The thief who gave nothing
Commentary
We've never met, you and I. And if we had, you can be sure I'd never let you know what line of work I was in. I'm the type of person your mother told you to stay away from when you were a child for fear I would infect your mind with my devious ways and get you into trouble. I'm a thief and a robber. I was that one who named Jesus as my Savior in the last moments of my life.
How did I come to be there on that gloomy Friday nailed to a cross beside Jesus? Oh, don't think I didn't know better. I won't give you any tear-jerking story about how disadvantaged I was growing up, or how I came from a broken home, and therefore my thieving wasn't really my fault.
I knew exactly what I was doing. I was a Jewish boy who knew the Law of God as well as any other. My parents had me circumcised as a Son of Abraham on the eighth day. Whenever there was a feast day or a fast, my family kept it. After being instructed in the Torah I had my bar mitzvah at the age of twelve.
And even if none of this had been true of my childhood, I would have known better anyway. The Law of God was recorded not only on the scrolls in the synagogue, but on my heart, inscribed there from the day of my birth, just as it is on your heart. No one needed to tell me it was wrong to murder or steal. I already knew, just as you do.
But I soon learned how much easier it was to lift a bag of coins from a traveler's belt than to work all day in the sun for one small denarius. The people in the city soon got wise to me though. How anxious those merchants were when I came near. So I had to change my tactics.
The place to make the easiest profit was the desert, the wilderness area where roads were more like rocky paths winding around hills, below cliffs, and through narrow ravines. From a thousand hiding places I could watch for the unsuspecting businessman or pilgrim, and then leap on him as he passed by. With the help of a ruthless comrade or two, I would render my victims unconscious, lift their valuables, and be gone in seconds.
As anti-Roman sentiment grew, I could even justify my thieving on political grounds. I was a patriot, raising money to finance revolution. If my target was a worthy partisan, he would give me his wallet with gratitude. If he was a collaborator with the hated Romans, he deserved the beating I gave him before fleeing with his money.
There were so many of us the Romans were forced constantly to patrol the desert roads, protecting travelers, tracking down and arresting scoundrels like me. One day I was caught off guard. A troop of cavalry spotted me running from the scene of my latest crime. I was no match for their horses and soon found myself shackled, being taken in chains to Jerusalem.
From that moment, my fate was sealed. I was dragged before a magistrate, charged, convicted on the testimony of two witnesses who recognized me, and sentenced to death. Within two days I would be crucified. The Romans didn't drag things out.
But since Passover was just hours away, I might be granted at least a few extra days of life, I reasoned. It being Tuesday when I was convicted, surely they would honor the sensitivities of the Jews and wait till Sunday.
The longer the delay, the greater the chance, no matter how remote, that someone might come forward and pay a bribe to get me released, maybe my mother. A mother will do anything to save the life of her son no matter how worthless he is.
Rough soldiers, telling crude jokes and laughing loudly, threw me into a cave-like hole cut down into the rock. An iron grate clanked shut over my head. The light was dim. As my eyes became accustomed to the gloom, I made out the forms of two other prisoners, both of whom I had seen before. One was that rascal Barabbas, a thief like myself but also a political troublemaker and a murderer.
The other was a robber who had often worked with me. Might his words have led the Romans to me, landing me here? Might he have turned informer, hoping for more lenient treatment of himself?
In that dark hole we boasted about our crimes, each trying to hide the great fear of death we felt. Each asked the other what the Romans planned to do. Yes, it seemed we still had a few days to live. The governor had ordered our crucifixion for Sunday. Three crosses were already prepared.
As the sky darkened on Thursday evening, we each moved to a corner of our dungeon, trying unsuccessfully to arrange the filthy straw into something that resembled a bed. In the blackness before dawn, we were awakened. "Barabbas, up!" came the abrupt order.
Perhaps Barabbas was to die sooner than the rest of us. Perhaps to prevent some disturbance by his rabble-rousing friends he was to die under cover of darkness. Screaming, crying, Barabbas was dragged away. I never saw him again.
