'And he said unto Jesus, Lord, remember me when Thou
comest into Thy kingdom.'--LUKE xxiii, 42.
There is an old and true division of the work of Christ into three
parts--prophet, priest, and king. Such a distinction manifestly
exists, though it may be overestimated, or rather, the statement of
it may be exaggerated, if it be supposed that separate acts of His
discharge these separate functions, and that He ceases to be the one
before He becomes the other. Rather it is true that all His work is
prophetic, that all His work is priestly, and that His prophetic and
priestly work is the exercise of His kingly authority. But still the
division is a true one, and helps to set before us, clearly and
definitely, the wide range of the benefits of Christ's mission and
death. It is noteworthy that these three groups round the Cross, the
third of which we have to speak of now--that of the 'daughters of
Jerusalem,' that of the deriding scribes and the indifferent
soldiers, and this one of the two thieves--each presents us Christ
in one of the three characters. The words that He spoke upon the
Cross, with reference to others than Himself, may be gathered
around, and arranged under, that threefold aspect of Christ's work.
The _prophet_ said, 'Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for Me,
but weep for yourselves, for the days are coming.' The _priest_
said, 'Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do. 'The
_king_, in His sovereignty, ruled the heart of that penitent
man from His Cross, and while the crown shone athwart the smoke and
the agony of the death, the king 'opened the gates of the kingdom
of heaven unto all believers' when He said, 'This day shalt thou be
with Me in Paradise!'
We shall not attempt, in dealing with this incident, to paint
pictures. I have a far more important thing to do than even to try
to bring vividly before your minds the scene on that little hill of
Calvary. It is the meaning that we are concerned with, and not the
mere externals. I take it for granted, then, that we know the
details:--the dying man in his agony, beginning to see dimly, as his
soul closed upon earthly things, who this was--patient, loving,
mighty there in His sufferings; and using his last breath to cry,
'Lord, remember me!'--and the sufferer throned in the majesty of His
meekness, and divinity of His endurance; calm, conscious, full of
felt but silent power, accepting homage, bending to the penitence,
loving the sinner, and flinging open the gates of the pale kingdoms
into which He was to pass, with these His last words.
First, then, we see here an illustration of the Cross in its power
of drawing men to itself. It is strange to think that, perhaps, at
that moment the only human being who thoroughly believed in Christ
was that dying robber. The disciples are all gone. The most faithful
of them are recreant, denying, fleeing. A handful of women are
standing there, not knowing what to think about it, stunned but
loving; and alone (as I suppose), alone of all the sons of men, the
crucified malefactor was in the sunshine of faith, and could say
'I believe!' As everything of the future history of the world and of
the Gospel is typified in the events of the Crucifixion, it was
fitting that here again and at the last there should be a prophetic
fulfilment of His own saying, 'I, if I be lifted up, will draw all
men unto Me.'
But mark, here we have a striking instance of the universal law of
the progress of the Gospel, in the two-fold effort of the
contemplation of the Cross. By its foot was to be seen the derision
of the scribes and the stupor of the soldiery; and now here are the
two thieves--the one chiming in with the universal reproaches; and
the other beholding the same event, having the same circumstances
displayed before him, and they influence him _thus_. Brethren,
it is just the history of the Gospel wherever it goes. It is its
history now, and among us. The Gospel is preached equally to every
man. The same message comes to us all, offering us the same terms.
Christ stands before each of us in the same attitude. And what is
the consequence? A parting of the whole mass of us, some to one side
and some to the other. So, when you take a magnet, and hold it to an
indiscriminate heap of metal filings, it will gather out all the
iron, and leave behind all the rest. 'I, if I be lifted up,' said
He, 'will draw all men unto Me.' The attractive power will go out
over the whole race of His brethren; but from some there will be no
response. In some hearts there will be no yielding to the
attraction. Some will remain rooted, obstinate, steadfast in their
place; and to some the lightest word will be mighty enough to stir
all the slumbering pulses of their sin-ridden hearts, and to bring
them, broken and penitent, for mercy to His feet. To the one He is
'a savour of life unto life, and to the other a savour of death unto
death.' The broadest doctrine of the universal adaptation, and the
universal intention too, of the Gospel, as the 'power of God unto
salvation,' contains hidden in its depths this undeniable fact,
that, be the cause what it may (and as I believe, the cause lies
with us, and is our fault) this separating, judging effect follows
from all faithful preaching of Christ's words. He came to judge the
world, 'that they which see not' (as He Himself said) 'might see,
and they which see might be made blind,' And on the Cross that
process went on in two men, alike in necessity, alike in
criminality, alike in this, that Death's icy finger was just being
laid upon their heart, to stop all the flow of its wild blood and
passion, but different in this, that the one of them turned himself,
by God's grace, and laid hold on the Gospel that was offered to him,
and the other turned himself away, and derided, and died.
