The case of the penitent thief furnishes a very fine illustration of Peter’s weighty sentence, “Repent and be converted.” It teaches us in a clear and forcible manner, the true meaning of repentance and conversion— two subjects so little understood—so sadly clouded by false teaching.
The human heart is ever prone to take divine things by the wrong end; and when false theology combines with this tendency of the heart, by presenting things in a one-sided manner, the moral effect upon the soul is something terrible. Hence it is that when men are called upon, in the gospel message to repent and turn to God, they think it needful to set about doing something or other, in the shape of reading, praying, and attending upon the ordinances and offices of religion, so called. Thus they become occupied with their doings instead of judging their state.
This is a fatal mistake—the result of the combined influence of self-righteousness and bad theology—these fruitful sources of darkness and misery to precious souls, and of serious damage to the truth of God.
It is perfectly marvelous to note the varied forms in which self-righteousness clothes itself. Indeed so varied are these forms that one would scarcely recognize it to be what it really is. Sometimes it looks like humility, and speaks largely of the evil and danger of being too presumptuous. Then again, it assumes the garb and adopts the language of what is called experimental religion, which, very often, is nothing more than intense self-occupation. At other times, it expresses itself in the thread-bare formularies of systematic divinity—that stumbling block of souls and the sepulcher of divine revelation.
What then is repentance? It is in one of its grand elements, the thorough judgment of self—of its history and its ways. It is the complete breaking up of the entire system of self-righteousness and the discovery of our complete wreck, ruin and bankruptcy. It is the sense of personal vileness, guilt and danger,—a sense produced by the mighty action of the word and Spirit of God upon the heart and conscience. It is a hearty sorrow for sin, and a loathing of it for its own sake.
True, there are other features and elements in genuine repentance. There is a change of mind as to self, and the world, and God. And further, there are various degrees in the depths and intensity of the exercise. But, for the present, we confine ourselves to that deeply important feature of repentance illustrated in the touching narrative of the penitent thief, which we may term, in one word, self-judgment. This must be insisted upon constantly. We greatly fear it is sadly lost sight of in much of our modern preaching and teaching. In our efforts to make the gospel simple and easy, we are in danger of forgetting that “God commandeth all men everywhere to repent.” The sinner must be made to feel that he is a sinner—a lost sinner—a guilty sinner—a hell-deserving sinner. He must be made to feel that sin is a terrible thing in the sight of God—so terrible that nothing short of the death of Christ could atone for it—so terrible, that all who die unpardoned must inevitably be damned—must spend a dreary, never ending eternity in the lake that burneth with fire and brimstone.
Is there, then, anything meritorious in repentance? Is there anything to build upon or to boast in? Has it aught to do with the ground of our salvation, our righteousness, or our acceptance with God? As well might we inquire if the consciousness of bankruptcy could form the basis of a man’s credit or future fortune. No; no, reader, repentance, in its deepest and most intensified form, has nothing to do with the ground of our pardon. How could the sense of guilt have aught to do with the ground of pardon? How could the feelings of a drowning man have aught to do with the life boat that saves him? Or the agonies of a man in a house on fire have aught to do with the fire-escape by which he descends from the burning pile?
Look at the case of the thief on the cross. Hearken to his words. “Dost thou not fear God, seeing thou art in the same condemnation? And we indeed, justly; for we receive the due reward of our deeds.” Here are the accents of a genuine repentance, “we indeed justly.” He felt and owned that he was justly condemned—that he was reaping only “the due reward of his deeds.” Was there anything meritorious in this? By no means. It was the judgment of himself—the condemnation of his ways—the sense of his guilt. And this was right. It was the sure precursor of conversion to God. It was the fruit of the Spirit’s work in his soul, and enabled him to appreciate God’s salvation. It was the hearty acknowledgment of his own just condemnation; and most surely this could, in no wise, contribute to his righteousness before God. It is utterly impossible that the sense of guilt could ever form the basis of righteousness.
Still, there must be repentance; and the deeper the better. It is well that the plow should do its work in breaking up the fallow ground, and making deep the furrows in which the incorruptible seed of the word may take root. We do not believe that any one had ever to complain that the plowshare entered too deeply into the soul. Nay, we feel assured that the more we are led down into the profound depths of our own moral ruin, the more fully we shall appreciate the righteousness of God which is by faith of Jesus Christ, unto all, and upon all them that believe.
But, be it well understood, repentance is not doing this or that. What did the thief do What could he do? He could not move hand or foot. And yet he was truly repentant. He is handed down, on the page of history, as “the penitent thief.” Yes, he was penitent; and his penitence expressed itself in the unmistakable accents of self-judgment. Thus it must ever be. There must be the judgment of sin, sooner or later; and the sooner the better; and the deeper the better.
