Known

Known

For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life. For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through him. (John 3:16-17)

This is how God showed his love among us: He sent his one and only Son into the world that we might live through him. This is love: not that we loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as an atoning sacrifice for our sins. (1 John 4:9-10)

People occasionally ask me about the pronunciation of my given name. “Is it Ran-DÓLL or RAN-dull?” It’s like that potato/potahto thing. “You can call me Ran-DÓLL, but my name is RAN-dull. You may call him Handel but I say it’s Handle. Ran-DÓLL, RAN-dull, Handel, Handle – let’s call the whole thing off.” Just for the record, it’s “RAN-dull.” Not that I think I’m particularly dull, mind you; it’s just a family thing.

Actually, going back a few generations, I could have been a “Stamp.” You see, my paternal grandfather, Donald Stamp, a well-to-do bachelor from a wealthy east coast family, fell head-over-heels in love with my grandmother, Grace, who lived across the tracks – so to speak. When my grandfather’s family demanded that he marry a more prominent debutant from the ‘hood, or risk being disinherited, Donald did what any blue-blooded, alpha male would do: he married Grace, moved to Indianapolis and changed his name to John Sterling. At least he kept the last initial the same.

And the occasional confusion over my first name has created a few awkward moments. The most notable occurred when I appeared in court one day and the clerk said, “Ran-DÓLL!” Then, remembering her courtroom-decorum voice, she lowered the volume and said, “Mr. Sterling; it’s good to see you.” It seemed kind of rude to correct her at the time, so I just smiled and said hello, thinking that that would be the end of it. Unfortunately, it was just the beginning.

Apparently, she wanted me to meet the new bailiff and court reporter. So, over to the table we went, and with each introduction came a mispronunciation: “Joe, this is Ran-DÓLL Sterling;” “Sally, this is Ran-DÓLL Sterling.” I just smiled and cringed a bit, unable to maneuver my way into the conversation to correct her. Besides, by this time, we’d kind of reached a point of no return. Correcting her now would have been a little embarrassing. So, I just kept my mouth shut. But then I got trapped.

Because seconds later, the judge came out – apparently having overheard his clerk’s introductions to the rest of his staff. “Good to see you, Mr. Sterling,” his honor said as he took the bench. “But before we proceed, I just wanted to clarify – is it Ran-DÓLL, or RAN-dull Sterling?” I was stuck. If I told the truth, the clerk would be embarrassed. But if I lied, the judge would be misinformed. She needed mercy. He needed accuracy. And I needed to keep my license. I wanted to be kind with her and honest with him, but how could I be both? Well, I tried. For the first time in my entire life I answered, “Well, your honor, I’ve been called both. But frankly, I generally answer to Randy; it kind of takes the mystery out of it.” May my ancestors forgive me.

But that moment wasn’t without its redeeming value. The situation provided me with a glimpse into the character of God. Because on an infinitely grander scale, God faces with humankind what I faced with the court clerk and the judge. How can God be both just and kind? How can he dispense truth and mercy? How can he redeem the sinner without endorsing the sin? Can a holy God overlook our mistakes? But then can a kind God punish those mistakes? From our perspective there are only two, equally-unappealing solutions. But from God’s perspective, there’s a third. It’s called the cross of Christ.

The cross. Can you turn in any direction without seeing one? Perched atop a chapel. Carved into a headstone. Engraved onto a ring, or suspended from a chain. The cross is the universal symbol of Christianity. But it’s kind of an odd choice, don’t you think? Because it seems a little strange that a tool of torture would come to embody a movement of hope. The symbols of other faiths are a lot more upbeat. For instance, take the six-pointed Star of David, or the crescent moon of Islam, or the lotus blossom of Buddhism. But a cross for Christianity? It’s like adorning an instrument of execution.

For instance, would you wear a tiny electric chair around your neck? Or, would you hang a gold-plated hangman’s noose on your wall? How about printing a picture of a firing squad on your business cards? Yet we do that with the cross. Many even make the sign of the cross as they pray. But would we make the sign of, let’s say, a guillotine? Instead of the triangular touch on the forehead and shoulders, how about a karate chop on the palm? Doesn’t have quite the same feel, does it? So why is the cross the symbol of our faith? To find the answer, we don’t have to look any further than the cross itself.

