Rev. Dr. Joel D. Biermann
Luke 23:39-43
Good Friday April 14, 2017
Seeing is a complicated thing. The physics and physiology of seeing is extremely intricate and complex involving light and lenses and retinas and nerves and brains. But, that’s not the part of seeing that is so complicated. Seeing is complicated because in spite of the information our eyes take in, and regardless the images our brains process, what we actually see is dependent on our own subjective understanding of what we see. One man observes a house in flames and sees personal danger and steps back, another takes in the same sight and sees great need and steps forward to intervene. One woman gets caught in a traffic backup and sees only endless cars, a shattered schedule and a disappointing day, another sees an opportunity to make a surprise phone call to an elderly aunt. One person sees a lifeless tree with branches rattling in the wind and shuffles by without a thought; another sees a fascinating pattern of death and life in stark black and white and exults in the power and intricate beauty of God’s creative hand. Seeing is a complicated thing.
Tonight, we are compelled to look at the controlled chaos of the place called Golgotha. There are the guards and the leaders of the people and the curious crowd along with a little knot of weeping women. And, there are the crosses. They can’t be missed—three of them, and suspended from each an unfortunate victim of Roman justice. It’s impossible not to notice them. In fact, it’s impossible not to stare. Here three men hang already as good as dead, but cruelly still alive. To watch them is to watch the dying—and in such a horrific way. The scene is familiar; you can readily paint the spectacle in your mind. But, what do you see? It’s complicated. Perhaps we don’t all see the same thing. Indeed, I’m certain that we don’t all see the same thing. Even those who were eyewitnesses couldn’t agree on what they saw; and those who were right in the middle of it did not see the same thing.
We don’t know exactly when it happened during the six hours that Jesus hung on the cross, but at some point—probably in the early hours of the torture, an odd sort of conversation broke out on Golgotha. It’s remarkable because it’s a conversation taking place not among the leaders or the ladies or even the guards at the foot of the crosses. This conversation is coming from the crosses. The condemned, the crucified, the dying, are talking. Well, they are talking as best they can. Conversation is not easy on a cross. Every word comes with a price in pain and lost breath—a precious commodity to one nailed to a tree. But, despite the cost involved, the men speak.
The conversation begins with a word from one of the nameless convicts. Actually, he’s not looking for a conversation. He opens his mouth only to add his voice to the others who are sneering and jeering at Jesus. How odd is this: the condemned mocking the condemned? It’s audacious and ridiculous and desperate. But, what else can a condemned man do, but divert his agony for a second or two by adding to the pain and sorrow of a fellow sufferer? It’s not so unbelievable, is it? Sad and pathetic as it is, we’ve seen this kind of human behavior: the helpless and destitute making the lives of other helpless people a little worse. The vile man with the mouth full of angry hatred sparks a response—but not from the target of his attack. It is the man on the opposite side of Calvary who speaks. He has his own harsh words of rebuke—but they are aimed not at the one in the middle, but at the one who mocked. Summoning his own energy, he demands that first speaker to be silent. We delight in the sense of justice and even dignity at work in this man. But, then he does more than delight, he amazes. Done with the rebuke of his fellow criminal, done with his affirmation of the inexorable force of justice, he has more words—these directed at Jesus, and they are not words of hatred or contempt. To Jesus, the one who has been literally right in the middle of the previous conversation, the second criminal speaks a word of request. He wants something from Jesus: he wants to be remembered when Jesus comes into his kingdom. This man wants Jesus’ blessing. He wants Jesus’ grace.
The skeptical and the cynical could easily see in this plea one last act of thievery on the part of the dying man. A con-man to the end, he wants to hedge his bets, and makes an appeal to an obviously religious and spiritual man in the hope of perhaps catching his coattails and sailing into the next life in a better situation than what he had deserved. He’s nothing but a thief yet again—spending a dying breath to steal a blessing. It’s possible. But, his actual request indicates something more. He does not ask Jesus to put in a good word for him when they appear before the ultimate judge. He doesn’t ask him to offer a prayer on his behalf. No, he asks Jesus to remember him when Jesus comes into his kingdom. This is breath-taking.
In all the pages of Scripture there is no more startling and remarkable portrait of surrendered faith than this. The criminals on either side of Jesus look toward the central cross and their eyes take in the same gruesome and pathetic image. But, they see two completely different things. This man, this man with the keen sense of justice sees Jesus nailed to a cross, mangled, bloody, gasping for breath and dying like himself, and he sees a king. The eyes of both men recorded the same facts and details. There was Jesus utterly helpless and powerless. There was nothing about Jesus that looked like a messiah, much less anything that looked the least bit regal. The convict could not help seeing the cross in all of its gruesome reality. The cross and the dying body of Jesus filled his vision—but that is not what he saw. No, he saw a king. Jesus was slowly, painfully dying just like he was, that could not be denied; but this man saw on that cross a king with a coming kingdom, because unlike the other condemned man, this man saw with the eyes of faith, and that changed everything.