And what then? What is the divine order? “Repent, and be converted.” “Repent, and turn to God.” Beauteous order! It is conviction and conversion. It is the discovery of self and its ruin, and the discovery of God and His remedy. It is condemning myself and justifying God. It is finding out the emptiness of self, and finding out the fullness of Christ. It is learning the force and application of those few words, “Thou hast destroyed thyself; but in me is thy help.”
And see how all this comes out in the brief but comprehensive record of the thief. No sooner does he give expression to the sense of his own just condemnation, than he turns to that Blessed One who was hanging beside him, and bears the sweet testimony, “This man hath done nothing amiss.” Here he gives a flat contradiction to the whole world. He joins issue with the chief priests, elders and scribes who had delivered up the Holy One as a malefactor. They had declared, “If he were not a malefactor, we would not have delivered him up unto thee.” But the dying thief declares “ This man hath done nothing amiss.” Thus he stands forth in clear and decided testimony to the spotless humanity of the Lord Jesus Christ—that grand truth which lies at the very base of, “The great mystery of godliness.” He turns from a guilty self to a spotless Christ; and he tells the world that it had made a. terrible mistake in crucifying the Lord of glory.
And was not this a good work? Yes, truly, the very best work that anyone could do. To bear a full, clear, bold testimony to Christ, is the most acceptable and fragrant service that any mortal can render to God. Millions bestowed in charity—continents traversed in the interests of philanthropy—a lifetime spent in the dreary exercises of mechanical religiousness—all these things put together are as the small dust of the balance when compared with one word of heartfelt, genuine, Spirit-taught testimony to God’s beloved Son. The poor thief could do nothing and give nothing; but oh! he was permitted to enjoy the richest and rarest privilege that could possibly fall to the lot of any mortal, even the privilege of bearing witness to Christ, when the whole world had cast Him out—when one of His own disciples had denied Him—another had sold Him—and all had forsaken Him. This, indeed, was service, this was work—a service and a work which shall live in the records and the memory of heaven when the proudest monuments of human genius and benevolence shall have crumbled and sunk in eternal oblivion.
But we have some further lessons to learn from the lips of the dying malefactor. Not only does he bear a bright and blessed testimony to the spotless humanity of Christ; but he also owns Him as Lord and King, and this, too, at a moment, and amid a scene when, to nature’s view, there was not a single trace of lordship or royalty. “He said unto Jesus, Lord, remember me when thou comest into thy kingdom.”
Reader, think of this! Think of one who had, as it were, a moment before, been railing on the dying Savior, now owning Him as Lord and King! Truly this was divine work. Surely this was real conversion— a true turning to God. “ Lord, remember me.” Oh! how unspeakably precious is this golden chain with its three links! How lovely to see a poor worthless, guilty, hell-deserving “me” linked on to the divine Savior, by that one word, “remember!”
This was life eternal. A Savior and a sinner linked together, is everlasting salvation. Nothing can be simpler. People may talk of works, of feelings, of experiences; but here we have the matter presented in its divine simplicity, and in its divine order. We have first the fruit of a genuine repentance, in the words, “we indeed justly;” and then the sweet result of spiritual conversion in the one simple but powerful utterance “Lord, remember me.” “Repent and be converted, that your sins may be blotted out.” “Repent and turn to God.”
What marvelous depth and power in those words! To repent is to see the utter ruin of self. To turn to God, is life and peace, and everlasting salvation. We discover self and we loathe and abhor it. We discover God and turn to Him with the whole heart, and find in Him all we want for time and for eternity. It is all divinely simple and unspeakably blessed. Repentance and conversion are inseparably linked together. They are distinct yet intimately connected. They must neither be separated nor confounded.
And, now, let us note the divine response to the appeal of the penitent thief. He had said, “Lord, remember me when thou comest into thy kingdom.” What is the answer? “Today shalt thou be with me in Paradise.” It is as though the blessed Savior had said to him, “You need not wait for the glory of the kingdom; this very day thou shalt taste the grace of the house—the love of my Father’s home above; I shall have you with me in that bright paradise, to enjoy full communion with me long before the glories of the kingdom shall be unfolded.” Most blessed Savior! Such was Thy matchless grace!