Barely had I dozed off when the iron grate clanked open once more. In the torch light I could see the rope that would pull me and the other thief up. "Move it! On your feet!" the legionnaire commanded. Bound once more, I was pushed and dragged to the pavement next to the governor's palace. I was to die that day after all.
Another prisoner already stood there, bruised, beaten, wearing a crown of thorns. It was the prophet from Nazareth, Jesus, the one everyone had heard about, the one some thought might be the Messiah. Just days before he had entered the city in triumph, riding on a donkey, being hailed as the Son of David, the King of Israel. "Hosanna! Save us, Lord," the crowd had shouted.
But now look at him: covered with blood, his back ripped open, his eyes swollen shut from the beatings, barely able to stand, friendless amid a mob screaming for his crucifixion. What had he done to deserve this?
A cross beam was thrust onto each prisoner's shoulder. To the jeers of the crowd and the shouted commands of the centurion, we began a very different kind of procession than the one on the previous Sunday. This time no Psalms of joy were chanted, no garments were strewn on the path to make a carpet for the king, no palm branches were waved. There were no Hosannas to the Son of David.
The wails of the women who had come to lament the dying pierced the silence. The other thief and I cursed and struggled to stay upright under our burden. Jesus fell again and again on the narrow street later known as the Via Dolorosa, the Way of Sorrows. A passerby, a pilgrim from Cyrene, Simon, a man I would have robbed given the chance, was forced to carry Jesus' cross beam.
Only once did Jesus speak as the procession made its way to the hill of Golgotha. "Don't weep for me," he told the wailing women. "Weep for yourselves and your children." Don't cry the tears of ceremony and tradition, he seemed to be saying. Cry the tears of repentance and faith. If this is what is done to me on a good day, what will happen to you and your families on the Day of Judgment?
All I could think about was the burden of my cross, and the agony that awaited me just a few hundred yards away. But Jesus' mind was on other matters. He was concerned about the future of these women and their children. What kind of king was this, concerned for others, even when he was about to die?
At Golgotha the only concession to mercy offered was strong wine mixed with gall, a painkilling drug. I drank deeply, as did the other thief. Jesus tasted the substance and spit it out. Why would he not drink it? I wondered. Would he really endure the torment of the cross without it? What kind of man was he?
As the nails tore through my flesh, my mouth poured forth a torrent of vile curses and profanity directed at the soldiers. They laughed and simply cursed back, never missing a blow with the hammer. Jesus, strangely, said nothing. He cried out in pain, but that was all.
Within minutes, I was hoisted up, my cross beam fastened into position. There was no escape from the agony. Pushing against the foot rest brought some relief from the pain in my wrists, but doing so seemed only to prolong the ordeal. What monster had invented this instrument of suffering?
All about me a tragic drama was being played out, a drama in which even I had become a willing participant. In one corner of the stage were soldiers throwing dice, gambling for the clothes of a dying king. In another was a small huddle of Jesus' followers, sobbing quietly, embracing one another. Over there was a jeering mob laughing and hurling insults at Jesus. At the foot of his cross stood a centurion, staring at Jesus, lost in thought. And me? I was dying, and yet mocking Jesus for all I was worth.
Then, above the din of all that mockery and cursing and screaming, Jesus spoke. "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do."
Forgive them? Forgive the soldiers despite the torture they had inflicted? Forgive that mob despite the hatred that spewed from their mouths? Forgive me, a thief? Me, who had dishonored my parents and blasphemed my God with the lifestyle I had chosen? Me, who had joined in ridiculing this kind and righteous man? Forgive me? Who could this Jesus be? Might he really be the King of Israel, the Messiah, the Savior?
For once, I became silent. I watched. I listened. I thought. I studied the inscription board nailed to the cross above Jesus' head. "This is Jesus of Nazareth, the King of the Jews," it read. What kind of king would endure such indignity with such grace? Who but the Messiah would concern himself with the suffering of old women even as he was about to die? Who but God himself would speak words of forgiveness to thieves and murderers and tormentors?
