Remember Me

Remember Me Luke 23:26-43 Cascades Fellowship CRC, JX MI March 23, 2008 Easter Sunrise Service It’s getting harder to breathe. My body is a knot of fire; the pain is no longer just in my hands and feet.

Every movement wracks my body with

tsunamis of pain. Each ragged breath costs me more dearly – soon the price will be too high. The only question is whether I will die before the centurion has my legs broken. At first, I was all bravado. I would die nobly – no pleas for mercy from these Roman dogs. I even considered doing as I had seen Jesus do, refusing the wine and myrrh. But I thought better of it – the numbing effect of the elixir might be just enough. When they drove the nails in I cursed them – I cursed them and their families. Had I thought of it, I would have cursed their animals too, but the pain was so intense, I couldn’t think straight. O God, just the memory of it causes me to tremble and trembling causing me pain. But I refused to give up my false confidence. Even as they jerked my body up into place, nearly separating my shoulders; even as they beat the dowel into place securing my crossbeam to the pole that thrust up out of the ground like an accusing finger – I held on to my anger. They may crucify me, but they would never beat me.

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I kicked at them as they came to drive the nail into my feet. One last blow for Zion! Roman filth didn’t belong here anyway. We are God’s people, in God’s land. Why God allows such corruption to occupy the Land, I cannot say. But I know it is only for a season, God will prevail and his people will be free. If only I were alive to see that day – to watch the life flee from the eyes of our enemy as they lay bleeding upon the ground. As the nail drove through my feet a convulsion of pain screamed up my legs. For the briefest of moments I jerked up, locking my knees. Then the pain from pulling against the nails in my hands sent another convulsion down my arms and I collapsed, heaving. It was so hard to breathe. I could suck in air, but the way my body was hanging there, I couldn’t drive the air from my lungs. It was like I was drowning on my own breath. The only way to get the air out was to push up on my impaled feet, starting the cycle of pain all over again. O God, what torture.

How cruel, how evil the mind must be to even

contemplate such a death. Yet even as the despair of torment settled on me I would not cry for mercy. I would not give them the satisfaction of smiling at me as they pretended to consider my request. I would not give them the pleasure of telling me no. As defiant as I was, I could still feel my anger slipping away into fear. The guy on the other end, however, seemed incorrigible. You could hear him cursing with each heaving breath – cursing the Romans, cursing his own people, cursing

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life itself. He seemed to use the pain to feed his anger – he almost seemed to get stronger each time he pressed against his nails to draw a breath. Oddly, the crowds gathered around the Skull – the place of my crucifixion – didn’t pay attention to the cursing man or to me. Were it not for the nails, we probably could have gotten down and walked through the crowd to freedom without being noticed. All eyes seemed nailed to Jesus. Though Jesus said nothing an endless parade of people – priests, scribes, Pharisees, soldiers, common people caught up in the moment – passed before him, mocking him. “He saved others; let him save himself if he is the Christ of God, the Chosen One.” “If you are the king of the Jews, save yourself.” “You who are going to destroy the temple and build it in three days, save yourself! Come down from the cross, if you are the Son of God!” “He saved others, but he can’t save himself! He’s the King of Israel! Let him come down now from the cross, and we will believe in him. He trusts in God. Let God rescue him now if he wants him, for he said, ‘I am the Son of God.’” Then I heard the other guy start mocking Jesus, saying the same things everyone else was saying. To my shame, I joined in as well. Jesus became a place where I could focus my anger. And the greater my anger, the more I could endure. At that moment, it really seemed like the whole world had turned against Jesus. Even me and the other guy condemned to die spewed our hatred at him. If there was anyone pleading for him, someone on his side, I didn’t see them. Every face I saw – every pair of eyes that were fixed on Jesus – seemed filled with revulsion, with the baleful light of glee at his suffering. 3

And yet, Jesus said nothing. He was still alive – though how, I could not say. I could see him heaving for breath, rising up on his nailed feet with a gush of air. As I watched him, suddenly my curses caught in my throat, my voice forsook me. I began to notice how badly he was beaten. His skin hung in tatters on his back and thighs, exposing the muscles and organs beneath. What skin he had left was purpled and swelling. Blood flowed in rivulets down his face and neck from the thorns pressed into his skull. A wreath of thorns makes a horrific crown. That he had any blood left for his heart to pump seemed like some perverse miracle. The man should be dead; no one should live through such torture. Yet there he was, still struggling for breath. You could hear the blood rattling in his throat as he pushed up for air one more time, but this time, before collapsing, he hissed something out between clenched teeth, “Father, forgive them, they don’t know what they are doing.” Forgive them? What? I was astounded. For a moment all of my agony was forgotten, all my anger dissipated.

How could he even think about

forgiveness for others while he was in such distress? What kind of person asks God to forgive his enemies? Wait a minute. They had called him Messiah, said he claimed to be the Son of God. Could this be true? If it was, why was God letting this happen to him?