Its design couldn’t be simpler. One beam horizontal; the other vertical. One reaches out – like God’s love; the other reaches up – like God’s holiness. One represents the width of his love; the other reflects the height of his holiness. The cross, then, is the intersection of God’s love and holiness. The cross is where God forgave his children without lowering his standards.

But how could he do that? Well, in a sentence, God put our sin on his Son and punished it there. “God put on him the wrong who never did anything wrong, so we could be put right with God.” (2 Cor. 5:21) Or, as rendered in another translation, “God made Christ, who never sinned, to be the offering for our sin, so that we could be made right with God through Christ.”

Envision the moment. God on his throne. You on the earth. And between you and God, suspended between you and heaven, is Christ on the cross. Your sins have been placed on Jesus. And God, punishing the sin, releases his wrath on your mistakes and Jesus receives the blow. But since Christ is between you and God, you don’t. The sin is punished, but you’re safe. Safe in the shadow of the cross. God’s Friday. Good Friday. Christ’s crucifixion viewed through the lens of an Easter Sunday morning.

That’s what God did. But why? Why would he do that? Did God have a moral duty? Was there some sort of heavenly obligation He had to attend? Maybe a paternal requirement? No. God isn’t required to do anything. Besides, consider what he did. He gave his Son. His only Son. Would you do that? Would you offer the life of your child for someone else? I wouldn’t. There are those for whom I would give my life, like my family. But ask me to make a list of those for whom I would kill my son or daughter, and the sheet would be blank. I don’t need a pencil, because the list has no names.

But God’s list contains the name of every person who ever lived. That’s the scope of his love. And that’s the reason for the cross. He loves the world. “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son.” (John 3:16) And aren’t you glad the verse doesn’t read: “For God so loved the rich … ”? Or, “For God so loved the famous … ”? Or, “For God so loved the thin … ”? It doesn’t. Nor does it state, “For God so loved the Europeans or Africans …, ” or “the sober or successful …, ” or “the young or the old ….” No, when we read John 3:16, we simply read, “For God so loved the world.” So, how wide is God’s love? Wide enough for the whole world. And if you’re in this world, then you’re included in God’s love.

And it’s nice to be included, isn’t it? Because sometimes we’re not. Universities exclude you if you aren’t smart enough. Businesses exclude you if you aren’t qualified enough. And, sadly, some churches exclude you if you aren’t good enough. But though they may exclude you, Christ includes you. When asked to describe the width of his love, Jesus stretched one hand to the right and the other to the left and had them nailed in that position so that you would know that he died loving you.

After World War I, the United States government allocated funds to help care for the orphans in Europe. At one of the orphanages, an emaciated man brought in a very thin little girl. He said, “I would like for you to take care of my little girl, please.” They asked him if the girl was his daughter, and he said yes. “Oh. We’re so sorry,” they told him, “but our rules and policies are such that we can’t take in any children who have a living parent.” “But I was in prison camps during the war,” he protested. “And now I’m too sick to work, and her mother’s gone. She will die if you don’t take care of her!” The officials felt compassion for the distressed man, but told him their hands were tied; there was nothing they could do.

Finally, the man said, “Do you mean to tell me that if I were dead, you would take care of my little girl, and she could have food and clothes and a home?” “Yes,” they replied. And with that, the man picked up the little girl, hugged her and kissed her, and then put her hand in the hand of the man at the desk. “I will arrange it,” he said. He then walked out of the orphanage and sacrificed his life so that his daughter could live.

And somewhere in eternity, the day came figuratively when Jesus said to the Father, “Do you mean that if I die, those people on earth can live and have a home with you forever?” And the Father said, yes. With that, Jesus put our hands in the Father’s, walked out of Heaven, was born on earth, and died on the cross to pay for our sins. The cross: the place where the width of God’s love intersected the height of his holiness. And it’s the Easter Sunday resurrection of the one who was murdered on that cross that makes it such an enduring symbol of hope. The hope of Good Friday. God’s Friday.