A transformation came over me. I saw myself as a vile sinner in the presence of a divine holiness, without hope except for him. Somehow, in those short hours since we had stumbled along together in that gloomy procession, in the moments we had shared as dying men, this man had changed me. Where parent and rabbi had failed, this man took possession of my heart with his kindness and words of forgiveness.
The other thief kept up the mockery. "Aren't you the Christ?" he sneered. "Save yourself and us."
At last I spoke, rebuking him, "Don't you fear God since you are under the same sentence? We are punished justly, for we are getting what our deeds deserve. But this man has done nothing wrong." Straining my neck that I might see his face, I called out, "Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom."
What would your reply have been to me, if you had been the one who heard my cry? Remember you? Ha! You, a man who had every opportunity and yet threw them all away; you, a man who had nothing but contempt your whole life for everything good and decent; you, who never darkened the door of God's house in your adult life; you, whose only concern in life was yourself! Remember you? Not a chance!
That's how we might think. But not Jesus. The very essence of his being is grace and forgiveness. Never would he turn away a repentant thief, or even you. So he spoke those sweetest of all words to me, "I tell you the truth, today you will be with me in paradise." And I was, that very day before the sun set.
I wasted my life, thieving, rebelling, reviling all that was holy. And then he saved me. But by the time I owned him as my Savior and King, it was too late for me to do anything in thankfulness to him. Had I another opportunity, I would gladly have done his work, visiting the sick and needy, teaching the little ones he loved, giving of my substance, praising him with voice and instrument, offering him my strength and mind. But I wasted my life.
But you, you still live! You still have time to let your hands and feet and mouth do his work. You still have the blessings of material abundance that you can use for him. You still have some gift you can bring him in thanksgiving. He remembers you, even now, calling out to his Father for your forgiveness, promising you a home in paradise. Oh yes, he remembers you! Will you remember him?
Prayer
Gracious Father, a thief in the last moments of life was promised a home in paradise by your Son. With nothing to offer but his guilt and a cry of faith, you forgave and received him as your own dear child. Help us, Lord, to know that even as this thief, we are loved, forgiven, and accepted by you, not because of any gift we bring, but by your free grace, through faith in Jesus Christ alone. In his name we pray. Amen.
Reprinted from "The Gifts of Lent" by Donald H. Neidigk, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 1999, 0-7880-1307-6.
How did I come to be there on that gloomy Friday nailed to a cross beside Jesus? Oh, don't think I didn't know better. I won't give you any tear-jerking story about how disadvantaged I was growing up, or how I came from a broken home, and therefore my thieving wasn't really my fault.
I knew exactly what I was doing. I was a Jewish boy who knew the Law of God as well as any other. My parents had me circumcised as a Son of Abraham on the eighth day. Whenever there was a feast day or a fast, my family kept it. After being instructed in the Torah I had my bar mitzvah at the age of twelve.
And even if none of this had been true of my childhood, I would have known better anyway. The Law of God was recorded not only on the scrolls in the synagogue, but on my heart, inscribed there from the day of my birth, just as it is on your heart. No one needed to tell me it was wrong to murder or steal. I already knew, just as you do.
But I soon learned how much easier it was to lift a bag of coins from a traveler's belt than to work all day in the sun for one small denarius. The people in the city soon got wise to me though. How anxious those merchants were when I came near. So I had to change my tactics.
The place to make the easiest profit was the desert, the wilderness area where roads were more like rocky paths winding around hills, below cliffs, and through narrow ravines. From a thousand hiding places I could watch for the unsuspecting businessman or pilgrim, and then leap on him as he passed by. With the help of a ruthless comrade or two, I would render my victims unconscious, lift their valuables, and be gone in seconds.
As anti-Roman sentiment grew, I could even justify my thieving on political grounds. I was a patriot, raising money to finance revolution. If my target was a worthy partisan, he would give me his wallet with gratitude. If he was a collaborator with the hated Romans, he deserved the beating I gave him before fleeing with his money.
There were so many of us the Romans were forced constantly to patrol the desert roads, protecting travelers, tracking down and arresting scoundrels like me. One day I was caught off guard. A troop of cavalry spotted me running from the scene of my latest crime. I was no match for their horses and soon found myself shackled, being taken in chains to Jerusalem.
