May 2025
Luke 23:26-43
I am called Dismas. At the moment, I am in great pain. Excuse me while I scream. AAhhhgh!
The pain is excruciating, the worst I have ever experienced. You should know this pain is unto death. No matter. Death’s arrival will be a relief, a welcome, a blessing. But then, as thoughts of what might await beyond this earthly veil appear to my soul’s eye, I turn away. I am fearful of what is yet to come.
Speaking of blessings, never have I known the blessing of a second name nor have I known the love of another. My father is a tablula rasa, a sanahu in the wind. Even Myletta, my mother-the-zenut knows not who my father was. That she is a harlot is troublesome enough. Sadly, she also rendered her soul to shikar, which in the words of Solomon, is the mocker that deceives the fool. Ima-zenut-shikar ... quite the combination, that: mother-harlot-winebibber.
Truth be told, I am enamored of strong drink myself. Do not be deterred by my hypocrisy. As I hang on the cusp of death, I permit myself this small latitude.
My dear shikar-addled ima tended me until I was weaned, then rendered me unto the mean streets of Jerusalem’s Tyropoean Valley where feral orphans, yatoms, abide in squalor. The older orphans welcomed me as one of their own and soon taught me which inns cast out the choicest morsels of food, which merchants in the agora discarded a better quality rags for clothing, which cubbys were best for sleeping. Thus, I learned to survive.
Once – or was it twice, I forget – I received a kindness from a woman of mercy. A lovely blessing, that was. Although meager and short-lived, it sustained me for that day. As for Jewish men, I have found they seldom give alms. Romans? Expect nothing for that is what you will receive. As for the high priests, their gifts are snarling rebukes that flow like the swill on Hinnom’s floor. I wonder, have these priests ever read Moses’ law that curses those who withhold justice from the yatom, the almanah, the goy? Hah. There, you see, is Jerusalem’s truth about caring for the fatherless, the widows, the travelers from foreign lands. Give thanks to the hypocrite-priests, one and all, for they have rendered God’s law of justice as mute.
Nearby, I see Gestas. He, too, is in the thrall of pain. Blood drips from his hands and his feet. A gash, a gift from the haft of a Roman pugio, emblazons his forehead; heavy daggers, you see, are useful for more than stabbing. Anguish etches his face. His eyes scream. His fingers clench and claw. Seeing him is like peering into a mirror. His pain is my own.
I must tell you this about Gestas and myself. Wherever crowds gather, you see, he and I were given to join their midst, to stroll about with an eye for a gold charm here, a silver bauble there. Just last week, we ambled among a throng gathered to herald Jesus’ arrival as he and his disciples entered Jerusalem via the Golden Gate. Ha! A delightful irony, wouldn’t you know, for that grand entryway is also known as the Messiah’s Gate! Shouts of Hosanna! Save us! rang in our ears as the throng’s wild waving of palm fronds raised small khamsins of dust. All to our advantage, of course; distraction favors the sneakthief.
Gathered about, Jewish men and women, rich and poor, young and old, hale and broken, shouted out, See the h’mar he rides! See how he comes astride the donkey! Zechariah’s word is fulfilled this very day! The anointed one, he comes, he comes! Hosanna! He comes to save us! Hosanna! He shall free us of Roman rule! Hosanna!
Is he the Messiah, this Jesus? I must say it mattered not to me, not then, for I had no need for a messiah. My life suited me well, I have fared comfortably by contriving ways to parry the jabs of Rome’s oppression. At times, you might say I even prospered. Still, I am given to wonder. For the past two, three years, I, like so many Israelites, have heard of this man’s miracles. One in particular, the healing of the cripple who lifelong begged for alms at the Sheep Gate Pool, stands out because I witnessed it. Some said an angel had stirred the waters and healed the man; others said no, it was Jesus. For myself, I have no doubt. It was no angel.
Although Gestas and I have been compatriots in thievery for a score of years, we are not friends. Gestas is simply a man I ply my trade with. As the saying goes, two are better than one. Well, hardly so in this case, for had I not been with Gestas, I would have been spared this predicament. You see, we had just savaged a man on the outskirts of Sychar, not far from Samaria when a patrol of Roman soldiers happened upon us. The evidence of our crime lay at our feet, whining and bleeding; I held his purse in my hands. We were sorely outnumbered making escape entirely futile. And that, of course, explains our circumstance – arms outstretched on a crossbar of wood.