But isn’t there a limit? Surely there has to be an end to God’s love. You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But David the adulterer never found it. Paul the murderer never found it. Peter the liar never found it. When it came to life, they’d hit bottom. But when it came to God’s love, they never did because there is no bottom. They, like you, found their names on God’s list of love. And you can be certain that the One who put it there knows how to pronounce it. You’re known. (Psalm 139)

Grace,

Randy

Failure

Failure

But Israel violated the instructions about the things set apart for the Lord. A man named Achan had stolen some of these dedicated things, so the Lord was very angry with the Israelites…. So approximately 3,000 warriors were sent, but they were soundly defeated. The men of Ai chased the Israelites from the town gate as far as the quarries, and they killed about thirty-six who were retreating down the slope. The Israelites were paralyzed with fear at this turn of events, and their courage melted away. Then the Lord said to Joshua, “Do not be afraid or discouraged. Take all your fighting men and attack Ai, for I have given you the king of Ai, his people, his town, and his land. You will destroy them as you destroyed Jericho and its king. (Joshua 7:1, 4-5; 8:1-2)

I remember the 1991 Super Bowl, but I’m not a football junkie, nor do I have extraordinary recall. Frankly, I really don’t remember much about the ’91 football season except one detail. A headline. An observation prompted by Scott Norwood’s kick. He played for the Buffalo Bills, and the city of Buffalo hadn’t won a major sports championship since 1965. But that night in Tampa Bay, it appeared the ball would finally bounce the Bills’ way. They went back and forth with the New York Giants. With seconds to go, they were a point down and had reached the Giants’ twenty-nine yard line. There was time for only one more play. So, they turned to their kicker, Scott Norwood. All-Pro. Leading scorer of the team. As predictable as snow in Buffalo.

The world watched as Norwood went through his pre-kick routine. He tuned out the crowd, selected a target line, got a feel for the timing, waited for the snap, and kicked the ball. He kept his head down and followed through. By the time he looked up, the ball was three quarters of the way to the goal. And that’s when he realized he’d missed. The wrong sideline erupted. All of Buffalo groaned. Norwood hung his head. The headline would read: “Wide and to the right: The kick that will forever haunt Scott Norwood.” No do-overs. No second chances. No reprieve. He couldn’t rewind the tape and create a different result. He had to live with the consequences. So did Joshua.

He had suffered a humiliating loss. The people of Ai, though fewer in number, had proved greater in might. They had pounced on Joshua’s men, resulting in an unexpected defeat. One of the soldiers, it was learned later, had disobeyed God’s earlier command, and the commander was left with the distasteful, unpleasant task of exposing and punishing the rebellion. Joshua offered a prayer right out of The Wilderness Book of Common Complaint: Alas, Lord God, why have You brought this people over the Jordan at all — to deliver us into the hand of the Amorites, to destroy us? (Josh. 7:7) Not one of his better days.

Joshua had been making field goals his entire life. He showed courage as a spy for Moses. He assumed the mantle of leadership. He didn’t hesitate at the Jordan. He didn’t flinch at Jericho. But in the episode called “Achan’s Deceit and Ai’s Defeat,” he failed. In front of his army, in front of the enemy, in front of God . . . he failed. Joshua dragged himself back to his tent. The entire camp was somber. They had buried thirty-six of their soldiers, and witnessed the downfall of a countryman.

Joshua sensed the glares and the stares of the people. “Joshua’s not a good leader.” “He doesn’t have what it takes.” “He’s let us down.” He knew what they thought. Worse yet, he knew what he thought. His mind sloshed with self-doubt. What was I thinking when I took this job? I should’ve done better. It’s all my fault. The voices — he heard them all. And so have you.

When you lost your job. Flunked the exam. Dropped out of school. When your marriage went south. When your business went broke. When you failed. The voices began to howl. Like hyenas in a cage, they were laughing at you. You heard them. And you joined them. You disqualified yourself, berated yourself, upbraided yourself. You sentenced yourself to a life of hard labor in the Leavenworth of poor self-esteem. The voices of failure.

