Imagine that you walked into church tonight, and instead of a cross above the altar, you saw a hangman's noose. Or imagine you saw an electric chair bolted high on the chancel wall. What would you think? "Is this some kind of joke?"
And yet the cross of Jesus—an instrument of execution—is at the heart of our faith. The cross might seem like a strange place to look for renewal. Renewal implies a beginning. Calvary's cross signals an ending. Renewal implies hope, new possibilities, new ways of living. Yet if there is hope for renewal here, there is hope for renewal anywhere. If there is hope for renewal in a dying thief, there is hope for you and me. There is hope for you in this church tonight, no matter what you may have done or not done in your life. There is hope and forgiveness here. Tonight we pray the prayer of our brother, the thief: "Lord, remember me."
We're talking about the renewal of godly fear tonight, and first, let's consider when fear is appropriate. To fear God is not always bad. The dying thief on the cross first needed to feel fear of God. He knew then what he had spent his life avoiding. It doesn't matter that the world says something is right or wrong, good or bad. God alone matters. When we realize at a moment of decision that our choice will show either that we love God or that we love ourselves, that is good fear. It is godly fear. "I cannot do this, for God is present, and I will not sin against Him." That's good, godly fear.
Perhaps one of the reasons people make and break marriage vows so casually today is that there is no fear of God in them. Same goes for all of the sinful choices that are at our fingertips. Could it be that we have welcomed pop psychology into our lives, which tries to remove guilt without confessing it? Or proper fear is missing because, and how's this for irony, God does not allow the full weight of our sins to drop on us? Or maybe there's no healthy fear because, truth be told, we don't think about God all that much to begin with, until we need something, or someone to blame.
All of these reasons fell away for the thief in the moments of his execution, and they will fall away for us when we come face to face with our own death. But we cannot wait until then. For you and for your congregation, this Lent is a time for renewal of godly fear. Part of that renewal must include taking another look at the cross. But fear is not enough. The thief was filled with godly fear. But he needed more than fear, for in that fear he would soon die forever.
A pastor tells of a woman, the happy and efficient wife of a fellow pastor, who was experiencing her full share of life's sunshine and shade, but no real darkness filled her way. Then, without warning, her husband died of a heart attack, leaving her terribly alone and afraid—afraid of her own decisions, afraid of the present, afraid of the future. When the pastor visited her, he found her in a vicelike grip of fear, so much so that most of her time was spent in bed. She was so terrified she became bedridden.
When the pastor saw her a couple years later, he was amazed to find a poised, serene woman working as a receptionist in an insurance office. When the pastor asked her to explain her surprising recovery, the woman replied, "The work helped, of course, but I couldn't work at all until I faced my fear. I realized my fear was a selfish rebellion against God and what I thought was God's will. When I saw that, I began to pray that God would forgive my selfishness. And as I prayed, I became aware of God's hand reaching down to me, and the Holy Spirit moved me to reach up in faith until I clasped that hand. And then to my amazement, I found His hand clasping mine, and I knew that he really cared and that he would help me as long as I held his hand in faith."
That thief on the cross needed more than fear. And there on the cross, something clicked. He may have thought, I am guilty and I am dying. I know why I'm here. But why is Jesus here? Could God be here in my fear, my guilt, my death? Could God be here in order that my shame and guilt could somehow be transferred to Him? But how? The thief was helpless to act. He could not save himself. He could only do one thing. He could say, "Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom." Remember me! Not my sins and guilt. Remember me!
Are those also your words tonight? If so, then the promise comes to you, as it came to him, "I tell you the truth, today you will be with me in paradise." The load of sin is lifted. The guilt is gone, and with it, the fear is also gone. No matter who you are or what you have done, you can say, "I am guilty. I am not worthy to be called your child. But Jesus died for me. He gave me the promise of paradise." No matter who you are or what you've done, God says to you: "I know you. You are mine. Come and enter the place prepared for you from eternity." The thief on the cross is not the exception. The thief is the rule by which you and I die and live eternally—the rule of mercy by faith in Jesus Christ.
So, how will you spend the rest of your life? The thief spent whatever little time he had left, maybe four hours or so, living in a new kind of godly fear. It is godly reverence, the awe of living in the Lord's presence. The cross became an altar of praise. Jesus promised the kingdom to the thief, and the thief learned the awe of God. That's the other side of godly fear—to make the most of the rest of your life with holy urgency, and to do so knowing that God's kingdom is already breaking into this world.
That's the gift of paradise. Paradise is not something we claim only at the end of our lives. It claims us now. Paradise opens when we commune at the Lord's Table, when you are in awe that Jesus is there under the bread and the wine. Paradise opens when you see that God is there to be worshipped in the decisions you make, in the people you serve, in the work that you do, in the friends that you love, in the family where he has put you. Paradise opens when your Bible opens, and God's own words remind you of what's true; of who you are in Jesus and what you're here to do.
Godly fear—true awe of our great, loving, merciful God—enables us to say, "Lord, you remembered me. Help me to remember you." In Jesus' Name: Amen.
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