From that moment, my fate was sealed. I was dragged before a magistrate, charged, convicted on the testimony of two witnesses who recognized me, and sentenced to death. Within two days I would be crucified. The Romans didn't drag things out.
But since Passover was just hours away, I might be granted at least a few extra days of life, I reasoned. It being Tuesday when I was convicted, surely they would honor the sensitivities of the Jews and wait till Sunday.
The longer the delay, the greater the chance, no matter how remote, that someone might come forward and pay a bribe to get me released, maybe my mother. A mother will do anything to save the life of her son no matter how worthless he is.
Rough soldiers, telling crude jokes and laughing loudly, threw me into a cave-like hole cut down into the rock. An iron grate clanked shut over my head. The light was dim. As my eyes became accustomed to the gloom, I made out the forms of two other prisoners, both of whom I had seen before. One was that rascal Barabbas, a thief like myself but also a political troublemaker and a murderer.
The other was a robber who had often worked with me. Might his words have led the Romans to me, landing me here? Might he have turned informer, hoping for more lenient treatment of himself?
In that dark hole we boasted about our crimes, each trying to hide the great fear of death we felt. Each asked the other what the Romans planned to do. Yes, it seemed we still had a few days to live. The governor had ordered our crucifixion for Sunday. Three crosses were already prepared.
As the sky darkened on Thursday evening, we each moved to a corner of our dungeon, trying unsuccessfully to arrange the filthy straw into something that resembled a bed. In the blackness before dawn, we were awakened. "Barabbas, up!" came the abrupt order.
Perhaps Barabbas was to die sooner than the rest of us. Perhaps to prevent some disturbance by his rabble-rousing friends he was to die under cover of darkness. Screaming, crying, Barabbas was dragged away. I never saw him again.
Barely had I dozed off when the iron grate clanked open once more. In the torch light I could see the rope that would pull me and the other thief up. "Move it! On your feet!" the legionnaire commanded. Bound once more, I was pushed and dragged to the pavement next to the governor's palace. I was to die that day after all.
Another prisoner already stood there, bruised, beaten, wearing a crown of thorns. It was the prophet from Nazareth, Jesus, the one everyone had heard about, the one some thought might be the Messiah. Just days before he had entered the city in triumph, riding on a donkey, being hailed as the Son of David, the King of Israel. "Hosanna! Save us, Lord," the crowd had shouted.
But now look at him: covered with blood, his back ripped open, his eyes swollen shut from the beatings, barely able to stand, friendless amid a mob screaming for his crucifixion. What had he done to deserve this?
A cross beam was thrust onto each prisoner's shoulder. To the jeers of the crowd and the shouted commands of the centurion, we began a very different kind of procession than the one on the previous Sunday. This time no Psalms of joy were chanted, no garments were strewn on the path to make a carpet for the king, no palm branches were waved. There were no Hosannas to the Son of David.
The wails of the women who had come to lament the dying pierced the silence. The other thief and I cursed and struggled to stay upright under our burden. Jesus fell again and again on the narrow street later known as the Via Dolorosa, the Way of Sorrows. A passerby, a pilgrim from Cyrene, Simon, a man I would have robbed given the chance, was forced to carry Jesus' cross beam.
Only once did Jesus speak as the procession made its way to the hill of Golgotha. "Don't weep for me," he told the wailing women. "Weep for yourselves and your children." Don't cry the tears of ceremony and tradition, he seemed to be saying. Cry the tears of repentance and faith. If this is what is done to me on a good day, what will happen to you and your families on the Day of Judgment?
All I could think about was the burden of my cross, and the agony that awaited me just a few hundred yards away. But Jesus' mind was on other matters. He was concerned about the future of these women and their children. What kind of king was this, concerned for others, even when he was about to die?
At Golgotha the only concession to mercy offered was strong wine mixed with gall, a painkilling drug. I drank deeply, as did the other thief. Jesus tasted the substance and spit it out. Why would he not drink it? I wondered. Would he really endure the torment of the cross without it? What kind of man was he?