Failure finds us all. Failure is so universal that we have to wonder why more self-help gurus don’t address the subject. Bookstores overflow with volumes on how to succeed. But you’ll look a long time before you find a section called, “How to Succeed at Failing.” Maybe no one knows what to say. But God does. His book is written for failures. It’s full of folks who were foul-ups and flops. David was a moral failure, yet God used him. Elijah was an emotional train wreck after Mount Carmel, but God blessed him. Jonah was in the belly of a fish when he prayed his most honest prayer. And God heard it.

Perfect people? No. Perfect messes? Absolutely. Yet God used them. A surprising and welcome discovery of the Bible is this: God uses failures. God used Joshua’s failure to show us what to do with ours. God quickly and urgently called Joshua to get on with life. “Get up! Why are you lying on your face like this?” (Josh. 7:10) “Do not be afraid or discouraged. Take all your fighting men and attack Ai.” (8:1)

Failure is like quicksand. Take immediate action or you’ll get sucked under. One stumble does not define or break a person. Though you failed, God’s love does not. Face your failures with faith in God’s goodness. He saw this collapse coming. And when you’ve stood on the eastern side of your Jordan, God could see the upcoming mishap at your own Ai. Still, he tells you what He told Joshua: “Moses my servant is dead. Therefore, the time has come for you to lead these people, the Israelites, across the Jordan River into the land I am giving them.” (Josh. 1:2)

There’s no condition in that covenant. No fine print. No performance language. God’s Promised Land offer does not depend on your perfection. It depends on His. In God’s hands no defeat is a crushing defeat. “The steps of good men are directed by the Lord. He delights in each step they take. If they fall, it isn’t fatal, for the Lord holds them with His hand.” (Psalm 37:23-24) Miss this truth and you’ll miss your glory days. God’s grace is greater than your failures. Pitch your tent on promises like this one: “There is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus . . . who do not walk according to the flesh but according to the Spirit. (Rom 8:1, 4)

Everyone stumbles. The difference is in the response. Some stumble into the pit of guilt. Others tumble into the arms of God. Those who find grace do so because they “walk according . . . to the Spirit.” They hear God’s voice. They make a deliberate decision to stand up and lean into God’s grace. As God told Joshua, “Do not be afraid or discouraged. Go.”

There’s no future in the past. You can’t change yesterday, but you can do something about tomorrow. Put God’s plan in place. God told Joshua to revisit the place of his failure. “Do not be afraid or discouraged. Take all your fighting men and attack Ai, for I have given you the king of Ai, his people, his town, and his land. You will destroy them as you destroyed Jericho and its king.” (Josh. 8:1) In essence, God told Joshua, “Let’s do it again. This time, however, let’s do it my way.”

Joshua didn’t need to be told twice. He and his men made an early morning march from Gilgal to Ai, a distance of about fifteen miles. He positioned a crack commando unit behind the town. Behind this contingent was a corps of five thousand men. (Joshua 8:12) Joshua then took another company of soldiers. They headed in the direction of the city. The plan was straight out of basic military tactics. Joshua would attack, then retreat, luring the soldiers of Ai away from their village. It worked. The king of Ai, still strutting from victory number one, set out for victory number two. He marched toward Joshua, leaving the town unprotected. The elite squad charged in and set fire to the city. And Joshua reversed his course, catching the army of Ai in the middle. The victory was complete.

Contrast this attack with the first one. In the first, Joshua consulted spies; in the second, he listened to God. In the first, he stayed home. In the second, he led the way. The first attack involved a small unit. His second involved many more men. The first attack involved no tactics. His second was strategic and sophisticated. The point? God gave Joshua a new plan: Try again, my way. When he followed God’s strategy, victory happened. Failures are fatal only if we fail to learn from them. It’s time to rise up. Don’t waste your failures by failing to learn from them. It’s time to wise up. God has not forgotten you. Keep your head up. You never know what good awaits you.