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Breaking through the swirling eddy of my thoughts came the voice of the cursing man. “Aren’t you the Christ? Save yourself and us!” Aren’t you the Christ? The Messiah – Jesus, was he the Messiah? I can’t say where it came from, but suddenly I knew the truth. Jesus was the Messiah, God’s chosen King upon the earth and we were killing him. The Romans were killing him with whips and nails, but we – God’s people were killing him with rejection, with hatred, with faithlessness. We were crushing him, body and soul and still he was asking God to forgive us. Suddenly, everything I had been certain about my whole life came crashing down. I had lived as a violent man, taking what pleased me. But I was always sure that in the end, I would be gathered with my fathers by the God who created me. I had received the sign of the covenant – circumcision, so I was part of God’s people. But now – how could God forgive me for this? For taking part in the humiliation of his appointed King? Why would God help someone who took pleasure in the death of his Son? And why was Jesus there in the first place? What had he done that was so bad that he deserved crucifixion? He hadn’t stolen or murdered or even threatened violence, but still he was being crucified. And on top of it all he was being humiliated and reviled, even by other criminals – real criminals. Why was everyone against Jesus, why was he being forsaken?

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As if in answer, the words of the Prophet Isaiah that I memorized as a boy began echoing in my head. Who has believed our message and to whom has the arm of the LORD been revealed? He grew up before him like a tender shoot, and like a root out of dry ground. He had no beauty or majesty to attract us to him, nothing in his appearance that we should desire him. He was despised and rejected by men, a man of sorrows, and familiar with suffering. Like one from whom men hide their faces he was despised, and we esteemed him not. Surely he took up our infirmities and carried our sorrows, yet we considered him stricken by God, smitten by him, and afflicted. But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon him, and by his wounds we are healed. We all, like sheep, have gone astray, each of us has turned to his own way; and the LORD has laid on him the iniquity of us all. My heart thudded into my throat. Pierced for our transgressions, crushed for our iniquities, his wounds – our healing. Our iniquity, laid upon him – who was despised and rejected. Dear God. Jesus was dying for me. Because I was faithless, Jesus was suffering. Because I broke the Law, because I took the covenant for granted the Messiah was dying. Unexpectedly, my voice returned, but this time it was for Jesus. I shouted at the cursing man, but I am sure the others who mocked Jesus heard me as well. “Don’t you fear God, since you are under the same sentence? We are punished justly, for we are getting what our deeds deserve. But this man has done nothing wrong.” 6

For a fleeting moment, I felt hope.

I thought I understood what was

happening. But then the memory of my crimes came rushing back. Faces from the lives I had destroyed flitted before me, like accusations before a judge. Who was I kidding? Even if Jesus was dying because of my sin, what would God have to do with the likes of me? So what that I was circumcised on the eight day, I had been faithless all my life. I had broken the covenant so many times that there could be no hope for me. I deserved to die – not because I had broken Roman law, but because I had broken God’s law. My crimes were many and often. I’d been a thief and robber – what I couldn’t get with stealth I took by force.

I was a violent man, given to appetites and using whatever means

necessary to satisfy them. I deserved to be crucified and forgotten, left to hang until the birds picked my corpse clean. The Scriptures said that any man hung from a tree is under God’s curse. I am cursed. What hope do I have? Again, unbidden, the words of Isaiah came to me. Yet it was the LORD’s will to crush him and cause him to suffer, and though the LORD makes f his life a guilt offering, he will see his offspring and prolong his days, and the will of the LORD will prosper in his hand. After the suffering of his soul, he will see the light of life g and be satisfied h; by his knowledge i my righteous servant will justify many, and he will bear their iniquities. Yet it was the Lord’s will to crush him…and make his life a guilt offering…. After the suffering of his soul he will see the light of life…. My heart grappled with the words of the prophet, on the edges of my understanding something new

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was taking shape. Jesus would not only die for me, but somehow he would live again. Could I live again with him? It seemed too much to hope, yet my heart desperately wanted to do so. Maybe it was the specter of death that forced me to dream about such a thing, some final grasp at a life that I had squandered. Or maybe I was seeing things clearly for the first time. Maybe the prospect of death had cleared my vision and I could finally see the truth. Whatever the reason, I knew I couldn’t keep silent about it – I had to cry out to Jesus. “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.” For a moment there was silence – I wasn’t sure he was able to hear me any longer. Was I too late? Then, I saw his legs begin to tremble. Torturously, he began to rise, blood oozing from the wounds in his back, feet and hands. With a shuttering pant, he rasped, “I tell you the truth, today you will be with me in paradise.” Elation exploded from my heart. He would remember me. No matter what came next, no matter how bad my suffering, no matter how deep my sin, Jesus would remember me. Jesus died a little while later – it seemed like he did it at will. He said he was committing his spirit into God’s hands and then went limp. It was with a pang of regret that I realized I would never be able to tell anyone about the truth God revealed to me on the cross that day – why Jesus died.

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I can see the high priest talking to the centurion. He’s pointing toward the hammer. He must be asking the centurion to break our legs so that we die before the Sabbath begins. Death will soon come to call, one way or the other. But I am not afraid any longer. Nor am I defiant. I know who Jesus is and I know he will live again. And I know that I will be with him when he does because Jesus said he would remember me.

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