The Good Thief

It was Friday noon. I stood there on calvary-dirty, sweaty, and

bruised. The skin at my shoulders was torn and bleeding; my cross had
been heavy. My face was swollen and bloody.

Suddenly, a soldier came and crushed me down upon my cross.

I struggled to get up. But a heavy foot kicked me in the face. While I
lay there, they nailed my hands to the rough wood. I began to kick my
scream so that more soldiers were needed to hold my feet in place
while the executioners drove the nails through flesh and bone.

Between the hammer strokes, I heard the other robber. He was

screaming too as they nailed him to the cross. But from the man in the
middle, I did not hear a sound, except the dull clang of hammer
against massive nail.

Soon we were hanging from our crosses – dead weights hanging

from torn flesh and broken bones. I turned my head to the left, and I
saw Christ. He was more dirty, more bloody, more pitiful than I. But I
hated Him. I hated Him. I hated Him for being silent while I screamed
with pain. I hated Him for drawing all the attention to Himself. And I
cursed Him. I cursed Him with all the vileness in my heart; I cursed Him
louder than all the people – until, glancing over, I caught sight of a
woman.

She was looking at me. I saw something in her, something that

reminded me so much of my mother. The pained expression on her
face reminded me so much of my mother’s pleading eyes, when twenty
years ago she begged me to stay home to tend the flock instead of
plundering the pilgrims to Jerusalem. No good can come out of it, she
told me. No good can come out of it! I knew that afternoon that she had
spoken the truth.

Suddenly a clear vibrant voice roused me from my dreaming.

“Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.” Forgive them,
Christ? Are you mad?

Fool, I wanted to shout. Fool, how can you forgive them after they
have lashed you and nailed to a cross! But I could not speak. Somehow
the expression on that woman’s face seemed to say, “No good can
come out of it. No good can come out of it.”

But the other robber blasphemed Christ shouting, “Bah! Save

yourself and us, if you are Christ!”

More than all the mockery heaped on me that day, I felt this most
because it came from a companion in suffering. Fool, I shouted. DO
you not fear God? You also will die today. Yes, we die justly, as the
reward of our crimes. But this Man, Christ, has done no evil.

For the first time that afternoon, Christ turned His face towards
me. I saw a faint smile playing about His torn and bleeding lips. The
words seemed to come forth, “Thank you, Dimas.”

Here was a friend! IN the awful loneliness which surrounded me.

I tried to cling to that friendship, even though it could be only in
memory. “Lord,” I cried, “remember me when Thou shalt come into Thy
kingdom.” Then Christ answered me, so that all the people heard,
“Amen, I say to thee, this day thou shalt be with Me in Paradise.”
 Drunk with a new-found peace, I could only smile and nod my
head in gratitude. The people were staring at me now, surprised,
disgusted, almost envious. Again, I saw that woman… she was still
looking at me, only now she was smiling. I nodded my head to her to,
thanking her for what she had done. Maybe she did not know how she
had helped. But that did not matter. I was so happy that I even wanted
to thank Pilate for having me crucified with Christ. Then in a flash it
came to me… she was the Mother of Christ! Before the sun set that
Friday, I was in heaven.