“Today You Will Be with Me.”
A Journey from Condemnation to Paradise in the Final Moments of a Crucified Soul
The Road to Golgotha – Three Men, One Hill
The execution ground loomed just outside the city walls of Jerusalem, a barren rise called Golgotha, the “Place of the Skull” (Luke 23:33). Roman soldiers led three condemned men through the crowded streets, their wooden crossbeams strapped across bruised shoulders. The onlookers weren’t just curious, they were volatile. Some hurled insults. Others watched in stunned silence, their hearts pierced by what seemed to be unfolding before them.
Among the condemned was Jesus of Nazareth, beaten, bloodied, and nearly unrecognizable after Roman scourging (Matthew 27:26; John 19:1–3). He stumbled under the weight of the cross, until a man from Cyrene, Simon, pressed into service, was made to carry it behind Him (Luke 23:26). Yet Jesus’ focus wasn’t on His own suffering. As He passed the women mourning Him, He turned and said, “Daughters of Jerusalem, do not weep for me; weep for yourselves and for your children” (Luke 23:28). Even on the way to death, He was warning of a coming judgment, likely referring to the destruction of Jerusalem in 70 AD, a view held by many scholars.
Beside Him were two criminals (Greek: kakourgoi), both under Roman sentence of death. While Scripture does not provide their names, it firmly places them as co-executed alongside Jesus (Mark 15:27). These men were more than petty thieves; the term kakourgos was used for violent offenders, often insurrectionists or men guilty of capital crimes. It is possible, though not certain, that they were involved with the same kind of political rebellion as Barabbas, the prisoner released in Jesus’ place (Mark 15:7). If so, their execution was not only punishment, but a warning: this is what happens to those who defy Rome.
The procession climbed the short distance to Golgotha, a rocky outcrop just outside the northern gate. According to Roman practice, executions were performed in public, along well-traveled roads, as a tool of fear and control. Archaeological and historical records confirm crucifixion was as humiliating as it was excruciating. Victims were nailed to the cross through wrists and feet, left exposed to the elements, insects, and the mocking gaze of passersby. Death came slowly, sometimes over days, by asphyxiation, dehydration, and trauma.
Here, amidst the jeers of soldiers and citizens, the three men were lifted up. The soldiers divided Jesus’ garments by casting lots, fulfilling the words of Psalm 22:18. A sign above His head read, “This is the King of the Jews” (Luke 23:38)—an official Roman charge meant to mock, not honor.
The scene was deeply political, deeply spiritual, and deeply human. Each of these men carried the weight of judgment, one unjustly, two justly. Yet even in this moment of shared suffering, the responses to death would diverge dramatically.
The contrast was not in their condition but in their hearts. One was silent, for now. Another joined the chorus of scorn. And Jesus, beaten and crucified, responded not with curses but with a prayer: “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do” (Luke 23:34).
In this place of skulls and sorrow, three crosses stood, but only one held the power to change the meaning of guilt, justice, and paradise forever. What began as an execution would become a defining act of divine mercy. And the presence of those two unnamed criminals would become part of the most unexpected redemption in Scripture.
This was not just the end of life for three men, it was the threshold of something eternal.
Mockery and Hard Hearts
At Golgotha, the hill had grown loud. The darkness of crucifixion wasn’t only in the gathering clouds, it was in the cruelty of voices that filled the air.
As Jesus hung nailed between two criminals, the mockery intensified. Soldiers, religious leaders, and common people took turns jeering at Him. “He saved others; let Him save Himself if He is the Christ of God, His Chosen One!” (Luke 23:35). It was more than ridicule, it was challenge, disbelief disguised as scorn. In their eyes, a real Messiah wouldn’t suffer this way.
The Roman soldiers joined in, offering Him sour wine and mocking, “If you are the King of the Jews, save yourself!” (Luke 23:36–37). This wasn’t kindness, it was ritual humiliation. The inscription above His head, “This is the King of the Jews,” meant to be read by all, was Rome’s way of making the crucified man a warning and a joke (Luke 23:38). Kings didn’t die like this. Kings didn’t bleed onto Roman timber, stripped of power and dignity.
But perhaps the most jarring voice of mockery came not from the crowd, but from beside Him.