Where did the man get such a remarkable faith? We’re not told. Perhaps, he was moved by Jesus’ surprising intercession made on behalf of his executioners when he pleaded with his father to forgive them in their ignorance. Maybe it was that prayer from the lips of Jesus that was the thing that prompted this criminal not only to recognize justice, but to recognize the one who justifies. Hearing Jesus’ prayer may well have convinced him: this is no ordinary man. No mere man could pray like that. Whatever the reason, the convict offers a prayer of his own: “Jesus, remember me.” This is the prayer of faith. It is all the more amazing that it is spoken to Christ as he is crucified. This is faith worked by the Holy Spirit and thriving in this new believer.
The man believed. The man saw Jesus crucified; the man saw his king. He saw with the eyes of faith. He did not have the benefit of Easter glory to see. He did not have the image of Jesus ascending above the clouds in splendor. He did not have the awesome picture of the Holy Spirit’s Pentecost-outpouring-of-power. He did not have any of these scenes of heavenly glory to fill his vision. His only vision was Jesus nailed next to him. Yet he believed. This man, this evildoer and outlaw, this convict turned convert stands for all time as a lasting word of conviction against all who would come after him who do have the benefit of the glory and the power in full evidence and yet refuse to believe. He believed seeing only the cross. A dying man filled his vision, but he saw a king coming into his kingdom. He saw his Lord.
How sad, how tragic, that so many today struggle to believe even when they have before them not only the cross but the resurrected and glorified Lord. Yet, in spite of the power and glory, they still can’t see the king. But, perhaps that’s the real problem, after all. Perhaps, there is too much glory, too much sunshine, too much going their way, and it obscures and distorts their sight. They can’t see what they need to see. They can’t see a king or a savior because they think they need neither. Each man becomes his own Lord who needs no king to lead. Who needs to be troubled with the claims of a king who can rescue and redeem—rescue and redeem from what? But a man dying on a cross knows his need. Comfortable, and secure, we are prone to forget the reality of our need and the crisis that awaits each of us.
But, the crisis does always eventually catch up with us. To our surprise, or at least to our dismay, the hard realities of life inevitably crash in on us and we find ourselves not so different than the dying convict. A close and trusted friend betrays a confidence and tramples your friendship. Children once loving and sweet grow sullen and disrespectful—their insolence devastating every member of the family. The love that fed and nurtured a marriage withers away and the relationship dries up. An illness lingers and deepens. Wars drag on, and deployments tear relationships apart. People we love change and die and leave. Life slows down and the joy drains away. Whether in a sudden burst or by degrees, the crisis always comes. It cannot be avoided. In reality, none of us is so very different from the convict on the cross painfully aware of the score and his own hopeless situation.
When you know your need, when the crisis descends, when you feel your own desperate terror, you need to look where the thief looked. More importantly, you need to see what he saw. Look at the cross. You don’t see any splendor or majesty there. You don’t see power or glory there. Look at the cross, and see what is there: see Jesus hanging by nails, torn, gasping, suffering, dying. Look at the cross and see what the thief saw: see your king. Indeed, the throne is strange, the attire is shocking, and the crown is horrific. But this is your king—this is your God. And it is precisely in the suffering and the agony and the horror of that cross that he is your king and your God. The cross is his glory, the glory of perfect love. Calvary is his splendor, the splendor of grace in deliberate action. The suffering is his power, the power of infinite sacrifice. Look at the cross and see, there, your Lord in all of his glory and splendor and power. See what the thief saw.
The thief prays. He prays to his king for some tidbit, some small shred of mercy. He asks only one thing: “Jesus, remember me. When you come into your kingdom, when you are fully and finally enthroned in eternal resurrection glory, remember me.” The man prays, and the king responds. Now, Jesus looks, and he sees what is there, not a dying and pathetic miscreant finally getting what he deserves. No, Jesus sees his own creation, his own brother in the flesh, his own royal subject, his own disciple. Jesus sees faith. And so, our Lord speaks from the cross, and grants the request…and he gives even more than requested. The man wanted only to be remembered, someday. Jesus responds by promising paradise…today. That very day, the man would taste the bliss of paradise in the presence of God. He received the gift of life eternal. The dying man did nothing—no good works, no reformed life, no sacrificial giving, no self-giving service to others. He did nothing, and he got everything. Jesus simply snatches him from destruction. He steals his sheep from Satan and hell.
In the midst of your crisis, or at least aware of the impending crisis and your own crushing need, join your brother, the crucified criminal who is getting what he deserves. Follow his gaze: look to the cross, and there with the eyes of faith, see what he sees. See your king. And, seeing your king, ask from him what you do not deserve. The prayer does not need to be detailed, eloquent or fluent. You need ask nothing more than the criminal asked: Jesus, remember me. That’s the prayer of faith, the prayer that sees what only faith can see: the king who dies for you, the king who lives for you. Speak the simple prayer. The king will fill in the details. He will provide the answer that you need, and that answer will be far more than you asked, and far more than you ever dreamed. Snatched from death and hell, the shepherd steals one more sheep back for himself. He steals you. You belong to your king forever; you also will join him in paradise. Amen.