Scott Norwood walked off the football field with his head down. For a couple of days thoughts of the missed kick never left him. He couldn’t sleep, and he was still upset when the team returned to Buffalo. In spite of the loss the city hosted an event to honor the team. The turnout was huge. Norwood attended and took his place on the platform with the other players. He attempted to linger in the background, hidden behind the others. But the fans had something else in mind. In the middle of a civic leader’s speech, they began to chant: “We want Scott.” The chant grew louder. “We want Scott!” But Scott remained behind his teammates. The chant grew in volume until the speaker had to stop. Norwood’s teammates pushed him to the front of the stage. When the fans saw Scott, they gave him a rousing ovation. He missed the kick, but they made sure he knew he was still a part of their community.

The Bible says that we are surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses. (Hebrews 12:1) Thousands upon thousands of saved saints are looking down on us. Abraham. Peter. David. Paul . . . and Joshua. Your grandma, uncle, neighbor, coach. They’ve seen God’s great grace, and they’re all pulling for you. Press your ear against the curtain of eternity and listen. Do you hear them? They’re chanting your name. They’re pulling for you to keep going. “Don’t quit!” “It’s worth it!” “Try again!” You may have missed a goal, but you’re still a part of God’s team.

Grace,

Randy

Abaondoned

Abandoned

At noon, darkness fell across the whole land until three o’clock. At about three o’clock, Jesus called out with a loud voice, “Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?” which means “My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?”

Some of the bystanders misunderstood and thought he was calling for the prophet Elijah. One of them ran and filled a sponge with sour wine, holding it up to him on a reed stick so he could drink. But the rest said, “Wait! Let’s see whether Elijah comes to save him.”

Then Jesus shouted out again, and he released his spirit. At that moment the curtain in the sanctuary of the Temple was torn in two, from top to bottom. The earth shook, rocks split apart, and tombs opened. The bodies of many godly men and women who had died were raised from the dead. They left the cemetery after Jesus’ resurrection, went into the holy city of Jerusalem, and appeared to many people.

The Roman officer and the other soldiers at the crucifixion were terrified by the earthquake and all that had happened. They said, “This man truly was the Son of God!” (Matt. 27:45-54)

 Abandoned. Such a haunting word. On the edge of a small town sits a decrepit house – weeds higher than the porch. Boarded windows; a screen door bouncing in the wind. Attached to the front gate is a sign that reads: Abandoned. No one wants the place. Even the poor and desperate pass it by.

A social worker appears at the door of an orphanage. In her big hand is the much smaller, dirtier hand of a six-year-old girl. As the adults speak, the wide eyes of the child explore the office of the director. She hears the worker whisper, "Abandoned. She was abandoned."

An elderly woman in a convalescent home rocks alone in her room on Christmas. No cards, no calls, no carols. A young wife discovers romantic e-mails sent by her husband to another woman. After thirty years on the factory line, a worker finds a pink slip taped to his locker. Abandoned by family. Abandoned by a spouse. Abandoned by big business. But nothing compares to being abandoned by God.

“At noon, darkness fell across the whole land until three o’clock. At about three o’clock, Jesus called out with a loud voice, ‘Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?’ which means “My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?’" (Matt. 27:45-46) By the time Christ screamed those words, he had been hanging on the cross for six hours. Earlier that day, around nine o'clock that morning, he had stumbled to the cleft of Skull Hill, or Golgotha. A soldier pressed a knee on his forearm and drove a spike through one wrist, then the other, then one through both feet. And as the Romans lifted the cross, they unwittingly placed Christ in the very position in which he came to die – suspended between man and God. A priest on his own altar.

Noises intermingle on the hill: Pharisees mocking, swords clanging, and dying men groaning. Jesus scarcely speaks. But when he does, it’s like diamonds sparkling against velvet. He gives his killers grace and his mother a son. He answers the prayer of a thief, and asks for a drink from a soldier. Then, at midday, darkness falls like a curtain. "At noon, darkness fell across the whole land until three o’clock." (v. 45)

This is a supernatural darkness. Not a casual gathering of clouds, or a brief eclipse of the sun. This is a three-hour blanket of blackness. Merchants in Jerusalem light candles. Soldiers ignite torches. Parents worry. People everywhere ask questions: “Where is this noonday night coming from?” As far away as Egypt, the historian Dionysius takes notice of the blackened sky and writes, "Either the God of nature is suffering, or the machine of the world is tumbling into ruin."

