THE INTERLUDE ON GOLGOTHA of the “murderer on the cross”, still retains its striking significance among all such as live by faith.
Even symbolically the portrayal of the Evangelist is so rich. He, the Prince of life, in the midst, and on either side of Him a guilty child of man, at the point of death, the one to die away in endless misery, the other with the halo of the crown of glory already glistening around his guilty head. And those two malefactors as well as Messiah Himself, the spotless, pure One, lifted up on the accursed tree. And He together with two sinners, but more still for sinners, presently giving up the ghost on a cross of shame.
This is not merely symbolic beauty, because of the contrast. For by itself a contrast kindles concern and artificial contrast is cruel. But this is a God-glorifying beauty, because here the contrast springs from real life, exhibits to us the mighty antithesis of sin and holiness, of faith and unbelief, of life and death drawn together as in one central point; and after having thus shown you this contrast of unfathomable deep reality, dissolves it in atonement; in that atonement prophecies the triumph of what is holy to you; and presents to you that result consecrated unto God, which, contrary to everything that is here before your eyes, can be conjectured, and be understood by the eye of faith alone.
These two crosses alongside Jesus’ cross are not there for the sake of symmetry. They have not been added there to make a show. Because one cross would have stood there so naked and so bald.
The watch charged with the execution, did nothing out of the ordinary, when, to save needless trouble, they brought several condemned criminals to execution together. These two malefactors who had been sentenced for murder had to be put to death. So, at this time there were three executions at once.
There need be no thought of intention on the part of Pilate, purposely to offend Jesus by such undesired company. Of a Caiaphas this might have been expected. Not of a Roman; and far less of Pilate, who, weak of character though he was, had unwillingly delivered this victim of Jewish religious hatred to be crucified.
But there was intention there.
Not on the part of Pilate, but of Satan.
“Numbered with the transgressors” had already been previsioned in Isaiah’s prophecy, as an aggravation of the suffering, that should come upon the Messiah.
And indeed, Satan and his angels revelled with ghoulish glee in the idea, of accompanying Jesus in His dying with two murderers, and though the Sanhedrin did not surmise the plan, you may be sure, that their madness took pleasure in it.
But in this intention Satan again was nothing but an instrument in the hand of God. A saw, to speak in the style of Isaiah, which God drew, an ax wherewith God hewed, not to wound His dear Son still more deeply, but to cast down all highness of man, and to exhibit the more gloriously in this the greatness of the soul of Messiah and the wondrous power of faith.
For could humanity have been represented more pitifully, more wretchedly, than it was on Golgotha, in that mighty historic moment, in which the lot of mankind hung in the balance.
Of every creature in heaven and on earth man was the richest, man the highest creature, called to present the whole world as an offering to God.
And what is the form in which this humanity here appears? A judge who violates the right; soldiers who stain themselves with the blood of a judicial murder; spiritual leaders of the people who lose all self-control in passion and revenge; a mob that howls and rants when it sees the Man Who healed all diseases, cruelly ill-treated; and left and right of the accursed tree on which Jesus hangs, two children of men, each on a cross of his own, as living proofs that in murder committed on men, the sin of the human heart seeks its own consummation.
Think Mary and John away, in whom not brightness of their own, but reflection of Jesus glistened, and in all this human appearance on Golgotha there is not one point of light. The darkness that presently enswathed the cross, was but expression of the darkness that here spiritually bare rule.
As night in nature, and nothing but black night in the human heart, human evil is as it were symbolized in those two murderers, who with their crosses formed the frame, in which Jesus’ cross was set.
And into this darkness breaks forth all the light of Jesus.
Deeply, this could not be otherwise, Jesus must have felt the insult, that even in His death they forced such companions in misery upon Him. To see that murderer on His left and that murderer on His right side, must to His perception have been a sacrilege, put to Him in that dreadful hour. Even reverence for His dying was here withheld.
And yet Jesus takes no offence. He does not despise those objectionable forms that writhe in pain upon their cross. And even when one of these two in the midst of his death struggle still misuses his voice, hoarse from feverish thirst, to mock the King of glory, no word passes Jesus’ lips, to curse him.
This too tolerates, this too endures, this too undergoes your Savior.
And open His lips to address His fellows on the cross, He only does, when that other murderer had made the language of faith to be heard.