As for the man who hangs between Gestas and I – this Jesus, whom I have already mentioned – I know little of what to say. This one thing I do know: his pain is no less than our own.
Perhaps you have heard talk about this man, for it abounds throughout the city. Necromancer, healer? Demon-host, who is to know? Prophet? Elijah? Who is to say? Undeniably, there is something different about him. I am not the only one to take note of this.
To return to the question at hand: Is this Jesus the Messiah? In a week’s time, I have taken a different view. The answer: yes. Well, very probably at least. I find the evidence convincing.
Two days ago, I heard some women jabber about how on the road to Jerusalem, Jesus had healed ten, wonder of wonders, ten men of leprosy. Tales of healing of the blind, the deaf, the crippled and maimed, of deliverance from evil spirits swirl like bees at the hive, some plausible, others so fanciful that even the basest of scoffers would sneer.
May I share a recollection? At last year’s Passover, I was prowling through the crowded temple courts, eyes watchful for a careless money-changer here, a neglected purse there, when I chanced upon a crowd attending to Jesus. As he spoke of the Kingdom of God, I overheard one man say to another, “How is it, Na’tan, that this Galilean with no learning speaks with such knowledge?”
Would that he had the ears of a fennec-fox, Jesus attended to those very words. With a wave and glad smile that included the skeptical man, he replied, ‘If anyone chooses to abide by the will of God, he will be given to know whether my teaching is my own or if it comes from the one who sent me. Ask yourself then, when I speak, is it to gain honor for myself? Or do I speak for the honor of God?”
With a clap of his hands and a shout, he said, “Is not the tree known by the fruit it bears?”
The man gave snuff and snort but offered no reply. Jesus continued, “Truly, many of you know me. You know where I am from. But … do you know the one who sent me?”
His question set me to thinking. I had given ear to the many rumors and reports about this Jesus as they were bandied about the city. But recall, as I said, there was something … unusual about him, not the least were the witnesses who attested that he had broken no law, committed no sin. Nay, he had offended none but the imperious ruling priesthood and, of course, the self-appointed guardians of the Law, the nit-picking Pharisees. But then, everything offends them.
I should like to say I now stand convicted that Jesus is the Messiah. Alas, I cannot for I am unable to stand. Ha! Forgive my small humor. Less than a year ago, I suspected he was yet another wolf in sheep’s clothes, a charlatan-prophet, come with a new scheme to separate sheckles from the flock. I no longer doubt. Who else but a Messiah would be here, hanging on a cross?
The sin for which he is being punished? None but speaking words of truth to ears of power deafened by pride and greed.
Earlier this day as Gestas and I staggered our way to Gulgalta, Jesus was already here. When I saw his arms spiked to his patibula, his feet pierced by a single nail to the treetrunk stipes, I did not doubt my fate. A vagrant thought came to me: why a single nail for the feet? Do the Romans have such shortage of fourteen-inch nails that they need to economize?
The titulus over Jesus head declared for all to see –
IESVS NAZARENVS REX IVDAEORVM
Ιησους ό Ναζωραϊος ό Βασιλεύς των Ιουδίων
Jesus Nazarene King of the Jews.
Both I and my fellow thief were granted a more meager titulus: CLEPTA. Phaugh! How much effort would it have taken to scribble my name or even ganabtas, thief, in my own language. It is such an irony that I, who previously thought myself to be something am now reduced to a cipher.
My vision is fading. Sweat stings my eyes, clouds my sight. Blood, too? I do not know. Was I hit on the head? Having been stripped naked and flogged until my flesh was flayed from my body, dragging my patibulas out through the Judgment Gate to this miserable hillock of execution, my ordeal of anguish scatters my mind like dandelion blowballs in the breeze.
