Luke 23:35 - 43
My wife and I tried to put together a
bucket list a couple of years ago. We are still in reasonable health
and wanted to make sure we would not miss out on something we had
always wanted to do. However, we gradually realized that many of the
things we had dreamed of doing when we were younger were no longer
possible, or perhaps desirable. And there is a little regret that
goes along with that. We won’t be taking an ocean cruise or hiking
the Appalachian trail. I strongly doubt we will ever return to
Jamaica or Bermuda or England, all places we enjoyed hugely.
But I think we all have experienced
regrets about another kind of bucket list -- what we should have said
or done that is no longer possible. My mother died with Alzheimer’s
disease, and there was a time during that long decline when I
realized I could no longer communicate with her in a meaningful way
-- her memory and attention span, her sense of humor, everything that
made up the person I had known, had slipped away. I wish I had had a
few more moments with my dad, who died suddenly when I was off to
medical school. I looked into the coffin and grieved that I would
never have one of those deep conversations we both enjoyed. I had a
cousin pass away a couple of weeks ago. She and her husband were
very good to me when I was young, and I always hoped to visit them in
Arizona. Now I never will.
I hope you are all feeling depressed
now. But think about the two thieves that we heard about today.
They are at the end of their lives. I wonder what kind of regrets
went through their minds? One has heard the crowds mocking Jesus,
and joins in himself. He has no hope of rescue, but his loneliness
up on that cross might be alleviated a little bit by his
participation in the mob that is laughing at Jesus; at least it takes
his attention away from what is happening to him.
But the other thief, the one we call
“good” who has somehow collected the name “Dismas” somewhere
long after the scriptures were written -- this one, responding to the
Holy Spirit, regrets his sin -- “We have been condemned justly,”
he says, “for the sentence we received corresponds to our crimes”.
He declares Jesus’ innocence. He recognizes that Jesus is a king,
and in asking to be remembered, he asks for forgiveness.
And Jesus offers the most wonderful
words you could hear if you were dying -- “This day you will be
with me in Paradise.” Not at the end of time, not after suffering
in purgatory until God is satisfied that you’ve suffered enough,
but this very day.
I meet a lot of people who are even
closer to dying than I am. I don’t see a lot of people who fear
death; most are resigned, many look back and say, “I’ve had a
good life”. But if you ask, they all have something they wish they
had done differently, or something they regret not having done. And
even very religious church-going Catholics say things like, “I’d
like a few more years.” Because no matter how full a life you've
lived, we always sense that there is something more, something we
haven't done that we should do.
But I think something Dismas can teach
us, something many great saints can teach us, is that regrets and
bucket lists and thinking about what might have been are distracting
us from what is really important -- to listen to the Holy Spirit who
is prompting us to look at the one who is crucified next to us and
see that God is faithful, God does not abandon us, God is ready to
say “This day you will be with me in Paradise” if we just turn to
him and abandon our regrets, abandon all the things we wish we had
done, all the things we failed to say that we should have said,
because they hold us back, they distract us from the one who is on
the cross next to mine.
It’s interesting that the Church
puts calls our attention to this scene from the Gospel of Luke, a
scene which seems to have nothing to do with the final glory, with
the triumph of Jesus as Lord of the Universe.
But the Church gives us three readings
-- one in which David is made king of Israel -- a triumphant moment
ushering in God’s favored one who finally unites all the Jewish
people into one kingdom; a second which speaks of Jesus’ divinity,
his power, his rule over heaven and earth; and the third in which a
condemned man turns to another and finds paradise in that moment.
One king you admire from afar, and
watch enviously as he revels in the luxury of his position. He holds
the power to command you; he represents the nation to the world. And
yet, despite his glory, he is fallible, he is a sinner, he takes
Bathsheba as his wife after seeing to it that her husband is killed
in battle.
Another king is impossibly distant,
the creator of the universe, the one who rules the angels, He is
almost unapproachable, it seems. He is the fullness of the invisible
God, for God’s sake. That is a long way from where I am.
But the last king is one who stripped
off his crown and joined you on the cross; he would never leave you
alone to face death. And he promised you that death would not be the
end, but that he would accompany you to paradise.
And it is as though the Church is
asking, “which kind of king do you want for yourself?”
