Head and Heart: The Second Word from the Cross: "Today..."

photo by Rosa Helena / flickr

For this Lenten season I have chosen the seven last words that came down from the cross. Last Sunday we talked about that first word: “Father Forgive Them…” But today’s word is addressed to an outcast. Jesus speaks to a criminal who also hangs on a cross. If the first word Jesus spoke was a word of inclusion—it takes us all in. This second word is a word of compassion.

We must remember that there were three crosses on the hill that day. Sometimes we forget the other crucifixions. But the Scriptures say that two others besides Jesus hung on crosses that Friday afternoon. Some scholars think they were not criminals as much as revolutionaries. Remember that Rome invaded their country and was in charge of everything. And the Jews hated Rome and its Emperor and all it represented. Even their coins were Roman coins. So these two banded together with others to drive Rome out of their country. They wanted to take their country back. They lived up in the hills and they would slip into the cities after dark and steal from Rome what Rome had stolen from them. Sometimes they would slit a soldier’s throat just to make a point.

These bandits were rough and bloodthirsty. And one day in the temple area a terrible fight broke out. When the dust finally settled a Roman had been killed and three Jews were hauled off and charged with murder. Jews were not supposed to kill Romans. The names of these three culprits were: Gestus, Dysmas and Barabbas. Barabbas, you remember, was to take the middle cross. But the crowd gave him freedom thanks to Pilate and Jesus took his place. So on that hill that sad Friday afternoon were two bandits—one on Jesus’ right and one on Jesus’ left.

Look at this first man on Jesus' right—our left. His name was Gestus. This is what the Bible says about him: “One of the criminals who was hanged railed out at Jesus, saying, ‘Are you not the Christ? Save yourself and us.’” Jesus if you are who you say you are save us from this mess.

We know Gestus, don’t we? If you are who you say you are—get us out of this mess. Fix it.

photo by J James Tissot / flickr

A very fine New Testament scholar says if we are to understand the Bible—we are to identify with the bad guys—not the good ones. We Christians don’t usually do this. But we’ve all been there like Gestus. If there is anything to this religion business—take out the nails and stop the pain. Not only are those kids and parents in Parkland, Florida saying this. Out of their pain and shock they are saying: Fix this. Fix this. Do something about these guns. They’ve got the politicians on the run. In this morning's paper they said that in 2017-18 50 bills have been presented to deal with the gun problem. Not a single one of these bills has been passed. Fix it, Jesus. We’ve said it too. This cancer. This unruly kid. This disastrous government. Fix this. This lousy job. More money. All these empty, empty pews. Listening to this old broken down preacher—fix this. The economy. North Korea. All the hurt out there beyond these doors whose names are on those tombstones. Fix it. Make it better. “If you are the Christ—save yourself and us.”

Carlyle Marney , great preacher said one time year’s ago. “I have not asked the Lord God to fix race relations in the South for twenty years. I have not asked him. Why in the world would I do that when we have an absolute majority of preachers and Churches on every corner of the South. God will not do for us—what we can do for ourselves.” We can fix this thing. I think he’s right.

But now let’s turn to that other cross on Jesus’ left. His name, tradition says was Dysmas. He and Gestus had been partners in crime. They had fought the same battles. Told the same dirty jokes. Got drunk together. Maybe there were some other things they never told their wives.

But this other man did not say: “Fix me.” He did speak, though to his buddy. “Do you not fear God since you are under the same sentence of condemnation? We indeed have been condemned justly, we are getting what we deserve for our deeds, but this man (Jesus) has done nothing wrong.”

Gestus, don’t you see? It’s plain as the nose on your face. We get what we deserve. We did what they said we did. We were caught red-handed and we are paying the price for our ugly deeds. Gestus, Jesus did absolutely nothing.