And now, there is another consideration. If we look at this man, this
penitent thief, and contrast him, his previous history, and his present
feelings, with the people that stood around, and rejected and scoffed,
we get some light as to the sort of thing that unfits men for perceiving
and accepting the Gospel when it is offered to them. Remember the other
classes of persons who were there. There were Roman soldiers, with very
partial knowledge of what they were doing, and whose only feeling was
that of entire indifference; and there were Jewish Rabbis, Pharisees,
Priests, and people, who knew a little more of what they were doing,
and whose feeling was derision and scorn. Now, if we mark the ordinary
scriptural representation, especially as to the last class, we cannot
help seeing that there comes out this principle:--The thing of all
others that unfits men for the reception of Christ as a Saviour, and
for the simple reliance on His atoning blood and divine mercy, is not
gross, long profligacy, and outward, vehement transgression; but it is
self-complacency, clean, fatal self-righteousness and self-sufficiency.
Why was it that Scribes and Pharisees turned away from Him? For
three reasons. Because of their pride of wisdom. 'We are the men who
know all about Moses and the traditions of the elders; we judge this
new phenomenon not by the question, How does it come to our
consciences, and how does it appeal to our hearts? but we judge it
by the question, How does it fit our Rabbinical learning and subtle
casuistical laws? _We_ are the Priests and the Scribes; and the
people that know not the law, _they_ may accept a thing that
only appeals to the common human heart, but for us, in our
intellectual superiority, living remote from the common wants of the
lower class, not needing a rough outward Gospel of that sort, we can
do without such a thing, and we reject it.' They turned away from
the Cross, and their hatred darkened into derision, and their
menaces ended in a crucifixion, not merely because of a pride of
wisdom, but because of a complacent self-righteousness that knew
nothing of the fact of sin, that never had learned to believe itself
to be full of evil, that had got so wrapped up in ceremonies as to
have lost the life; that had degraded the divine law of God, with
all its lightning splendours, and awful power, into a matter of
'mint and anise and cummin.' They turned away for a third reason.
Religion had become to them a mere set of traditional dogmas, to
think accurately or to reason clearly about which was all that was
needful. Worship having become ceremonial, and morality having
become casuistry, and religion having become theology, the men were
as hard as a nether millstone, and there was nothing to be done with
them until these three crusts were peeled off the heart, and, close
and burning, the naked heart and the naked truth of God came into
contact.
Brethren, change the name, and the story is true about _us_.
God forbid that I should deny that every form of gross, sensual
immorality, 'hardens all within' (as one poor victim of it said),
'and petrifies the feeling.' God forbid that I should seem to be
speaking slightingly of the exceeding sinfulness of such sin, or to
be pouring contempt upon the laws of common morality. Do not
misapprehend me so. Still it is not sin in its outward forms that
makes the worst impediment between a man and the Cross, but it is
sin plus self-righteousness which makes the insurmountable obstacle
to all faith and repentance. And oh! in our days, when passion is
tamed down by so many bonds and chains; when the power of society
lies upon all of us, prescribing our path, and keeping most of us
from vice, partly because we are not tempted, and partly because we
have been brought up like some young trees behind a wall, within the
fence of decent customs and respectable manners,--we have far more
need to tell orderly, respectable moral men--'My brother, that thing
that you have is worth nothing, as settling your position before God';
than to stand up and thunder about crimes which half of us never heard
of, and perhaps only an infinitesimal percentage of us have ever
committed. All sin separates from God, but the thing that makes the
separation permanent is not the sin, but the ignorance of the sin.
