In the world of sports, a “Hail Mary” is the ultimate long shot – a desperate, last-ditch effort when the clock is ticking down. Strategy goes out the window; it’s pure hope thrown skyward.
(Imagine a quick highlight reel of those nail-biting NFL Hail Mary plays – the improbable catches that snatch victory from the jaws of defeat.)
That raw, desperate hope echoes in a profound moment at the foot of the cross. One of the criminals being crucified alongside Jesus has no impressive past, no good deeds to leverage. He doesn’t try to argue his case. Instead, in his final moments, he hurls his very soul in Jesus’ direction. And unbelievably, it lands him straight in Paradise.
This isn’t just a feel-good story; it shakes the foundations of how we often think about salvation, grace, and who’s really in control.
Over the past few weeks, we’ve walked alongside individuals who encountered Jesus on his path to the cross: Mary, offering extravagant worship; the high priest’s servant, witnessing true service; Pilate, caught between earthly and heavenly power; and Simon of Cyrene, transformed by an unexpected burden.
Today, on Palm Sunday, we stand at the cross itself, witnessing three powerful responses to the crucified King: two thieves and a Roman centurion. Their reactions unveil essential truths about faith, the illusion of control, and what it truly means to see Jesus.
Two Thieves, Two Worlds Apart
Thief #1: The Demand for Proof
Isn’t self-preservation a basic instinct? This thief certainly thought so. His logic was clear: “Prove you can save yourself, Jesus, then I’ll consider believing you can save me.” His words mirror the taunts of the religious leaders: “He saved others; let him save himself if he is the Messiah of God, his chosen one!”
Even with his last breaths, this criminal clung to the need for tangible proof before risking belief. Ironically, he sought the approval of the very crowd mocking the only one who held the key to his salvation. How often do we prioritize the opinions of others over the well-being of our own souls? It’s often easier to maintain our pride than to embrace vulnerability and dependence. This thief craved a powerful, conquering Messiah, not the broken figure hanging beside him.
Thief #2: The Desperate Surrender
The other criminal, often called the “good thief” or Saint Dismas, offers a stark contrast:
“Don’t you fear God even when you’ve been sentenced to die? We deserve to die, for we are paying the penalty for our crimes, but this man hasn’t done anything wrong.” Then he said, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.” (Luke 23:40-42)
Notice what’s absent: theological arguments, a deep understanding of the Kingdom, a dramatic conversion narrative, or any chance to make amends. It’s a raw, desperate act of surrender.
And Jesus’ response? A breathtaking promise whispered amidst his own agony:
“Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.” (Luke 23:43)
Today. Not someday, not after cleaning up his life, but in the midst of blood, shame, and execution. There’s no sinner’s prayer recited, no baptism performed, no church membership required. Just faith – sola fide, faith alone.
As Paul wrote in Ephesians 2:8-9: “For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God—not by works, so that no one can boast.” Salvation is God’s initiative, his work from beginning to end. Our part is simply to trust him enough to let him do it.
This thief offered nothing but trust, and Jesus gave him everything. The Kingdom, Paradise – it’s wherever Jesus is.
Jesus Sees What Others Miss
What’s truly astonishing isn’t just the forgiveness Jesus offered, but that he saw this man. In his own excruciating pain, nailed and suffocating, Jesus turned his gaze to the one person on that hill reaching out to him. “Jesus, remember me…” The thief didn’t ask for rescue, just to be seen, remembered, known.
As David Brooks wrote, “Human beings need recognition as much as they need food and water. No crueler punishment can be devised than to NOT see someone, to render them unimportant or invisible.” Jesus didn’t just forgive Dismas; he affirmed his existence, acknowledging his faith, his brokenness, his surrender. And his answer was the gift of his very presence: “Today you will be with Me in Paradise.” Paradise isn’t just a location; it’s a relationship with Jesus.
The Illusion of Control
So, what distinguished these two criminals? Not morality, but control. One clung desperately to the illusion of control, even as death loomed. The other let go, surrendering whatever grip he thought he had.
This is our struggle too. We say we’ve given it all to God, but often we still try to steer the outcome, dictate the timeline, manage the process. This desire for control stretches back to the Garden of Eden and the lie that surrendering our will means losing freedom. But the truth is the opposite: surrender is the only path to true freedom.
We admire Dismas, but we often resist becoming like him because we don’t want to live in total dependence. We fear losing the illusion that we’re in charge. Yet, God isn’t interested in controlling us; he longs to set us free. And the paradox remains: the more we surrender, the freer we become.
Sometimes surrender looks like admitting “I don’t know,” asking for help, giving generously, or forgiving deeply – actions that defy our instinct to control.
A God Who Suffers?
To those watching the crucifixion, Jesus appeared defeated – bleeding, humiliated, dying. Yet, the “good thief” saw a King. In the Greek and Roman world, gods didn’t suffer; they conquered. The idea of a crucified God was offensive, a stumbling block.
But Dismas saw something the world missed: the Kingdom of God breaking through not in triumph, but in sacrifice.
The Centurion: Seeing with New Eyes
Another unexpected witness was the Roman centurion, a hardened military officer accustomed to death. Why would the Gospel writers include the testimony of an enemy, an executioner, a pagan? His confession stands out precisely because it defied all cultural expectations.
This centurion stood facing Jesus, his gaze direct and sustained. The Greek word used emphasizes intense focus. He looked into the eyes of a dying man. And whatever he saw there, in the midst of suffering, moved him to declare, “Surely this man was innocent!” and “This man truly was the Son of God!”
This is the profound irony of the Gospel: a thief and a hardened executioner saw in Jesus what the religious elite could not. They recognized him as both King and the Son of God.
The cross wasn’t Jesus’ defeat; it was his revelation.
Do you see him? Do you see his heart reaching out in love and mercy, even in his final moments? Just like the thief who threw his soul towards Jesus, may we too surrender our need for control and find our last-second hope in the one who offers Paradise. The Kingdom is where Jesus is.