As the nails tore through my flesh, my mouth poured forth a torrent of vile curses and profanity directed at the soldiers. They laughed and simply cursed back, never missing a blow with the hammer. Jesus, strangely, said nothing. He cried out in pain, but that was all.
Within minutes, I was hoisted up, my cross beam fastened into position. There was no escape from the agony. Pushing against the foot rest brought some relief from the pain in my wrists, but doing so seemed only to prolong the ordeal. What monster had invented this instrument of suffering?
All about me a tragic drama was being played out, a drama in which even I had become a willing participant. In one corner of the stage were soldiers throwing dice, gambling for the clothes of a dying king. In another was a small huddle of Jesus' followers, sobbing quietly, embracing one another. Over there was a jeering mob laughing and hurling insults at Jesus. At the foot of his cross stood a centurion, staring at Jesus, lost in thought. And me? I was dying, and yet mocking Jesus for all I was worth.
Then, above the din of all that mockery and cursing and screaming, Jesus spoke. "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do."
Forgive them? Forgive the soldiers despite the torture they had inflicted? Forgive that mob despite the hatred that spewed from their mouths? Forgive me, a thief? Me, who had dishonored my parents and blasphemed my God with the lifestyle I had chosen? Me, who had joined in ridiculing this kind and righteous man? Forgive me? Who could this Jesus be? Might he really be the King of Israel, the Messiah, the Savior?
For once, I became silent. I watched. I listened. I thought. I studied the inscription board nailed to the cross above Jesus' head. "This is Jesus of Nazareth, the King of the Jews," it read. What kind of king would endure such indignity with such grace? Who but the Messiah would concern himself with the suffering of old women even as he was about to die? Who but God himself would speak words of forgiveness to thieves and murderers and tormentors?
A transformation came over me. I saw myself as a vile sinner in the presence of a divine holiness, without hope except for him. Somehow, in those short hours since we had stumbled along together in that gloomy procession, in the moments we had shared as dying men, this man had changed me. Where parent and rabbi had failed, this man took possession of my heart with his kindness and words of forgiveness.
The other thief kept up the mockery. "Aren't you the Christ?" he sneered. "Save yourself and us."
At last I spoke, rebuking him, "Don't you fear God since you are under the same sentence? We are punished justly, for we are getting what our deeds deserve. But this man has done nothing wrong." Straining my neck that I might see his face, I called out, "Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom."
What would your reply have been to me, if you had been the one who heard my cry? Remember you? Ha! You, a man who had every opportunity and yet threw them all away; you, a man who had nothing but contempt your whole life for everything good and decent; you, who never darkened the door of God's house in your adult life; you, whose only concern in life was yourself! Remember you? Not a chance!
That's how we might think. But not Jesus. The very essence of his being is grace and forgiveness. Never would he turn away a repentant thief, or even you. So he spoke those sweetest of all words to me, "I tell you the truth, today you will be with me in paradise." And I was, that very day before the sun set.
I wasted my life, thieving, rebelling, reviling all that was holy. And then he saved me. But by the time I owned him as my Savior and King, it was too late for me to do anything in thankfulness to him. Had I another opportunity, I would gladly have done his work, visiting the sick and needy, teaching the little ones he loved, giving of my substance, praising him with voice and instrument, offering him my strength and mind. But I wasted my life.
But you, you still live! You still have time to let your hands and feet and mouth do his work. You still have the blessings of material abundance that you can use for him. You still have some gift you can bring him in thanksgiving. He remembers you, even now, calling out to his Father for your forgiveness, promising you a home in paradise. Oh yes, he remembers you! Will you remember him?
Prayer
Gracious Father, a thief in the last moments of life was promised a home in paradise by your Son. With nothing to offer but his guilt and a cry of faith, you forgave and received him as your own dear child. Help us, Lord, to know that even as this thief, we are loved, forgiven, and accepted by you, not because of any gift we bring, but by your free grace, through faith in Jesus Christ alone. In his name we pray. Amen.
Reprinted from "The Gifts of Lent" by Donald H. Neidigk, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 1999, 0-7880-1307-6.
