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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