Self-righteousness, aye, and pride of wisdom, they--they have perverted
many a nature, many a young man's glowing spirit, and have turned him
away from the Gospel. If there be a man here who is looking at the
simple message of peace and pardon and purity through Christ, and is
saying to himself, Yes; it may fit the common class of minds that
require outward signs and symbols, and must pin their faith to forms;
but for me with my culture, for me with my spiritual tendencies, for
me with my new lights, _I_ do not want any objective redemption;
_I_ do not want anything to convince _me_ of a divine love, and I
do not need any crucified Saviour to preach to _me_ that God is
merciful!--this incident before us has a very solemn lesson in it for
him. And if there be a man here who is living a life of surface
blamelessness, it has as solemn a lesson for him. Look at the Scribe,
and look at the Pharisee--religious men in their way, wise men in
their way, decent and respectable men in their way; and look at that
poor thief that had been caught in the wilderness amongst the caves
and dens, and had been brought red-handed with blood upon his sword,
and guilt in his heart, and nailed up there in the short and summary
process of a Roman jurisprudence;--and think that Scribe, and Pharisee,
and Priest, saw nothing in Christ; and that the poor profligate wretch
saw this in Him,--innocence that showed heavenly against his diabolical
blackness; and his heart stirred, and he laid hold of Him in the stress
of his mighty agony--as a drowning man catches at anything that
protrudes from the bank; and he held and shook it, and the thing was
fast, and he was safe! Not transgression shuts a man out from mercy.
Transgression, which belongs to us all, makes us subjects for the
mercy; but it is pride, self-righteousness, trust in ourselves, which
'bars the gates of mercy on mankind'; and the men that _are_ condemned
are condemned not only because they have transgressed the commandments
of God, but '_this_ is the condemnation, that light came into the
world, and men loved darkness rather than light, because their deeds
were evil.'
And then (and but a word) we see here, too, the elements of which
acceptable faith consists. One does not exactly know by what steps
or through what process this poor dying thief passed, which issued
in faith--whether it was an impression from Christ's presence,
whether it was that he had ever heard anything about Him before, or
whether it was only that the wisdom which dwells with death was
beginning to clear his eyes as life ebbed away. But however he
_came_ to the conviction, mark what it was that he believed and
expressed,--I am a sinful man; all punishment that comes down upon me
is richly deserved: This man is pure and righteous; 'Lord, remember
me when Thou comest into Thy kingdom!' That is all--that is all. That
is the thing that saves a man. How much he _did_ know--whether he
knew all the depth of what he was saying, when he said 'Lord!' is a
question that we cannot answer; whether he understood what the
'kingdom' was that he was expecting, is a question that we cannot
solve; but this is clear--the intellectual part of faith may be dark
and doubtful, but the moral and emotional part of it is manifest and
plain. There was, '_I_ am nothing--_Thou_ art everything: I bring
myself and my emptiness unto Thy great fullness: fill it and make me
blessed!' Faith has that. Faith has in it repentance--repentance has in
it faith too. Faith has in it the recognition of the certainty and the
justice of a judgment that is coming down crashing upon every human
head; and then from the midst of these fears, and sorrows, and the
tempest of that great darkness, there rises up in the night of terrors,
the shining of one perhaps pale, quivering, distant, but divinely given
hope, 'My Saviour! My Saviour! He is righteous: He has died--He lives!
I will stay no longer; I will cast myself upon Him!'
Once more--this incident reminds us not only of the attractive power
of the Cross, but of the prophetic power of the Cross. We have here
the Cross as pointing to and foretelling the Kingdom. Pointing out,
and foretelling: that is to say, of course, and only, if we accept
the scriptural statement of what these sufferings were, the Person
that endured them, and the meaning of their being endured. But the
only thing I would dwell upon here, is, that when we think of Christ
as dying for us, we are never to separate it from that other solemn
and future coming of which this poor robber catches a glimpse. They
crowned Him with thorns, and they gave Him a reed for His sceptre.
That mockery, so natural to the strong practical Romans in dealing
with one whom they thought a harmless enthusiast, was a symbol which
they who did it little dreamed of. The crown of thorns proclaims a
sovereignty founded on sufferings. The sceptre of feeble reed speaks
of power wielded in gentleness. The Cross leads to the crown. The
brow that was pierced by the sharp acanthus wreath, therefore wears
the diadem of the universe. The hand that passively held the mockery
of the worthless, pithless reed, therefore rules the princes of the
earth with the rod of iron. He who was lifted up to the Cross, was,
by that very act, lifted up to be a Ruler and Commander to the
peoples. For the death of the Cross God hath highly exalted Him to
be a Prince and a Saviour. The way to glory for Him, the power by
which He wields the kingdom of the world, is precisely through the
suffering. And therefore, whensoever there arises before us the
image of the one, oh! let there rise before us likewise the image of
the other. The Cross links on to the kingdom--the kingdom lights up
the Cross. My brother, the Saviour comes--the Saviour comes a King.
