Now one of the criminals hanging there reviled Jesus, saying, “Are you not the Christ? Save yourself and us.” The other, however, rebuking him, said in reply, “Have you no fear of God, for you are subject to the same condemnation? And indeed, we have been condemned justly, for the sentence we received corresponds to our crimes, but this man has done nothing criminal.” Then he said, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.” (Luke 23.39-43)
As the liturgical year comes to an end, we are presented with the Feast of Christ the King, a festival deemed suitable for the close of another year, an acknowledgement that Christ is the sovereign whom we serve with all our days, the one with whom we align our own way in the world. He alone is the one to whom we submit our whole being.
And since the liturgical year has been spent with the evangelist Luke, it follows that the selection from scripture that is presented on this special day also comes from the gospel of Luke. However, at first glance, the text may seem an unlikely one, since it is a part of the crucifixion narrative, although it also contains multiple references–ironic for sure–to Rabbi Jesus as the King of the Jews.
Ironic because anyone spying upon the scourged and sorely beaten man on the cross knows he is no king, the mockery as brutal as the nails hammered into his hands and feet. Luke spares no detail of the harshness of the scene put before us, the gravity and the depravity on full display as the evangelist describes the rulers who “sneered at Jesus,” the soldiers who “jeered at him,” and one of the criminals who “reviled him.” It is humanity at its ugliest, devoid of even a drop of decency.
And the taunt that torments the already tortured soul of the crucified one is repeated by the troupe of antagonists at regular intervals. “He saved others, let him save himself.” “If you are the King of the Jews, save yourself.” “Are you not the Christ? Save yourself and us.” A merciless litany of mockery from a shameless chorus of singers drunk on revelry and revenge.
Adding insult to injury, Pilate, the Roman overseer, orders a plaque nailed atop the cross, the words painted upon it dripping with sarcasm and warning in equal measure, the letters proclaiming, “This is the King of the Jews,” the indictment reminding would-be insurrectionists of the strong arm of Rome that shows no hesitancy in squashing dissent and in destroying rebels. The groans of the men crucified fill the air even as the sounds of agony fill the chests of potential conspirators with trembling and trepidation.
The cacophony of curses and catcalls from the crowd almost drowns out the lone voice that offers caution and compassion. Weakened from the physical wreck his body has endured, worn out by the wails from his own chest, one of the criminals uses his last bit of strength to chastise his companion in crime for causing further pain to the innocent one on the cross between them, criticizing his co-conspirator for heartlessness and recklessness as all three men near the end.
“Have you no fear of God,” he says, his voice strained, his mouth parched. “We have been condemned justly,” he tells his companion, “for the sentence we have received corresponds to our crimes.” Struggling for enough breath to complete his argument, he says, “But this man has done nothing criminal.” His is the only voice for justice in a world of injustice.
Even as darkness steals the last breath of daylight from the sky overhead, the good thief, as history has called him, steels his resolve to be heard above the din of circus clowns and conniving chieftains who smoke cigars and sip cognac a short distance from the crosses, sadistic voyeurs and violent soldiers whiling away the hours as they gawk and gamble, unconcerned and unmoved by the sight of bleeding bodies or by the smells from dying men.
This solitary voice for justice, this singular effort to make right what is wrong, speaks his last words to the man unjustly convicted, saying to him, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.” As Rabbi Jesus had asked his followers to remember him when they ate at table, so now this thief on the cross asks the Rabbi to remember him when he enters the hereafter, both dying men joined in their last moments by a common prayer.
Suffering and struggling, Rabbi Jesus, merciful and moved by the man, answers, offering an assurance as the criminal breathes his last breath. “Today you will be with me in Paradise.” Always compassionate to the last and the lost, Rabbi Jesus brings comfort to this convict who is the only one in the crowd to see that an injustice has been done, the only one to speak on behalf of the one unjustly condemned.
It is fitting–in typical Lucan fashion–that Jesus, who regularly ate at table with sinners, in the end should be crucified with sinners, fulfilling one last time his mission as he articulated at the start, “The Spirit of the Lord has sent me to proclaim liberty to captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free and to proclaim a year acceptable to the Lord.”
Here, we may want to pause for a moment to consider the fact that the criminal calls Rabbi Jesus by name, not a coincidence so far as the evangelist is concerned. Surrounded on all sides by naysayers who mock Rabbi Jesus for being a charlatan, a pretender savior, the Just One is recognized and called by name only by a criminal, who addresses him as Jesus, which in Hebrew means “the Lord saves.” He alone sees the man on the cross next to him as the one who saves.
Prior to this moment, earlier in the pages of the gospel, the evangelist has presented only a handful of people who address the Rabbi by his name “Jesus.” In fact, it occurs only four times in the text, used in these instances by those possessed by an evil spirit and by those seeking healing. In each case, these “last and lost ones” see what others do not see. They see the man standing before them as the Savior.
Now, a fifth time, as the gospel ends and as Rabbi Jesus nears his end, one other person sees clearly who the Rabbi is. He sees the man on the cross as the one who will save him, not a pretender, not an impostor as everyone else thinks, blinded as they are by prejudice and petty rivalries. And because this criminal sees what others should see, but do not see, he calls him by his proper name, Jesus, that is, the Lord saves.
As we ponder this scene before us, we should ask ourselves if we also can call Rabbi Jesus by name. Do we, like the contrite and converted criminal, recognize in this good and innocent man the Savior of the world? Or, do we, like the crowd of mockers and onlookers, sneer, jeer, and revile him, blind to his true identity?
The answer we give, of course, is found less in our words and more in our lives. If we fail to conform our lives to that of the way that Rabbi Jesus put before us, then the names we ascribe to him with our lips become as much a mockery of him as the names hurled at him by the hooligans and henchmen who jeer at him as he hangs upon the cross. Only when we have aligned our lives with his life can we speak his name with honesty and without travesty. Only then can we call him Jesus, the one who saves us.
It is forever after a cautionary tale to us to see that here at the end of Luke’s gospel Rabbi Jesus is recognized as the Savior by a criminal, while his disciples and his followers are nowhere in sight, their absence at this moment disallowing their calling him by name, their distance from the cross sure proof that they also failed to see that he truly was the Savior of the world. He dies alone, his only disciple in that moment a criminal nailed to a cross next to him.
Luke tells us that as Jesus died “all his acquaintances stood at a distance.” The only question left for us, here at the end, is where do we stand. Today we call Jesus our King. But, as Luke makes perfectly clear, our words aren’t enough.
–Jeremy Myers
Sunday Brunch 