But Dysmas did not stop there. He turned his head as best he could to the central cross. And this is what he said, “Jesus remember me when you come into your kingdom.” He did not say, “Fix me.” Maybe he knew what the soldiers did not know or Gestus or that mean, ugly crowd. Maybe Dysmas saw not a fix-me power—but a different kind of power. Maybe even in his suffering— maybe we might all find some redemption.

photo by Jason St Peter/ flickr

No fix me or rescue which we have all prayed a hundred times. He did not pray: Get me out of this mess. He simply said, “Remember me. Touch me. Help me.” For maybe the first time in a long pitiable life Dysmas saw clearly the wasted years. The broken relationships. The missed chances. And so he whispered, ”Jesus remember me. Can you heal me, even as I die?”

And now we hear the second word that came down from the middle cross. “Today you will be with me in paradise.”

If the first word was forgiveness—the second word is a promise. Remember old Glenn Campbell. In his prime (before the cursed Alzheimer’s) he would sing so wistfully:

“Take me home, country roads

To the place where I belong

West Virginia, mountain Momma

Take me home , country roads

Take me home, down country roads

Take me home, down country roads.”

Today—Jesus said you will be with me in paradise. Jesus remembered him and took him home and Glenn Campbell and one of these days—us, too.

From that cross Jesus said it—even to the utter, utter hopelessness he said: “Today you shall be with me in paradise.” And so this second word from the cross is: Today. Look around you. Your today. It may not be what you want or what you thought. This today. It may be a far cry than what you dreamed when you twelve years old. Before the mistakes and sins and stupidities of your life piled up. Today. Waking up, opening your eyes and saying: “This is the day the Lord has made let us rejoice and be glad in it.“ Today. He said” Today is the day of salvation.Today? This day. Yes, this day.

As I was preparing this sermon it all came back. I was a Pastor in Birmingham. And a couple came in one day and said they wanted to talk. As they sat down they were embarrassed and found it hard to say anything. And then they poured it out. “Our boy has lived in New Orleans for a long time. And he got sick with AIDS. We knew he was gay and we were so worried about him and he called us and wanted to know if he could come home. So many of his friends said their families had turned them away. But he said: Can I come home? “Couldn’t work anymore,” they said. “ And what we want to know is, if he decides to come to church—could he come here? Our church would not take him. Why even our best friends in our dinner group would not understand.”

photo by C.P. Lesley / flickr

And I said, “when he comes home have him come talk to me. I think we would take him. I would hope so.” And he knocked on the door one day and said he wanted to come to our church and maybe join. I told him that Jesus stretched out his arms to everybody.

He joined. He was there about every Sunday. He didn’t look sick but after a while people knew he was not well. Lost weight. Looked terrrible. And two members—our biggest givers—came in one day and said: “What are you gonna do about this homo?” (Back then people thought you could catch this scary disease just by being in the same room.) “What are you going to do?” And I said: “We just open the doors and take whoever comes. And I am not going to turn anyone away.” Well—it got scary. People were mad. Some left. But we just kept opening our doors.

So when Tommy got so sick he couldn’t come anymore—and I would visit him in his parents’ home. And some of our members visited him and his mother and father. They were so devastated. They wouldn’t tell their friends—and they went to another church every Sunday—they didn’t think they would understand. So they kept quiet. But one day they called me and said, “The Doctor came by and said he’s not going make it.” I brought the Bread and the Cup. And he took them slowly. Painfully. And I also brought my tape recorder and told his Mama and Daddy and Tommy—I want to play something. I asked them to hold hands--and to sing along with the song. And the recorder began to play: “Jesus remember me…Jesus remember me…Jesus remember me when you come into your kingdom.” It was a a prayer. For Tommy. For his broken devastated parents. And for me and those two friends who had come with me that day.

It was this second word that came down from the cross. And to a dying thief Jesus said, “Today you will be with me in paradise.” And we all need to remember this promise is for all of us. He does remember us. And he does stand with us. And he takes us home, too. All of us. Each of us. Thanks be to God.