A knot of common folk, the ha’aretz, mill about as they witness today’s horror. Such are the distractions for the masses. Like bile from sour stomachs, their catcalls against the Messiah who failed to deliver them streams around and about: Oh ho, King of Israel, pardon yourself! Come down from the cross, O Mighty One. Here, now, come, join your lowly subjects! What a pathetic Messiah you are! Save yourself, O king of the air! Tell us now, how should we believe in a deliverer who cannot deliver himself?
At the crowds’ edge, a clot of Sadducees wear smiles twisted by mockery. Close by stand the chief priests, Annas and Caiaphas, their faces greased with vainglory. Caiaphas, the toady son-in-law shouts, “You say you are the Son of God. Show us now your trust in God. Let us see Him deliver you from death!” The snide look of Annas’ face would wither ripe fruit.
At the base of Jesus’ cross, a trio of Roman soldiers roll dice: who will win the Messiah’s cloak?
His words are faint, yet I hear them clearly. His intent escapes me: “Father,” he croaks, “forgive them. They do not understand what they are doing.”
Another voice resounds, one I know too well. Gestas. His throat chokes with rage. “Jesus! You say you the Messiah? Save yourself! While you’re at it, save me!”
Anger bubbles in my gut, overrides my agony. “Gestas, you raca! Do you not fear God? You and I, we are robbers, caught in the act! Our punishment is just! But this man, this Jesus, who can say what wrong he has done!”
I gasp for breath. One might think I was done, but I am not. I find breath and as I draw it in, it is like a knife in my chest. “Jesus! Jesus!” I cry, “When you come into your Kingdom – remember me!”
How is it this man can still reflect kindness and mercy from his eyes? Impossible. And yet he does. “Dismas,” he says, “I tell you truly, this day you will be with me in paradise.”
Comforting thought, that … small, but a comfort. Then it strikes me … Jesus’s words were a promise.
Midday has come and gone. Clouds mask the sun to no avail for heat swelters the city like an oven. Many onlookers, weary of the ordeal, wander back into the city. Food and drink are more compelling than watching three men die slow deaths. A few priests, self-certain in their regalia, posture like courting birds and watch with slitted eyes. Their faces are masks of stone.
A clutch of women, six, seven, hover nearby. Their faces are etched with grief. Their eyes are empty of tears.
Jesus’ friends? Followers? One of them, his mother? Where are the men who have followed him these many years? Ah. There is one. Only one. Like the women, he is a portrait of sorrow .
I look to Jesus and see a portrait of misery. He looks to be failing more quickly than I, but then the pride of Rome, the mindless soldiers who know nothing but brutality gave him a more thorough treatment with the flagrum, that terrible whip that rends flesh from bone. I see Gestas’ head droop. He no longer strives to speak, resigned to his fate. I shall follow soon enough. Jesus stirs. He whimpers for water. A youth hears his plea, stabs a sponge with the stalk of a plant, douses it in posca and thrusts it for Jesus to suckle.
The afternoon wears on. Clouds darken the sky. Jesus speaks, his voice the croak of a hoopoe bird: “Mother … your son, there. John, your mother. There. Care for her.”
The man embraces the woman who stands next to him. Her wail pierces the air. She has no tears to shed.
Time drags with the speed of an aged ox plowing hard-baked ground. I wait. What else can I do. I laugh. O death, where is your sting? Gestas spits. Bloody saliva decorates his chin.
Jesus’ voice is an Aramaic rasp. “Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani!”
A hard-eyed watcher laughs, “Hear that? He calls for Elijah.”
“Hah,” says another. “Let us be keen of eye. Perhaps we shall see him arrive on his chariot.”
Another says, “Let him be. Our Messiah is not long for this world. Just let him die.”
None of them recognize the words of David’s psalm. I do. My God, my God, why have you forsaken me!
I can relate.
It was not a question.
My pain has numbed somewhat. Small mercy. I am grateful.
A few soldiers hold watch on the knoll, impatient for us to die. The tavern calls, yayin and shakar beckon.
How is it that the sky darkens even more although the sun has not set? Dusk steals my sight all the more but not so much that I do not see Jesus raise his head.
Desolation flitters around him like dying moths. I cannot know from where he draws the energy to move. His lungs creak like old leather. He lifts his head. His cry rips the air like a carpenter’s saw. “It. Is. Finished.”