The Saviour that comes a King is the Saviour that has been here and
was crucified. The kingdom that He establishes is all full of
blessing, and love, and gentleness; and to us (if we will unite the
thoughts of Cross and Crown) there is opened up not only the
possibility of having boldness before Him in the day of judgment,
but there is opened up this likewise--the certainty that He 'shall
receive of the travail of His soul and be satisfied.' Oh, remember
that as certain as the historical fact--He died on Calvary; so
certain is the prophetic fact--He shall reign, and you and I will
stand there! I durst not touch that subject. Take it into your own
hearts; and think about it--a kingdom, a judgment-seat, a crown, a
gathered universe; separation, decision, execution of the sentence.
And oh! ask yourselves, 'When that gentle eye, with lightning in its
depths, falls upon _me_, individualises _me_, summons out _me_ to its
bar--how shall I stand?' 'Herein is our love made perfect, that we may
have boldness before Him in the day of judgment,' 'Lord, remember me
when Thou comest into Thy kingdom.'
Finally. Here is the Cross as revealing and opening the true
Paradise.--'This day shalt thou be with Me in Paradise.' We have no
concern at present with the many subtle inferences as to the state
of the dead, and as to the condition of our Lord's human spirit before
the Resurrection, which have been drawn from these words. To me they
do seem fairly to bear the broad and single conclusion that the spirits
of the saved do enter at death into a state of conscious presence with
their Saviour, and therefore of joy and felicity. But beyond this we
have no firm ground for going. It is of more practical worth to note
that the penitent's vague prayer is answered, and over-answered. He
asks, 'When Thou comest'--whensoever that may be--'remember me.' 'I
shall stand afar off; do not let me be utterly forgotten.' Christ
answers--'Remember thee! thou shalt be _with Me_, close to My side.
Remember thee _when_ I come!--_this day_ shalt thou be with Me.'
And what a contrast that is--the conscious blessedness rushing in
close upon the heels of the momentary darkness of death. At the one
moment there hangs the thief writhing in mortal agony; the wild
shouts of the fierce mob at his feet are growing faint upon his ear;
the city spread out at his feet, and all the familiar sights of
earth are growing dim to his filmy eye. The soldier's spear comes,
the legs are broken, and in an instant there hangs a relaxed corpse;
and the spirit, the spirit--is where? Ah! how far away; released
from all its sin and its sore agony, struggling up at once into such
strange divine enlargement, a new star swimming into the firmament
of heaven, a new face before the throne of God, another sinner
redeemed from earth! The conscious immediate blessedness of the
departed--be he what he may, be his life whatsoever it may have
been--who at last, dark, sinful, standing with one foot on the verge
of eternity, and poising himself for the flight, flings himself into
the arms of Christ--the everlasting blessedness, the Christ-presence
and the Christ-gladness, that is the message that the robber leaves
to us from his cross. Paradise is opened to us again. The Cross is
the true 'tree of life.' The flaming cherubim, and the sword that
turneth every way, are gone, and the broad road into the city, the
Paradise of God, with all its beauties and all its peaceful joy--a
better Paradise, 'a statelier Eden,' than that which we have lost,
is flung open to us for ever.
Do not trust a death-bed repentance, my brother. I have stood by
many a death-bed, and few indeed have they been where I could have
believed that the man was in a condition physically (to say nothing
of anything else) clearly to see and grasp the message of the
Gospel. There is no limit to the mercy. I know that God's mercy is
boundless. I know that 'whilst there is life there is hope.' I know
that a man, going--swept down that great Niagara--if, before his
little skiff tilts over into the awful rapids, he can make one great
bound with all his strength, and reach the solid ground--I know he
may be saved. It is an awful risk to run. A moment's miscalculation,
and skiff and voyager alike are whelming in the green chaos below,
and come up mangled into nothing, far away down yonder upon the
white turbulent foam. '_One_ was saved upon the Cross,' as the
old divines used to tell us, 'that none might despair; and only one,
that none might presume.' _'Now_ is the accepted time, and
_now_ is the day of salvation!'