Here also it is the Son of man Who is come not to judge, but to save.
And when He speaks, no malediction for the reckless mocker passes across His lips, but a benediction, a prophecy of salvation for him who in his dying still looked up to the Messiah.
“This day shalt thou be with me in Paradise!”
Language of Divine highness, for while the world casts Him out, and His breath shortens in the throat, and He is accursed in the eyes of all, He still speaks as the King of the realm of God, Who has the blessednesses of heaven to give away.
Giving way under His sorrows of death, He sees Paradise opened, where His soul shall presently and joyfully enter.
While His battle-worn soul enjoys that foretaste of eternal gladness, love, a love that embraces even the murderer, remains the breath of His heart.
And as with an oath, as though to make the unbelievable real, He says to him: “Verily, verily I say unto you, yet this day you shall be with me in Paradise.”
Not yet in the realm of glory. That can only be ushered in after the judgment. But in Paradise, i. e. in the provisional state of happiness, in which the separated souls await the day of Jesus’ glory. In that provisional, that heavenly Jerusalem which John saw, in the day of Jesus’ glory coming down from God out of heaven to earth (Rev. 21: 2).
SO man here exhibits himself, in a manner that makes you turn repugnantly away from him. With all the splendor of the Roman uniforms, with all the grandeur of Rome’s choice jurisprudence, with all the sacredness of the habited priest, with all the excellence of Israel’s high calling, all that you can call your own, O, race of man, here you are despicable, fallen away from your high estate, base and evil.
And over against this Jesus, Whom ye cast out, is also here so great. Not to the outward eye, for He hangs on the accursed tree. In shrill contrast with your tabards and uniforms He hangs here naked and unclothed. You are possessed of might and fame, while He struggles with death that is already astir in His veins. But still great; great in His high perception, that He has Paradise to give away; great by the still resignedness with which He suffers Himself to be numbered with transgressors; greater still by the compassion of His soul, with which He blesses the penitent malefactor, comforts him, and endues him with grace.
And while thus over against the dark shadow of human lightheartedness the greatness of soul in Jesus shows itself by contrast, now see, how here no less in an altogether wonderful manner shines out the all conquering power of faith.
You need not make it more wonderful than it is. There is no reason not to accept, that that murderer on the cross had heard of Jesus before. He may have been among the four thousand or among the five thousand whom at the lake of Genesareth Jesus had fed with the wondrous bread. Very possible, that more than once he had heard silver speech from Jesus’ lips. Perhaps he had also witnessed His wondrous healings.
But however this may be, afterward he had gone the evil way. He had not sought the paths of light, but of darkness. He had not drunk from Jesus’ love, but from Satan’s lust of murder. And in the end he had not shrunk back from the shedding of man’s blood.
Since then, he had been thrown into prison, and had not seen or heard anything, of what had taken place with Jesus at Jerusalem.
And now he is put to the cross, and he sees another cross alongside of his, and in that crossling who there hangs beside him, he recognizes the Rabbi of former days.
And now he sees Jesus, not in glory, but despised, sentenced and condemned, and dying like he himself must die.
And see, while like a Peter has even denied Jesus, and the disciples have fled, and it is as though His most faithful friends dare not to come out for Him, now in that dying murderer kindles the courage of faith, the power of faith, the grace of faith, to honor Him Who hangs there on the accursed wood, and despite the Sanhedrin, to worship Him as his Savior, as his deliverer, as the King in the Kingdom of God. “Lord, remember me when thou comest into thy kingdom!” (Luke 23: 42).
Of Peter nothing is seen. Thomas sank away in his doubt. The pious stand afar off and are silent.
A murderer is the only one who in that hour of darkness dared to call upon Jesus.
Was then that murderer better than Peter, more noble than John, more courageous than Thomas? Of course not. To think this were to subvert all the history of the Gospel.
No, what shone out in that murderer was the power of God.
The wondrous power of God whereby God Almighty can kindle faith in the soul.
It was God who in this dreadful moment came in the faith-language of that murderer to comfort His dear Son.
God, Who in this touching and striking scene of Golgotha calls out to all the world; Believe, believe like that murderer in the Man of Sorrows, and in your dying, you too awaits Paradise!
← 30. They Know Not What They Do · Contents · 32. Dried Up like a Potsherd →