Dove Sermons

Based on Luke 23:33-43

I came across a news story this week. It’s the story of Kelly Gissendaner, who was executed in Georgia ten years ago. Her crime was horrific… she plotted the murder of her husband. No one denied her guilt. But in prison, Kelly underwent a transformation that was so complete it felt almost unfamiliar in our world, a world that doubts that people can really change. She earned a theology certificate from Emory University. She ministered to women who were in such despair that some had attempted suicide. She brought comfort into a place where comfort is a stranger.

As her execution approached, former inmates she had ministered to pleaded for her life. Correctional officers pleaded. Pope Francis pleaded. Even Kelly’s grown children—who had lost their father because of her actions, pleaded. But the state did not bend. The allure of punishment outweighed the possibility of redemption.

And that caused me to think… are we a culture that believes in second chances… until we’re asked to give someone one?

Luke 23 takes that hesitation, that suspicion, that stinginess with mercy, and drags it right out into the open. And not with a safe example. Not with someone mildly flawed or somewhat sympathetic. With a criminal… someone who, by his own admission, deserves the punishment he’s getting.

A person most of us would never consider worthy of mercy is the first person to hear Jesus say, “Today you will be with me in Paradise.”

This is the last Sunday of the church year—Christ the King Sunday. The day when we proclaim Jesus as ruler, sovereign, king. And yet the picture Luke gives us is the opposite of what we expect from a king. No throne. No crown of gold. Not a hint of ceremony or dignity. Just a cross planted in a place with a name dark enough to make you shiver: The Skull.

Christ the King—lifted up not in triumph, but in excruciating pain.

And somehow, we’re told: This is his reign.

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The whole scene is structured around mockery. It comes from every direction—the leaders, the soldiers, even one of the criminals next to him. They all aim at one idea: If you’re really a king, save yourself.

It’s the ancient version of: “Prove it.”

Which always makes me wonder: If they had seen Jesus pull the nails out and climb down from the cross… would they have suddenly believed? Would their cynicism have dissolved? Would they have fallen to their knees?

Probably not.

“What we mock reveals what we fear,” as someone once said.

And they feared a king who didn’t play the game the way their kings did. Because all they knew were kings who used power to protect themselves. Kings who demanded privilege. Kings who never suffered publicly, because suffering publicly was the most humiliating thing a person of status could endure.

And here hang Jesus—arms nailed wide, body breaking under the weight of torture—absolutely refusing to use power to shield himself.

Instead, he uses his power to reach out.

“Father, forgive them.”

“Today you will be with me.”

Even at the very end, when he is out of strength, out of breath, out of options, Jesus is still doing the thing he always did: connecting. Offering presence. Extending relationship.

He is a king whose reign is built not on dominance, but on mercy.

If you’ve ever been with someone in their final hours, you know those moments carry a weight that’s hard to explain. People say things that rise out of some deeper place, some distilled core of who they really are. This is why martyr stories are always filled with last words, words spoken with clarity and courage, even when the body is wracked with pain.

Luke paints Jesus with that same quiet, steady resolve. He doesn’t lash out. He doesn’t withdraw. He doesn’t bargain. He shows us the true shape of God’s rule, and it looks nothing like the power structures we’ve grown used to.

It looks like a man refusing to disconnect from people even as they destroy him.

Relationship, as it turns out, is the currency of this kingdom.

And if we’re honest, that hits differently after the last few years we’ve lived through. Because we’ve become fluent in fracture. We’ve learned how to distance ourselves in ways that go far beyond physical distance. We’ve gotten good at saying, “I don’t need them.” Or, “If they don’t agree with me, I’m out.”

But Jesus doesn’t get out.

Jesus doesn’t withhold himself.

Jesus stays connected… to God, to the guilty, to the ones hurting him, to the ones lost beside him, to the ones who abandoned him and could only watch from far away.

Maybe the most subversive thing Jesus ever did was simply this:

He didn’t let pain break his commitment to love.

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There’s something almost jarring about the second criminal’s request: “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”

We don’t know his story. We don’t know what he did. We don’t know his motivations. We don’t know whether he understood anything about what Jesus was doing. Honestly, we don’t even know if he was repenting. There’s no speech. No promise to live differently. No theological confession. No signs of moral turnaround. He just says, “Remember me.”

And Jesus answers him with this avalanche of mercy:

“Today you will be with me in Paradise.”

He doesn’t say, “After you demonstrate repentance.”
Or “Let’s talk about what you did.”
Or “Let’s tally up the damage.”
Or “We need to evaluate if you’re really sincere.”

He simply welcomes him.

As one early church father put it, “The favor shown is far more abundant than the request made.”

And this is where the story gets under our skin.

Because almost everyone I know, including myself, has a line somewhere. A place where we think, “Okay, grace is great, but not for them. Not for the ones who did that. Not for someone who messed up so badly that they ended up here.”

But this is the kind of king Jesus is. A king who doesn’t ration mercy. A king who doesn’t do background checks before offering compassion. A king who doesn’t think redemption is too expensive, even when the world has already written someone off.

And this is where Kelly Gissendaner comes back into the picture. Because her story and the story of the second criminal share the same uncomfortable truth:

Jesus doesn’t wait for people to get their act together before offering them a place in his kingdom.

He extends mercy long before we’ve earned anything.

Which means, of course, that he extends mercy to you. And to me. And to people we struggle to love. And to the people we’re not sure deserve it. And to the people we’ve quietly decided are too far gone.

Grace always expands the circle wider than we want it to.

