. Se inclina y escribe algo en la tierra. Luego se pone de pie y dice: «Aquel de ustedes que esté libre de pecado, que sea el primero en arrojar una piedra». Uno por uno, se marchan. Y cuando solo queda la mujer, Jesús le dice: «Yo tampoco te condeno. Vete, y no peques más».
Now let’s be clear: Jesus is not dismissing the law. In fact, much of his teaching is deeply rooted in the Torah. But what he is doing… is reinterpreting it. And he refuses to let the Law be weaponized, and to let a human being become a prop in someone else’s power play. He flips the script. What was designed as a public execution becomes, instead, an invitation to self-examination. What was meant to humiliate one woman becomes a mirror held up to an entire crowd.
Jesus is asking a deeper question: Not just What does the law say? But what does justice require? What does mercy demand? What does faithfulness look like?
In Matthew 23:23, Jesus says it plainly: “You tithe mint, dill, and cumin, and have neglected the weightier matters of the law: justice and mercy and faithfulness.” Jesus is not saying: throw out the law. He is saying: these are its heart. In other words: You’re following the rules, while missing the point. The Law was never meant to be an end in itself. The Law was always meant to be in service of something greater.
This isn’t new with Jesus. This is the story of God all along. In Exodus, we hear that ancient confession of who God is:
The Lord, the Lord,
a God merciful and gracious,
slow to anger,
and abounding in steadfast love and faithfulness
keeping steadfast love for the thousandth generation,
forgiving iniquity and transgression and sin,
yet by no means clearing the guilty…
Justice and mercy. Accountability and compassion. Held together.
The prophets wrestled with this tension too. Hosea, eight centuries before Jesus, gives us a glimpse into the very heart of God–words we’ve been sitting with in Bible Study:
“My heart recoils within me;
my compassion grows warm and tender
I will not execute my fierce anger;
for I am God and no mortal.”
Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel called this the divine pathos—the idea that God is not a cold, unmoved lawgiver but a God who feels and grieves, who is moved by the suffering of creation, who is pulled toward compassion even in the face of transgression. A God who refuses to give up on people. This is the God we see in Hosea. This is the God we see in Jesus, standing in the dust, writing something we will never know, and then looking up to say: Neither do I condemn you.
And even in the structure of Scripture itself, we see this tension. The book of Nahum proclaims judgment. The book of Jonah proclaims mercy. And in the ancient Greek ordering of scripture—the Septuagint—they are placed side by side. Not as contradictions. But as a reminder: one cannot understand God through justice alone, compassion is always present.
Jesús no está desestimando la ley; está reivindicando su propósito. Arraigado en la Torá, se niega a permitir que la ley sea utilizada como arma o para avergonzar. En su lugar, transforma un momento de juicio en una invitación a la autorreflexión. La pregunta cambia de: «¿Qué dice la ley?» a: «¿Qué exigen la justicia, la misericordia y la fidelidad?».
Como afirma en Mateo 23, estos son los asuntos de mayor peso: el corazón mismo de la ley. No reglas por el simple hecho de ser reglas, sino una vida moldeada por la compasión y la integridad.
Esta ha sido siempre la historia de Dios: un Dios que mantiene unidas la justicia y la misericordia, que siente profundamente, que se inclina hacia la compasión y que se niega a darse por vencido con las personas. Ese es el Dios revelado en Jesús.
The question the religious leaders ask Jesus is still the question we ask today: What do we do with the law? It is the question with which every generation of justice-seekers has had to reckon.
In 1963, two days after Easter, the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., sitting in a Birmingham jail cell, wrote a letter responding to clergy—white, moderate clergy—who agreed with his goals but objected to his methods. They wanted him to be patient. To work within the system. To obey the law.
Rev. Dr. King responded with the same precision and spiritual clarity that Jesus brought to the Temple courtyard. He wrote that there are two kinds of laws: just laws, and unjust laws. A just law, he argued, is one that uplifts human personality. An unjust law is one that degrades human personality. And then he wrote the words that should still resound with us today: “We can never forget that everything Hitler did in Germany was ‘legal.’”
