Scripture of the day: Luke 23:33-43
There’s a thief dying on a cross next to Jesus.
We don’t know what he stole. Maybe bread, maybe a donkey, maybe he stole the Amazon package off of the wrong Roman official’s front porch. Doesn’t matter. What matters is he’s nailed to a cross next to two other guys who are also having a really bad day.
What he does know is that he’s dying. Slowly. Publicly. Shamefully. And there’s nothing he can do about it except hang there and wait for his lungs to give out.
Now, the other criminal—let’s call him Thief Number One—is angry. He’s spitting mad, literally, and he’s taking it out on Jesus. “Aren’t you the Messiah?” he sneers. “Save yourself and us!” I mean, I think it’s a pretty reasonable request. If you’re the Messiah, this seems like a good time to, you know, Messiah it up a little. Do something. Prove it. Get us down from here.
Notice what Thief Number One is doing. He’s doing what I would do. Trying to manage the situation. He wants this to go his way. He wants a Messiah who will fix things, who will resolve this predicament, but on his terms, of course. He’s demanding that God prove himself useful. Even here, even dying, he’s still trying to maintain control.
But our guy—Thief Number Two—he suddenly sees something. Maybe it’s the way Jesus doesn’t curse back. Maybe it’s something in his eyes. Whatever it is, something shifts. He recognizes what’s happening on the cross next to him, even if he can’t name it yet. And out of that recognition, he speaks.
“We’re getting what we deserve,” he tells the other thief. “But this man has done nothing wrong.”
And then, he looks at Jesus and says: “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”
Now, we need to be careful here. This isn’t like a magic password. This isn’t the thief doing the one thing required to unlock salvation. He’s not initiating a cosmic cheat code. He’s responding. He’s allowing himself to be caught up in something that’s already happening: the presence of God’s kingdom right there on the cross next to him. And what he’s doing... is acknowledging it.
The “remember me” isn’t a transaction. But a recognition. He doesn’t even ask to go with Jesus into the Kingdom. He just asks that Jesus remembers him.
This man is dying. He has maybe hours left. And if you’re a Jewish person in the first-century who’s messed up (which he clearly has) there are detailed procedures for getting right with God. You bring a sacrifice to the Temple. You go through purification rituals. You make restitution for what you’ve stolen. You observe the Law, keep the Sabbath, follow the purity codes.
But our thief? He can’t do any of that. He’s miles from the Temple. And... He’s nailed... TO A CROSS. He can’t make restitution. He can’t purify himself. He can’t observe anything except his own impending death. He’s out of options. He’s out of time.
All he can do... with what little breath he has... is to ask... to be... remembered.
In response, Jesus doesn’t say, “Well, that’s a nice sentiment, but you shoulda thought of that before you became a thief.” He doesn’t say, “I appreciate you recognizing I’m innocent, but we have procedures around here, buddy.”
He says: “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.”
Today. I’m not gonna just remember you. I’m bringing you with me. In the middle of your dying. In the middle of your worst moment.
In the middle of your absolute inability to do anything about anything.
You’re coming with me.
Now, this is outrageous. Scandalous. This goes against everything we think we know about how religion works. What about the steps?! The requirements?! Some kind of process. You should have to do something, right? Believe the right things, say the right words, clean up your act, prove you’re serious. At least serve your neighbor for crying out loud!
But Jesus just... lets him in. No questions asked. No forms to fill out. No membership class. Just “today you will be with me in paradise.”
And the thief? He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t say, “Wait, don’t you want to know about my theology? My prayer life? My social status? How good of a person I can sometimes be?”
He just... receives it.
He’s already responding to what he’s noticed. He’s already swimming in the river of God’s grace, even if he’s only now realizing it.
The thief can’t do anything—he’s, like I said, literally nailed to a cross. But it turns out, that’s exactly the right (interior and exterior) posture for receiving grace.
Grace isn’t something you achieve. It’s something you notice is already there, already true, already yours. But even the noticing is gift. All the thief can do is look over and see it—and even that seeing is given to him—the face of God’s love hanging on its own cross, right there next to him, in the exact place where it shouldn’t be, according to every religious sensibility he’s ever known.
But beware, friends... This is where the ego wants to sneak back in. The religious mind hears this story and immediately thinks, “Ohhhh. Okay, so all I have to do is ask. I can do that! Jesusremembermewhenyoucomeintoyourkingdom. Check!”
Religiosity is different from faith.
Religiosity is about what I’m doing. Or what I need to do.
Faith is about what God has already done.
Religiosity tries to turn grace into a transaction, a technique, something we can achieve or manage or GET. The thief isn’t doing a thing to get grace. He’s simply recognizing and giving voice to what he’s already in the presence of.
And I think that’s why this story sits where it does in the church year. We’re about to enter Advent (for real), that season of waiting and preparation. And this is when the church gives us this story. This reminder that we’re not preparing for something that hasn’t happened yet. Rather, in our preparation... We’re learning to notice what’s already true.
Jesus doesn’t give the thief a list of requirements for how to prepare for paradise the right way. The thief doesn’t get ready. He’s not ready. He doesn’t clean up. He just... asks to be remembered. And Jesus says yes. Your gesture is the fruit of what you’ve recognized. That you’re mine and you’ve always been mine.
The kingdom of God isn’t about who deserves to be there. It’s about who recognizes they’re already in it, held in the embrace of a worthy God who makes you worthy by recognizing you’ve always been worthy even when you felt most worthless. And the best news... is that even a dying thief can be given eyes to see.
So today, as we welcome new members into this church, we’re not asking them to prove anything. We’re not asking them to say the right words or have perfect faith or even be sure about any of this. We’re just celebrating that they’ve shown up. I can’t speak for them, but maybe they’ve noticed something. Maybe just a glimmer, maybe just a hope that there’s something to this whole Jesus thing in the way that we hold it here.
And we get to say, with Jesus, “You’re already remembered. You’re already home. Welcome to the party that’s been waiting for you all along.”
The kingdom isn’t somewhere else. It’s here. Now. Today. Even—especially—in the middle of our dying and our failing and our absolute inability to save ourselves.
That’s the divine joke. That’s the scandal. That’s the Gospel.
The thief shows up empty-handed... And it turns out... Empty hands are exactly what you need to receive a gift.
In a few moments, we’ll come forward with clenched fists holding on to all kinds of stuff. Pain. Loss. Sorrow. Regret. Anxiety. Despair. But in order to receive the bread, we must open our hands. For only empty hands can receive bread and wine. The table is already set. The feast is already happening. We’re just learning to show up and recognize our role in the party that God has been throwing since before creation dawned.
And so it is. Amen.
I cannot tell you enough how much you have done to restore my faith. This is one of your finest.