One of the criminals being crucified with Jesus turned his attention to Him, not with shared pain, but with sneering contempt. “Are you not the Christ? Save yourself and us!” (Luke 23:39). In that moment, we hear the bitterness of a man dying without peace; angry, defensive, and demanding. He saw no innocence in Jesus, no kingdom, no hope. Just another man condemned.
This is not simply mockery for entertainment. It is spiritual resistance.
The criminal’s words echo the temptations Jesus faced in the wilderness: “If you are the Son of God…” (Luke 4:3, 9). That phrase—“if you are”—drips with challenge, pushing Jesus to prove Himself through escape or spectacle. But Jesus remained silent. Just as He had refused Satan’s provocations, He would not answer with miracles now. His mission was not to come down from the cross, but to complete the work of salvation on it.
The mocking criminal’s heart had hardened, even in suffering. Faced with death, he clung to pride, not repentance. Scripture does not record him expressing regret, asking forgiveness, or recognizing who was beside him. His only plea was a sarcastic demand for rescue.
This is a sobering image of spiritual blindness. Physical agony did not awaken his soul—only sharpened his resentment. The proximity to Christ offered no guarantee of faith.
Culturally, this moment reflects a broader rejection. Many first-century Jews expected a conquering Messiah, one who would overthrow Rome, not be executed by it. A crucified Christ was, in Paul’s later words, “a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles” (1 Corinthians 1:23). For the criminal, this crucified man did not match the image of power he may have hoped for. And so he scorned Him.
His words, echoing the crowd’s, reveal a profound misjudgment; not only of Jesus’ identity, but of his own need. The tragedy isn’t just in his pain, it’s in his blindness to the only hope extended to him.
He chose not to see.
He demanded deliverance, but not forgiveness.
He asked to be saved from death, but not through it.
This is the human heart under judgment, unmoved, even as it stands inches from the very source of grace.
In that dying voice of mockery, we hear the echo of a world that still asks, “If You are the Christ…”, but refuses to bow.
And yet, grace remained near. Just a breath away, another cross would soon speak a very different response.
A Confession at the Crossroads
While the crowd’s scorn rose and the darkness began to deepen across the hill, a second voice pierced the noise, not in anger, but in reverence. From the cross to Jesus’ other side, the second criminal broke his silence. But unlike the first, his words carried weight not of sarcasm, but of conviction.
“Do you not fear God,” he rebuked the other man, “since you are under the same sentence of condemnation?” (Luke 23:40, ESV). In that moment, something profound was taking place. Surrounded by shame and death, this condemned man acknowledged what everyone else had denied: that reverence for God still mattered, even in the final moments of life.
This was not a casual remark, it was a confession. He continued: “And we indeed justly, for we are receiving the due reward of our deeds; but this man has done nothing wrong.” (Luke 23:41). With those words, the man laid bare two essential truths: his own guilt and Jesus’ innocence.
There was no self-defense, no shifting of blame, no plea for fairness. He accepted responsibility without excuse. In a Roman world where crucifixion was meted out with brutal efficiency, and in a Jewish culture steeped in notions of justice and covenant law, such an admission held immense significance. According to Mosaic law, confession was vital for atonement (Leviticus 5:5; Proverbs 28:13). But here, under a Roman execution, this man sought no formal priest, he spoke straight to the only one who could forgive.
His insight was sharp: “This man has done nothing wrong.” Jesus’ innocence had been repeatedly affirmed during His trial. by Pilate (Luke 23:4, 14), by Herod (Luke 23:15), and even by Pilate again just before the crucifixion (Luke 23:22). Now, even a dying criminal bore witness to that same truth. This was not a man dying for his own crimes—He was dying for something greater.
Then, the thief did something remarkable. He turned to Jesus and said, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.” (Luke 23:42). No more mocking, no grand demands for escape. Simply: remember me. These words echo the language of covenant faithfulness in the Hebrew Scriptures, where to “remember” is not just to recall, but to act in mercy (Genesis 8:1; Exodus 2:24).
Though he wore the signs of death, the thief spoke of a kingdom, something no eye could see on that hill. He recognized that Jesus was, in fact, a king, and that His reign would not end with crucifixion. This was not logical deduction, it was faith. Faith that saw past blood and nails to the promise of something eternal.