A piggish soldier named Balbus Longinus picks up a short spear, a hasta, and hurries to Jesus’ cross. Balbus’ cry is clogged with phlegm and hate as he thrusts the hasta into Jesus’ chest. Blood and serum spew from the wound.
Tongues are stilled. Minds are stunned.
Jesus is dead.
I am not.
Come soon, O Death. Come soon.
Soldiers hoist Jesus’ cross from the socket in the ground. They let it fall.
The earth moves, suddenly and with a violence that terrifies the onlookers. Gulgalta’s rocks crack and grind. What is happening? My cross pitches to one side, then forward, then back. I squint and see Gestas’ cross totter and sway like storm-wrought cedar. The earth beneath is shudders once again, then settles. Darkness of night sweeps Jerusalem into its arms. How can this be? It is but three hours past midday? Screams peppered with terror mark the flight of the few remaining watchers as they flee for shelter behind city walls.
From the troop of soldiers, a centurion stands. I know him. Cassius, the Longe, the Spear, named for his nose rather than a weapon. Odd. Tears glisten on his cheek.
“Mockers!” he shouts. “Pudeo! Shame! What sin has this man committed! He was a righteous man! There was no fault in him! Do you doubt this man was the Son of God!”
How is it that horror and contempt can join to emblazon one’s face? I do not know yet that is what I see written across Annas’s face. Caiaphas chokes and gags as if he has bitten the tail from a pig.
Soldiers yank the nails from the cross and cut the ropes. Jesus’ arms fall limp. The soldiers cast his body aside like a sack of offal.
As if bound like a sheaf of wheat, the women remain. One of them steps to where the broken Jesus lies on broken ground. She stumbles and falls to her knees. Her friends follow, tentative with fear, emboldened by love.
A Pharisee steps from the few who remain. A second Pharisee attends his side. They meet with Cassius. They speak. Cassius nods.
The woman at Jesus’ side caresses his head and face. Her tenderness rends my heart. She kisses his face again and again. Her wails of grief are knives to my soul. The two Pharisees carry Jesus away. The women follow, leaving a trail of tears.
The last of the late-stayers dwindle away, heads down, arms held tight against their chests.
A single soldier – it has to be Balbus, of course – picks up a heavy mallet and stands before Gestas. He caresses the mallet with his hand, his smile a slash of cruelty. Balbus swings the mallet once, twice. Gestas’ cries singe the clouds with searing pain. His legs are broken.
Balbus – his grin belongs to Lamashtu, the most evil of goddesses – and again, he swings once, twice and breaks my legs. Agony ignites and courses throughout my body like a raging fire. My cries join with Gestas’. I am blinded by tears. I cannot breathe.
Gulgalta is silent. The air is still. Four soldiers remain, waiting for Gestas and I to die. They are impatient. Such deaths are not always quick. Mine may take another day, even two. In my mind, I call to Balbus, bring your spear, end my life! The fool gabbles and rolls dice with the other soldiers.
Gestas and I, we will hang here for as long as it takes, Rome’s message: take heed, Jews, Gentiles … this is what happens to thieves.
I no longer feel my arms and legs. Does Gestas yet live? I want to look but my eyes do not obey. I am constrained in a porridge of blood and waste and numbness. My breath stutters like the laughter of a dullard. My heart whinges and thumps and thuds like a broken tambour. I think of an old man falling down stairs.
Soon, now.
Soon.
I cannot stand. I gasp for air. Breath does not come. My heart mutters once, twice, then stops. My eyes close. I am immersed in a gratitude I do not understand.
Darkness enfolds me.
Yet there is light, a relentless fragment that grows and fills and suddenly, light is all there is.
Shall I not die?
Light blooms all around me like Spring blossoms on the almond trees … a fragrance, clear and clean fills the air … is that music I hear, song and laughter?
I open my eyes. There is but one word to describe what I see: glory.
I am absorbed into an ocean of peace.
Arms wide, Jesus is there. “Dismas,” he says. “You are welcome here. Come.”
His arms enfold me.
I weep tears of joy and they do not end.