The Woman Caught in Adultery:
Jose Pandera and the Gospel in Dust
“And once more He bent down and wrote on the ground.”
—John 8:8
—John 8:8
She had no name.
Dragged into the Temple courts.
Accused.
Exposed.
Shamed.
A pawn in a trap, a test for the Teacher.
And He—silent. Stooping. Writing in the dust.
For generations, the woman in John 8 has been remembered as a symbol of mercy. But as I’ve been exploring in this series—first with two separate essays (1) (2) on the Samaritan woman in John 4, then Mary of Bethany in John 11—every woman in John’s Gospel holds more than her name or moment. She holds a thread. A revelation of Jesus. A disruption of systems. A mirror to the hidden things.
John 8 is no exception.
But to see it rightly, we must descend.
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The Missing Man
The story is half-told.
The story is half-told.
We know the woman was caught in adultery.
But where is the man?
The Law of Moses was clear—both were to be judged (Lev. 20:10; Deut. 22:22). But only she is brought forth. The man? Absent. Or silent. Or worse—protected.
Unless…
Unless he was there the whole time, stone in hand, shame hidden behind a veil of legalism.
Unless the man was one of the accusers.
Or one of the family.
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Jose Pandera: A Brother’s Hidden Shame
The Gospel of Mark names Jesus’ brothers—James, Joses (Jose), Judas, and Simon (Mark 6:3). We know James becomes a pillar. Judas writes an epistle. But Joses? Nothing. A name and then silence.
The Gospel of Mark names Jesus’ brothers—James, Joses (Jose), Judas, and Simon (Mark 6:3). We know James becomes a pillar. Judas writes an epistle. But Joses? Nothing. A name and then silence.
Yet early Jewish polemics, particularly in the Toledot Yeshu, remember a figure called Yeshu ben Pandera—a slanderous parody of Jesus. This “Pandera” tradition describes a man born of scandal, accused of sorcery, associated with shame.
But what if—as I argued in Is Jesus in the Talmud? Part Two—this distorted memory wasn’t about Jesus at all?
What if Pandera wasn’t His father…
…but the hidden name of His brother?
Jose Pandera.
A man whose sin—real and hidden—was woven into rabbinic memory, confused across time.
And Jesus, the true Son, bore it all in silence.
He did not protest.
He did not expose him.
He stooped.
He wrote.
He shielded.
And in that act, He became the true Goel—the kinsman redeemer who bears not only bloodline, but guilt.
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From Cain to Christ: Stones and Blood
This is not just legal drama—it is Genesis replayed.
This is not just legal drama—it is Genesis replayed.
Cain killed Abel and asked, “Am I my brother’s keeper?”
Abel’s blood cried from the ground.
In John 8, Jesus bends to the ground.
But no blood yet cries. Only dust, disturbed by the finger of God.
The woman is spared.
The brother is hidden.
The stone, untouched.
Because the Stone the builders rejected had already begun His descent.
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The Harrowing Begins in the Dust
Tradition tells us that after the crucifixion, Jesus descended into Sheol—the Harrowing of Hell—perhaps to release HaAdam’s seed and the righteous dead.
Tradition tells us that after the crucifixion, Jesus descended into Sheol—the Harrowing of Hell—perhaps to release HaAdam’s seed and the righteous dead.
But I submit to you:
The Harrowing began here.
Not in a tomb.
In a courtyard.
With a woman condemned and a brother in hiding.
Jesus descends into the shame.
Into the silence.
Into the hidden guilt of His own house.
He doesn’t throw the stone.
He becomes the place where stones are dropped.
“He is not ashamed to call them brothers.” (Hebrews 2:11)
Even Joses.
Even the one whose fall would become a slander remembered as Yeshu Notzri.
Even the one whose silence would be louder than accusation.
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Tiberius, Nero, and the Offspring of Pandera: The Unfolding of the Beast
In my post, Nero as 666?, I argued that while Nero embodied the Beast, he was only the most grotesque face of a much older system—the empire of accusation, the machinery of counterfeit glory, and devouring justice.
In my post, Nero as 666?, I argued that while Nero embodied the Beast, he was only the most grotesque face of a much older system—the empire of accusation, the machinery of counterfeit glory, and devouring justice.
But Jesus did not live under Nero.
He confronted Tiberius’ world, not Nero’s.
And yet—the Beast was already stirring.
The Temple elite—like Caesar—used theological authority to manage appearances, to protect men while sacrificing women.
They had learned how to use Torah like Rome used law: as a trap.
And Jesus walked right into it—not to avoid it, but to disarm it.
He saw what others could not.
He saw the anti-Christ system before it had a name.
He saw the Beast beneath the robe, the lie behind the law, and He said:
“Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.”
No one could.
Because everyone knew…
Someone was missing.
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Ben Stada, Ben Pandera: A Memory Misnamed
Rabbinic texts refer to a shadowy figure called Ben Stada, sometimes conflated with Ben Pandera—a seducer, a deceiver, a man of sorcery, hanged on the eve of Passover.
Rabbinic texts refer to a shadowy figure called Ben Stada, sometimes conflated with Ben Pandera—a seducer, a deceiver, a man of sorcery, hanged on the eve of Passover.
Most Christians, understandably, have assumed these are garbled references to Jesus.
But the contradictions are striking. The timelines, the locations, the accusations—they don’t fit the Gospel accounts.
What if these were not corruptions of Jesus of Nazareth,
…but veiled allusions to another?
A man tied to scandal.
Linked with adultery, sorcery, and shame.
A man whose sin became unspoken family memory.
A man or a son from Jose Pandera.
A nephew known as the magician by Josephus.
If so, these “ben” figures—Ben Stada, Ben Pandera—are offspring of slander, born not only from Roman suspicion but rabbinic discomfort with something closer to home.
They are names that preserve trauma through distortion.
But Jesus bore even that.
He bore the slander of memory, the misnaming, the projected guilt.
He bore it all the way down.
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The Gospel in Dust and Descent
So yes—Nero would come, and the Beast would roar an antichrist from his own famy.
So yes—Nero would come, and the Beast would roar an antichrist from his own famy.
But Jesus was already harrowing it in John 8.
Before Rome’s lion devoured martyrs,
He stood before a woman devoured by the law. Could she be Mary Magdala?
Before Tiberius’ coin was handed back,
He gave back something deeper: our hidden stones.
And where Cain once cried, “Am I my brother’s keeper?”,
Jesus answered with His body, with His silence, with His descent.
He harrowed not only hell, but history.
Not only Sheol, but shame.
Not only Rome’s brutality, but our forgotten brothers.
He stooped.
He wrote.
He wrote.
And He bore the name that wasn’t His,
so we could bear the name that is.
“He is not ashamed to call them brothers.” (Hebrews 2:11)
Even Joses.
Even the woman.
Even those of us who walked away, stone in hand,
knowing… we were the ones missing from the scene.
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The Gospel Written in the Ground
This is the Gospel I believe in:
This is the Gospel I believe in:
The Gospel that shields the woman without denying her guilt.The Gospel that refuses to expose the brother, but bears his shame.The Gospel that begins its descent long before the Cross—in the dust, with the accused, beneath the crushing weight of public spectacle and silent complicity.
This is the Gospel that unmasks the Beast, rewrites slandered names, and harrows not only Hell, but family history.
It is a Gospel written in dust,
where stones fall,
and grace is etched in silence.