Legal is not the same as just. Compliance is not the same as faithfulness. This was true in first-century Jerusalem. It was true in Bombingham. It is true today.
La pregunta que los líderes plantean a Jesús sigue siendo la nuestra: ¿qué hacemos con la ley? En 1963, desde una celda en la cárcel el Pastor Martin Luther King Jr. respondió con claridad. Existen leyes justas y leyes injustas: unas elevan la dignidad humana; las otras la degradan. Y, tal como él dijo, lo que es legal no siempre es justo. La fidelidad a la ley es la justicia arraigada en el amor y la compasión.
La compasión no es la ausencia de rendición de cuentas. Jesús sigue diciendo: «Ve y no peques más», un llamado a la transformación y a la responsabilidad. Esto lo vemos en nuestros propios tiempos. Incluso los movimientos en favor de la justicia pueden causar daño, tal como hemos visto en el proceso de revisión histórica en torno a César Chávez, con sobrevivientes como Dolores Huerta exigiendo verdad y rendición de cuentas. La justicia requiere tanto honestidad como reparación.
Jesús encarna este equilibrio: mantiene unidos la dignidad y la rendición de cuentas, comparte el poder y construye una comunidad para llevar adelante esta labor. Porque la obra de la justicia nos pertenece a todos, y no a una sola voz. Y hoy, a las 4:00 de la tarde, uniremos todas nuestras voces en el canto para ayudarnos a hacer avanzar esta obra, cimentada en la justicia, la compasión, y la fidelidad.
Let’s be honest, this story is not just about one woman. It’s about systems that shame. It’s about power that humiliates. It’s about people being used as props in someone else’s argument. And Jesus interrupts all of it. He recenters the conversation on the humanity of the one most at risk. That’s the good news.
The good news is that when systems fail, God does not. The good news is that mercy is not weakness—it is divine strength. The good news is that justice without compassion is not justice at all.
But let’s also be honest about something else: Mercy does not mean the absence of accountability. Even Jesus says: “Go, and sin no more.” There is still a call to transformation. There is still a call to responsibility. And we need that reminder—especially now.
While the revelations coming from survivors, especially Dolores Huerta, concerning César Chávez have saddened us, it did not surprise many of us. Movements for justice are not immune to harm. Power, when left unchecked, can be abused by even those we recognize as our leaders. We see this time and time again. Accountability matters. Reparations are due. The Farmworker Movement is having a reckoning. And movements for justice are bigger than any one individual.
Perhaps Jesus knew this best of all. He didn’t build a movement around himself alone. He discipled others. He shared power. He guarded the dignity of women. And then—he left. Because good leadership is not about control. It’s about cultivating a community that can carry the work forward. The work belongs to the people, not to any single voice. That’s what we do in church together, liturgy, liturgia, from the Greek leitos and ergon, literally, “the work of the people.” All members of the body are important.
So here we are. People trying to live faithfully. People navigating laws, systems, institutions, movements. And the question remains: What is the most just, merciful, and faithful interpretation?
When we make policies. When we respond to harm. When we show up for our neighbors. Do our decisions uplift human dignity? Or diminish it? Do they reflect the heart of God: merciful, gracious, steadfast in love? Or do they simply maintain order at the expense of people?
The good news is not that we always get it right. The good news is that God keeps calling us deeper. Deeper into justice. Deeper into mercy. Deeper into faithfulness. The good news is that we are not called to perfection, we are called to participation. To show up. To offer what we have. To trust that God can do something with it.
And that’s why, later today at 4pm, we’ll gather right here in this sanctuary for Songs for the Soul & the Struggle. Not a performance, but a community. Multigenerational. Multicultural. Heart-centered. We’ll sing songs of justice. We’ll strengthen our spirits. We’ll make signs for the next No Kings protest. Because faith is not just what we believe, it’s how we show up. For dignity. For democracy. For our immigrant neighbors. You don’t need to know how to sing. You just need to show up. Right, Pastor Ashley?
Because in the end, this is the good news: That God is still writing in the dust. Still interrupting systems of harm. Still calling us back to what matters most: justice, mercy, and faithfulness. And when we root ourselves there, we become part of the good news the world is still longing to hear. Amen.