Jesus answered him, “Truly, I say to you, today you will be with me in paradise.” (Luke 23:43). It was the only personal response Jesus gave to anyone from the cross recorded in this form. The word paradise (Greek: paradeisos) was commonly used to describe a garden of peace and rest, likely drawn from the image of Eden and later associated in Jewish thought with the righteous dwelling with God after death.
The phrase “today” is striking. Jesus did not promise eventual glory, nor a delayed reward after judgment. He promised immediate presence: with Me. The heart of the reward was not just paradise, it was fellowship with the Savior.
Scholars differ on the precise nature of what Jesus meant by paradise. Some hold it refers to an intermediate state before final resurrection (a view supported by passages like Luke 16:22), while others interpret it as a direct promise of heavenly communion. But all agree on the certainty of the promise and its relational depth: Jesus welcomed a criminal into eternal peace, on the basis of faith alone.
This moment at the cross became the clearest portrait in all of Scripture of salvation by grace. The man had no time for good works, no ritual cleansing, no opportunity to prove a changed life. He simply believed, and he was received.
As Martin Luther once wrote, “How wondrous is this thief! He steals heaven, even as he dies.”
And so, in the waning hours of the most brutal execution known to man, a condemned soul crossed from judgment to mercy, not by avoiding death, but by embracing the One dying beside him.
This was the turning point, not only for the thief, but for the world: that even on the cross, the door of grace remained open.
Paradise in the Shadow of a Cross
As the sixth hour struck, the sky darkened unnaturally over Jerusalem. For three hours, from noon until 3 p.m., daylight faded while the Son of God hung suspended between heaven and earth (Luke 23:44–45). It was not merely a celestial phenomenon, it was a sign. The Gospels record no protests from the second criminal after his plea. No further words. Only silence. But into that silence had been spoken a promise: “Today you will be with Me in paradise” (Luke 23:43).
The weight of that assurance stands in sharp contrast to the scene unraveling around them. Jesus’ body, torn and bloodied, was racked with pain. The religious leaders still mocked Him (Matthew 27:41–43). Soldiers continued to cast lots for His clothing (John 19:23–24). From every outward appearance, nothing had changed. Yet unseen, everything had.
By entrusting himself to Jesus, the repentant criminal was not removed from the cross, he was removed from condemnation. That distinction is crucial. In his final hours, he suffered no less physically, but spiritually, his condition had been transformed. He was no longer an outcast dying in disgrace, he was a welcomed son, sealed with the promise of being with the King.
This moment stands as a definitive statement on divine mercy. The man had no merits to plead. He had not served in temple courts. He had no history of good deeds. And yet, he received the same reward Jesus promised His disciples: presence with Him in the kingdom. This radical equality in grace scandalized many then, and still challenges hearts today.
What Jesus offered him—paradise—was not an abstraction. The word (paradeisos) comes from a Persian loan term meaning “walled garden,” used in the Septuagint to describe Eden (Genesis 2:8 LXX). In later Jewish thought, it came to signify the resting place of the righteous dead, often synonymous with “Abraham’s bosom” (Luke 16:22). Whether referring to a temporary place of rest before resurrection or the immediate presence of God (a debated point among scholars), Jesus’ use of the word signaled restored fellowship; intimate, eternal, and immediate.
The placement of this moment matters. It unfolds not after the resurrection, not in a synagogue, not at Pentecost, but on the cross, as Jesus Himself is dying. In the climactic final moments of His earthly ministry, Jesus offers one final act of redemption, not through healing or preaching, but through presence and promise.
Shortly after, Jesus cried out, “Father, into Your hands I commit My spirit” (Luke 23:46), and breathed His last. The temple curtain, separating the Holy of Holies from the people, was torn from top to bottom (Luke 23:45; Mark 15:38). The way to God was now open.
The criminal’s body would still be broken by crucifixion. Roman custom dictated that legs be broken to hasten death before sundown, in accordance with Jewish burial law before the Sabbath (John 19:31–32). But spiritually, his story had already been rewritten. The verdict that hung over his life—guilty—had been replaced with grace.
And what of his companion on the other side? Scripture records no change of heart. No confession. No response. Just silence. Two men, equally close to Jesus, ended their lives worlds apart, not because of what they endured, but because of what they chose to believe.
