Remember Me

Then he said, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”
He replied, “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise”
[Luke 23:42–43, a portion of the Gospel lesson appointed for this Sunday, The Reign of Christ, RCL, Year C].

I deserve this.
Let’s be clear about that from the start.
What I did—I did it—
earned me these nails,
this wood,
this slow drowning in open air.

There were four of us condemned.
Me, him on my left,
Barabbas,
and the One between us now.

But Barabbas walks free today.
The crowd chose him over Jesus.
Shouted his name until Pilate relented.
I knew Barabbas—or knew of him.
Revolutionary. Murderer. One of us.

He should be here.
Three criminals on three crosses,
the way these things go.
Instead, it’s Jesus hanging where Barabbas should be,
dying because the crowd wanted a murderer freed
more than they wanted this man alive.

Substitution, they call it.
One for another.
Barabbas’s cross with Jesus on it.

The man on my left keeps mocking him:
“Aren’t you the Messiah? Save yourself and us!”
As if salvation means climbing down,
as if power means escape.

But I’ve been watching.
Listening.

I heard him pray as they drove the nails:
“Father, forgive them; they don’t know what they’re doing.”
Forgive them?
The soldiers gambling for his clothes?
The crowd that chose Barabbas?
The system that puts innocent men on crosses?

I heard the mockery:
“He saved others; let him save himself
if he is the Messiah of God, his chosen one!”
“If you are the King of the Jews, save yourself!”

King.
There’s a sign above his head that says so:
“This is the King of the Jews.”
They meant it as a joke.
A convicted king.
A crucified sovereign.

But watching him die—
the way he breathes,
the way he prays,
the way he doesn’t curse or plead or rage—
I’m starting to think
they got the joke wrong.

Three of us dying here.
Two of us deserve it.
One doesn’t.

And the one who doesn’t
is the one they’re calling King.

So I turned my head—
everything hurts, but I turned anyway—
and I said to the other one:
“Don’t you fear God?
We’re under the same sentence.
We’re getting what we deserve.
But this man has done nothing wrong.”

Then I said it.
Don’t ask me why.
Maybe because I had nothing left to lose.
Maybe because something in me recognized
something in him.

“Jesus,” I said—
used his name, personal, direct—
“Jesus, remember me
when you come into your kingdom.”

Not “save me from this cross.”
Not “get me down from here.”
Just: remember me.

Let me matter.
Let me be known.
Let me be part of whatever this is,
this kingdom you’re dying into.

And he turned his head toward me—
I could see his eyes—
and said:
“Truly I tell you,
today you will be with me in paradise.”

Today.
Not someday.
Not after I’ve earned it.
Not when I’ve made amends.

Today.

While I’m still dying.
While I still deserve this cross.
While the nails are still in my wrists
and the crowd is still mocking
and the darkness is gathering.

Today.

Four of us condemned.
One walks free.
Two die deserving it.
One dies innocent.

And somehow,
in dying next to him,
I’m the first citizen
of whatever kingdom this is—

a kingdom that arrives
not when the king escapes the cross
but when he dies on it,

a kingdom that begins
not with the righteous
but with a criminal
who only asked
to be remembered.

What kind of kingdom is this?

I don’t know.

But I’ll find out today.

In paradise.

With Him.