The thief is the prophetic picture of all of us, staring hopelessly hopeful at the Son of God, begging to hear the same words.
There is a phrase in Luke’s gospel that I often miss because, after twenty-three chapters, I know what is coming. I miss it because I hurry to the cross, always mortified and mollified at once. Jesus yells, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do” (Luke 23:34). That’s a phrase to which I rush, underlining, highlighting, and pointing arrows at it for the sake of my soul. There is a contented, uncomfortable nature to it all, because, when I think of my sins, most of the time I know exactly what I did, and yet he forgives me anyway.
That’s not the phrase I miss, though.
“And the people stood by watching…” (Luke 23:35). There is a part of me that longs for vengeance for those who stood by as Christ was crucified. I, like many, have an imprecatory spirit, waiting for God to act from the bowels of my self-righteous retributional essence. When David yells out in the Spirit, “Make them bear their guilt, O God; let them fall by their own counsels; because of the abundance of their transgressions cast them out, for they have rebelled against you,” (Ps. 5:10) it is kinder thought than mine for the people who stood staring at the crucified Christ. And yet, Jesus’ words for them in verse 34 are for these people, too.
But no, that’s also not the phrase I miss, either. Instead, it’s this:
“Two others, who were criminals, were led away to be put to death with him” (Luke 23:32).
It is the “with him” part that gets me, though I miss it every time. The thieves begin their last fateful journey, watching as detestable rhetoric fell on the one who stumbled next to him up to Golgotha. The revulsion meant for them is transferred to the one who is broken, bruised, and burdened as they both make the slow march to the outdoor execution chamber.
With every slam of the hammer, these two others and Jesus are pinned to the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. Here it was—the result of the first couple’s fall from perfection: good in the middle and evil on each side. We know from the rest of the story that one of these criminals railed against Jesus, mocking him. While the other criminal, commonly referred to as the thief on the cross, instead cried out, saying, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom” (Luke 23:42).
And as a result, the thief on the cross was not just crucified with Jesus, but in death, went with Jesus. His worst day became his best day.
Paul tells us, “I have been crucified with Christ, it is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me. And the life I live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself up for me” (Gal. 2:20), and yet we rarely see ourselves in the thief on the cross.
If we made it up that hill at all, we assume we would be one of the hidden among the crowd, silently observing through our tears. We might consider our mother Mary-ness, or our apostle John-ness (see John 19:26-27). Those roles fit with our presumed dignity. But rarely are we willing to consider our similarities to the dirty, guilty, and dying criminal.
And yet, who was the person with the best view on that day? The thief.
He was led “with him” to be crucified next to Christ. Following his confession, he lived but a little longer, knowing that in the last moments of his life, Christ lived in him. Agony, pain, and suffering surely filled his final breaths, and yet he lived these by faith in the Son of God, who loved him and gave himself up for him. His life was a “micro-nova” of faith; “microcosm” doesn’t seem big enough.
“Jesus,” the thief begins. There is no other person who merely calls him by that name with brazen faith. The thief’s shocking familiarity is born out of walking with the cross on his back and glancing over at perfection, who walks up the hill next to him. Such desperation finds its hope.
And then, “Remember me when you come into your kingdom.” The thief has picked up on the one who forgives. “Father, forgive them,” the dying perfect one says. When Christ remembers, he acts. Which is to say that when he remembers, he forgives.
Jesus responds to the thief: “Truly, I say to you, today you will be with me in paradise” (Luke 23:43). Jesus utters these words with the weight of millennia of sins. They crush him. But the thief is the prophetic picture of all of us, staring hopelessly hopeful at the Son of God, begging to hear the same words.
In faith, the thief crucified with Jesus did, in fact, receive Christ's promise. And through your faith in Christ, you receive the same. When you are crucified “with Christ,” it changes everything. Eternity blinks. And so now, every time we pray in the name of Jesus, we are “with him.” Whenever we are breathlessly inept, we are “with him.” And on our last day, whether it's on a bed or in a situation far worse, we are “with him.”
Don’t miss that.
.jpg?width=36&height=36&name=download%20(3).jpg){kind=small}
%20(1).jpg?width=36&height=36&name=untitled%20(16%20of%2039)%20(1).jpg){kind=small}
