“Jesus, Lord, remember me when thou comest into thy kingdom.” — Luke 23:42
It was a dark hour in the history of the world. Look beneath the cross. The whole world seemed in arms against God and against His Christ. The Roman power was against Him, for Pilate had delivered Him up to death. The rulers of the Jewish Church had condemned Him in their council. The mixed multitude shared in the sin of their leaders, for they cried, “Crucify Him! Crucify Him!” Thus was fulfilled the ancient word: “The kings of the earth set themselves, and the rulers take counsel together, against the LORD, and against His Anointed.”
And now all around the cross there was profane mockery of the Crucified One. The soldiers derided Him. The chief priests and scribes reviled Him. The passers-by wagged their heads. Even one of the malefactors crucified beside Him railed upon Him with the unbelieving scoff, “If You are Christ, save Yourself and us.”
But shall none take the part of our King in His day of shame? Shall no one dare to speak a word on behalf of the world’s Redeemer? If it were to be any, might we not have looked for it from those who had known Him best? Yet Judas had betrayed Him. Peter had denied Him and was weeping in secret. John, faithful still, was occupied in the care of the Lord’s mother. The rest had forsaken Him and fled. If ever faith seemed banished from the earth, it was in that hour.
Yet from the least expected quarter a confession was heard. A strange confessor appeared — a thief, a criminal, suffering the just reward of his deeds. He rebuked his fellow malefactor, saying, “Do you not fear God, seeing you are in the same condemnation? We indeed justly, for we receive the due reward of our deeds; but this Man has done nothing wrong.” In the midst of universal reproach, he bore witness to the innocence of Christ.
Nor did he end there. He advanced another step. Turning toward the dying Savior, he breathed forth that marvelous Advent prayer — spoken in the hearing of an unbelieving throng, and a glorious answer to the scorn of that hour: “Jesus, remember me when You come in Your kingdom.”
For Christ’s kingly dignity had been scorned on every side. The crown of thorns, mock robe, feigned homage, superscription above His head and the soldiers’ taunt — “If You are the King of the Jews, save Yourself” — all told the same tale. Jesus a King? A King without a throne; a King without an army; a King without a follower?
Then arose the victorious faith of the malefactor. He looked away from that crowd of mockers. He looked away from the shame and suffering of the Redeemer. He looked through the dark shadows of that day — through the cross, through the grave — and his faith could discern, on the horizon, the dawn of a brighter day. Where others saw only defeat, he beheld a kingdom yet to be revealed, and a King who should come again in majesty and power.
Here was faith indeed — faith in spite of everything that could hinder it. It sprang up in one who had been an outcast and a rebel against God; yet it rose higher than the visible circumstances, and laid hold on unseen realities. While another malefactor desired only to be saved from present suffering, this man fixed his hope upon the great future, and upon the coming of the King.
The prayer was brief, yet immeasurably deep. Beneath these few words lay a full confession: “Lord, I see You dying upon the cross; yet I believe You to be far other than You seem. I believe death cannot rob You of Your power. I believe there is a day coming when You shall come to rule, to reign, to judge. And when it shall be — then remember me.”
Thus, in that one petition, there is the spirit of Advent itself. Advent bids us wait — not with cold uncertainty, but with sure expectation. It teaches us to look, not at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen; to confess Christ’s kingdom even when it appears hidden; to trust His glory even when it is veiled in suffering.
And Christ answered him. “Verily I say unto thee, today shalt thou be with me in paradise.” The thief asked but for remembrance; Christ promised him His presence. He sought a thought in the distant day of appearing; he received, that very day, the assurance of communion with the King. And in the background of the promise there lay, as the Everlasting Day draws near, all that the prayer itself desired — glory and honor when Christ comes in His kingdom.
Let the prayer of the penitent thief find an echo in our hearts. We too stand amid a world that often mocks Christ’s authority and despises His rule. Yet the King is coming. The kingdom is sure. And those who, in their need, turn to Him in faith shall not be forgotten.
The King who is coming is also the King who remembers.
George Everard was a 19th-century Anglican minister and devotional writer who served as vicar of St. Mark’s in Regent’s Park, London, from 1868 to 1884. He wrote widely read devotional addresses during the Victorian era. His works are now in the public domain. This is an edited version of his original.