Of course the sky is dark; people are killing the Light of the World. The universe grieves. God said it would. "On that day . . . I will make the sun go down at noon, and darken the earth in broad daylight. . . . I will make it like the mourning for an only son, and the end of it like a bitter day." (Amos 8:9-10) The sky weeps. And a lamb bleats.

Remember the time of the scream? "At about three o'clock Jesus cried out." Three o'clock in the afternoon – the hour of the temple sacrifice. Less than a mile to the east, a finely clothed priest leads a lamb to the slaughter, unaware that his work is futile. Heaven isn’t looking at the lamb of man, but at "the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world." (John 1:29)

A weeping sky. A bleating lamb. But more than anything else, a screaming Savior. "Jesus cried out with a loud voice." (Matt. 27:46) Note the adjective. Loud. Other writers employed the Greek word for "loud voice" to describe a "roar." So, it’s not as if soldiers are cupping an ear asking him to speak up. The Lamb roared. "The sun and the moon shall be darkened. . . . The LORD also shall roar out of Zion, and utter his voice from Jerusalem." (Joel 3:15-16) Christ lifts his heavy head and eyelids toward the heavens and spends his final energy roaring out toward the ducking stars, "Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?' which means, 'My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?'" (Matt. 27:46)

Have you ever asked yourself the same? Why Jesus? Why abandon your Son? Forsake the murderers. Desert the evildoers. Turn your back on perverts and peddlers of pain. Abandon them, but not him. Why would you abandon earth's only sinless soul? There’s that word again: abandon.

The house no one wants. The child no one claims. The parent no one remembers. The Savior no one understands. He pierces the darkness with heaven's loneliest question: "My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?" Paul used the same Greek word when he urged Timothy: "Be diligent to come to me quickly; for Demas has abandoned me, having loved this present world, and has departed for Thessalonica." (2 Tim. 4:9-10) As Paul looks for Demas, can he find him? No. He’s been abandoned. As Jesus looks for God, can he find him? No. He’s been abandoned.

But wait. Doesn't David tell us, "I have never seen the righteous forsaken"? (Ps. 37:25) So, did David misspeak? Did Jesus misstep? No, neither. In this hour Jesus is anything but righteous. But his mistakes aren't his own. "Christ carried our sins in his body on the cross so we would stop living for sin and start living for what is right." (1 Pet. 2:24) Christ carried all our sins in his body.

Don’t forget, our past is laced with outbursts of anger, stained with nights of godless passion, and spotted with undiluted greed. And suppose your past was made public? Suppose you were to stand on a stage while a film of every secret and selfish second was projected on the screen behind you? Wouldn’t you want to crawl into a hole? Wouldn’t you scream for the heavens to have mercy on you? And wouldn’t you feel just a fraction . . . just a fraction of what Christ felt on the cross? The icy displeasure of a sin-hating God? Jesus, enduring a billion times more, wondered the same.

Christ carried all of our sins in his body. See him there on the cross? That's a gossiper hanging there. See Jesus? He’s the embezzler. Liar. Bigot. See the crucified carpenter? He's a wife beater. A porn addict. A murderer. See Bethlehem's boy? Call him by his other names – Adolf Hitler, Osama bin Laden, and Jeffrey Dahmer. Really? Lumping Christ with all those evildoers? Yes. But I didn’t put him in the same sentence with the likes of Hitler, bin Laden, or Dahmer. Jesus did – and more.

More than place his name in the same sentence, he placed himself in their place. And yours, too. With hands nailed open, he invited God, "Treat me as you would treat them!" And God did. In an act that broke the heart of the Father, yet honored the holiness of heaven, sin-purging judgment flowed over the sinless Son of the ages. And heaven gave earth her finest gift. The Lamb of God who took away the sin of the world.

"My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?" Why did Christ scream those words?

So you'll never have to.

Grace,

Randy