And not one reproving word! Not a single reference to the past! Not even a glance at the recent heartless wickedness! Ah! no; there is never aught of this in the divine dealing with a penitent soul. The thief had said—said from the depths of a broken and contrite heart, “we indeed justly.” This was enough. True, it was needful; but it was enough. “A broken and a contrite heart, O God, thou wilt not despise.” No; and not only will He not despise it, but He will pour into it the rich and precious consolation of His grace and pardoning love. It is the joy of God to pardon a penitent sinner; and none but a penitent sinner can truly enjoy the pardon of God.
“Today shalt thou be with me in paradise. Here the glories of a present, personal, and perfect salvation pour themselves in divine luster, upon the gaze of the astonished thief.
And, be it noted, that there is not one syllable about doing, or giving, or feeling, or aught else that might turn the eye in upon self. The eye had been turned in, and rightly so; and it had seen nothing but a deep, dark abyss of guilt and ruin. This was enough. The eye must henceforth and for evermore be turned outward and upward; it must be fixed on the precious Savior who was bringing him to paradise, and on that bright paradise to which was bringing him.
No doubt the thief could never forget what a sinner he had been—never forget his gat and wickedness—never could he, never shall he; yea, throughout the countless ages of eternity, he and all the redeemed shall remember the past. How could it be otherwise? Shall we lose the power of memory in the future? Surely not. But every remembrance of the past shall only tend to swell the note of praise which the heart shall give forth as we think of the grace that shines in those most precious words, “Their sins and their iniquities I will remember no more.” Such is the style of divine forgiveness! God will never again refer to those sins which His own loving hand has canceled by the blood of the cross. Never. No, never. He has cast them behind His back forever. They have sunk as lead into the deep, unfathomable waters of His eternal forgetfulness. All praise to His glorious Name!
But we must now fix the eye, for a brief moment, upon the third cross. On it we behold—what? A guilty sinner? Not merely that. The penitent thief was that. They were in the same condemnation. No one need go to hell simply because he is a sinner, inasmuch as Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners “even the chief.” There is not a sinner, this day, outside the precincts of hell, who is not within the reach of God’s salvation if he only feel his need of it. No one need be lost, merely because he is a ruined, guilty, hell-deserving sinner.
But what do we behold on that third cross? We behold an unbelieving sinner. This is the solemn point. We may, without any hesitation, declare that had the occupant of that cross, like his penitent companion, cast himself upon the grace of the dying Savior, he would, most assuredly, have met with the same response. There was grace in the heart of Jesus to meet the one as well as the other. But he did not want it, would not have it. He remained impenitent and unbelieving until the dark shadows of death gathered round him, and the darker horrors of hell burst upon his guilty soul. He perished within arm’s length of the Savior.
Tremendous thought! what finite mind can take it in? Who can fully estimate the contrast between those two men? True, the contrast was in one point; but that one point involved consequences of eternal moment. What was it! It was this—the reception or rejection of the Son of God—believing or not believing on that blessed One who was hanging between them—as near to the one as He was to the other. There was no difference in their nature; no difference in their condition; no difference in their circumstances. The grand and all important difference lay in this, that one believed in Jesus, and the other did not; one was enabled to say, “Lord, remember me;” the other said, “If thou be the Christ.”
What a contrast! What a broad line of demarcation! What an awful chasm between two men so like in other respects—so near to one another—so near to the Divine Savior! But it is just the same in all cases, everywhere, and at all times. The one simple but solemn question for each and for all is this, “What is my relation to Christ? “All hinges upon this—yes, all for time and eternity. Am I in Christ? or am I not?
The two thieves represent the two great classes into which mankind has been divided, from the days of Cain and Abel down to this very moment. God’s Christ is the one great and all deciding test, in every case. All the shades of moral character—all the grades of social life—all the castes, classes, sects and parties into which the human family has been, is, or ever shall be divided— all are absorbed in this one momentous point— “In or out of Christ.” The difference between the two thieves is just the difference between the saved and the lost—the church and the world—the children of God and the children of God’s great enemy. True it is that in the case of the two thieves the matter is brought to a point so that we can see it at a glance; but it is the same in every case. The Person of Christ is the one great boundary line that marks off the new creation from the old—the kingdom of God from the kingdom of Satan—the children of light from the children of darkness, and this boundary line stretches away into eternity.
Reader, what sayest thou to these things? On which side of this line art thou, at this moment, standing? Art thou, like the penitent thief, linked on to Christ by a simple faith? Or dost thou, like his impenitent companion, speak of Christ with an “if” Say, dear friend, how is it? Do not put this question away from thee. Take it up and look it solemnly in the face. Your eternal weal or woe hangs on your answer to this question. Oh, do, we beseech of thee, think of it now! Turn to Jesus now! Come now! God commands thee! Delay not! Reason not! Come just as thou art to Jesus who hung on that center cross for us.