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One of the most powerful lines in today’s story is also one of the quietest:

“And the people stood by watching.”

Standing by. Watching. Not acting. Not speaking. Not intervening.

Some because they were afraid. Some because they were confused. Some because they were complicit. Some because they weren’t sure what to believe anymore.

And that might be the most honest description of us that Scripture ever gives.

We stand by while injustice plays out.
We stand by while power is abused.
We stand by while structures we benefit from harm others.
We stand by because we think we’re powerless, or unsure, or just overwhelmed.

And into that kind of world—a world where violence is public and suffering is entertainment—the cross was meant to be a spectacle. A lesson in dominance. A warning.

Rome used crucifixion to say: “This is what happens when you challenge the system. We can crush your body and your dignity. Don’t forget that.”

But Luke wants us to notice something Rome didn’t intend:

Jesus is surrounded by faithful Jews—women, followers, mourners—who show up anyway. They stand close enough to be counted as witnesses.

And the second criminal becomes one of them.

He sees what Rome cannot see. He notices what the mockers miss. He recognizes Jesus as king when the entire world is bent on humiliating him.

And that recognition becomes an act of resistance.

Because when you call Jesus “king” on a cross, you are saying: Rome’s version of power is not the real thing.

And here is where Luke pushes us to confront the hardest truth of this passage:

Jesus reveals that real power is self-giving love.

Not domination. Not fear. Not control. Not the ability to escape suffering, or to use status to avoid consequences, or to silence enemies.

The power of God’s kingdom is revealed when Jesus refuses to save himself so he can save others.

“Save yourself!” the crowd shouts.

But if Jesus saves himself, the world isn’t saved.

If Jesus climbs down from the cross, mercy does not go out to the guilty. Forgiveness is not spoken. Paradise is not promised. Hope does not break into the world.

Sometimes power is shown not in what you can escape, but in what you choose to stay with.

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There’s a small word in this passage that could change your entire understanding of Jesus:

Today.

As in “Today you will be with me in Paradise.”

Not “someday.”
Not “after everything gets sorted out.”
Not “in the distant future.”

Today.

In Luke’s Gospel, “today” is a loaded word. It’s the word used when angels announce good news to shepherds. It’s the word Jesus uses in Nazareth when he says the Scriptures are being fulfilled in their hearing. It’s the word used when Zacchaeus climbs down from the tree and Jesus declares that salvation has come to his house.

Today means the kingdom is not just a distant promise. It is a present reality.

And if that’s true, then the cross isn’t just the end of Jesus’ life, it’s the beginning of the world’s rescue.

Because on the cross, the king is not defeated. He is enthroned.

His elevation is not his humiliation, it is his coronation.

Not in the way the world understands it, but in the way God chooses to rule:

Through mercy.
Through forgiveness.
Through solidarity with the suffering.
Through refusing to let pain be the final word.
Through welcoming a person everyone else has discarded.

And here at the end of the church year, right before Advent, right before we enter the season of longing and hope, we’re reminded of what kind of king we follow:

A king who rules from a cross.
A king who refuses to retaliate.
A king who speaks comfort to the guilty.
A king whose kingdom opens its gates to the very last person anyone expects.

So What Do We Do With a King Like This?

Maybe that’s the question this Sunday leaves us with.

If Christ is king… not Caesar, not Rome, not the systems that reward selfishness, not the voices that mock, not the powers that crush, what does that require of us?

If Jesus is king, then mercy must become our native language.

If Jesus is king, then relationships, especially the strained ones, are sacred ground.

If Jesus is king, then we cannot write people off as hopeless or beyond redemption.

If Jesus is king, then we are free from the world’s hierarchy… free to serve, free to forgive, free to advocate for those who are trapped in systems that destroy them.

If Jesus is king, then we are called to stand near the suffering rather than avert our eyes.

If Jesus is king, then showing up, again and again, even when we’re afraid…is part of our identity.

Because Luke’s message is surprisingly simple:

The kingdom of God often begins with somebody showing up.

The women showed up.
The crowds showed up.
The faithful followers showed up.
The criminal, desperate, dying, guilty, showed up.
And Jesus showed up for them.

He shows up for us.

Not because we’re worthy.
Not because we’ve proven anything.
Not because we’ve cleaned ourselves up.

But because mercy is how he rules.

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So maybe the invitation this week is this:

Where do you need to show up?
Who needs your presence?
Who needs your mercy?
What relationship needs tending?
What fracture needs healing?
What injustice needs your voice?
What pain needs your compassion?

And maybe the harder question:

Where have you been standing “at a distance,” watching?

Luke’s Gospel ends Jesus’ earthly life not with triumphal language, but with quiet, stubborn grace. Grace for the guilty. Grace for the ignorant. Grace for the ones who abandoned him. Grace for the ones who mocked him. Grace for the ones who didn’t understand.

Grace for people who look suspiciously like us.

And maybe that’s the point.

Because if the kingdom can reach a dying criminal on a cross, then there is no one outside its reach.

Not even you.

Not even me.

Not even the people we’ve given up on.

Christ is king. Not the king we expected. Not the king we would’ve elected. But the king we desperately need, one who rules through mercy, remembers the forgotten, welcomes the undeserving, and refuses to stop loving even when love costs everything.

And this king turns to each of us and whispers the same word he spoke to the criminal beside him:

“Today.”

Today salvation has come.
Today mercy is yours.
Today the kingdom is at hand.
Today paradise is closer than you think.

And today, if we’re willing to show up, we might just see it breaking in.

Amen.

By: Rev. Dave Wasson