The scene at Golgotha reveals not only the horror of human sin, but the beauty of divine justice and mercy colliding. One man mocked and died condemned. Another confessed and was promised paradise. Both saw Jesus die, but only one saw Him as a King.
In that moment of raw brutality, the kingdom of God broke through, offering eternal life, not to the deserving, but to the believing.
The cross did not remove suffering. It redeemed it.
In the shadow of that cross, paradise began, for the most unlikely of men.
The cross was never meant to be the end of the story. Yet for the two men crucified beside Jesus, it was the final place of reckoning. One man hardened his heart, mocking the only One who could save him. The other, guilty, dying, and fully aware of his condition, turned in faith toward the Messiah. And in that moment of surrender, Jesus turned to him with a promise that shattered the finality of death: “Today you will be with Me in paradise” (Luke 23:43).
That exchange didn’t alter the brutal reality of the scene. The hill outside Jerusalem remained soaked in blood. The bodies of all three would soon hang limp. Yet the unseen shift was seismic. The very nature of judgment, guilt, and paradise had been redefined, not through ritual, status, or merit, but by the presence of a suffering Savior and the faith of a repentant heart.
This is more than a moving anecdote, it is a theological cornerstone. In a single moment, Jesus demonstrated what He had taught throughout His ministry: that “the Son of Man came to seek and to save the lost” (Luke 19:10). The repentant criminal had no chance to prove himself. His transformation happened not over years, but in a dying breath. And yet, the promise he received was full and final.
Culturally, it was a scandal. A condemned man, likely a rebel or violent offender, was welcomed into God’s eternal kingdom. Religiously, it was a paradigm shift. No temple offering. No priestly intercession. Just raw faith in the crucified Christ.
For generations, interpreters across traditions have pointed to this scene as proof of salvation by grace through faith. As the Apostle Paul later wrote, “It is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this not from yourselves, it is the gift of God” (Ephesians 2:8). The thief on the cross did not contribute righteousness, he simply recognized the Righteous One beside him.
And so the question lingers: how do two people experience the same Savior, the same cross, the same suffering, and walk away with such different fates? The answer lies not in their deeds, but in their response.
One saw weakness and scoffed. The other saw a King and believed.
This story forces reflection. It strips away illusion. Death comes for all, but what we believe in the face of that final hour reveals everything about where we stand.
The cross still stands today, not as an execution device, but as a declaration. Its shadow stretches across history, offering both confrontation and invitation.
Will we, like the repentant thief, acknowledge our guilt and call on Christ in faith?
Or will we, like the other, turn away, demanding rescue without repentance?
The door to paradise swings open not for the perfect, but for those who look upon the crucified King and say, “Remember me.”
And perhaps that’s the most profound mystery of all:
That even on the edge of death, the hope of eternity still waits to be chosen.
A Cry for Mercy, A Hope for Paradise
If your heart has been stirred by the truth of the cross; the mercy extended to a dying man, the grace that knows no limit then let this prayer be your response. You’re invited not into religion or ritual, but into a relationship with the One who said, “Today you will be with Me.”
Let this be your prayer:
Father God,
I come to You today, as I am flawed, broken, guilty, and in need of Your mercy.
Like the thief on the cross, I have no excuses to offer, no good works to defend myself.
But I believe that Jesus is who He said He is; Your Son, the innocent Lamb, who died in my place.
Lord Jesus,
Remember me.
Not because I’ve earned it, but because You are full of grace.
Forgive my sins. Wash me clean.
I believe You died for me. I believe You rose again.
And I trust in Your promise that even now, I can be with You in paradise.
Holy Spirit,
Fill my heart with the assurance of salvation.
Lead me to walk in newness of life,
not out of obligation, but out of love for the One who saved me.
Thank You, Lord,
for a salvation that comes not by works, but by grace through faith.
Thank You for the cross.
Thank You for the open door of eternity.
Today, I receive the gift You offer. Today, I choose You.
In Jesus’ name,
Amen.
If you prayed that sincerely, know this: the same Savior who welcomed the thief still welcomes you.
Grace has no timeline. Paradise is still promised. And Jesus still says, “With Me.”
Blessing
May the chains of yesterday fall away,
may you walk in the freedom of God’s forgiveness,
and may His mercy be the song of your soul.
