Dismas, the Good Thief
I was one of two whom followed Jesus that fateful day. I too had been marked for death , though mine had been earned ever many years. I am, and was, a thief.
I’d like to give you some background on me before we get to my final days, if you’ll you’ll indulge me a moment.
The names of the two of us hung that day seem to be lost to history, for the most part, but some kind soul in the 12th century wrote more of us, even giving us names. Gestas would eventually hang on the left, while I, Dismas, would hang on the right. My name is Greek for “death.”
Stories say that our meetings were NOT first at the cross, but instead some 30 years earlier. Gestas and I were members of the same thieves company from young in our lives. I think I can say with some pride that we had a fair run and brought in enough to keep us all going.
Only one time did I balk at a job. At around that time, a declaration had gone out that all people were to be registered. Well, no need for me to tell you; I’m sure you could guess how good THAT kind of movement was for business. But anyways, this one night a woman on a donkey comes riding through after dark, a small child in her lap, and some man following her. It should have been like any other hit, but it was different.
I
let the others go ahead with their set up, but just couldn’t find it in me to
help out. I finally pulled Gestas aside and asked him
to take the 40 drachmas I had on my person; just to let the people go. He
wasn’t happy with me, but did convince the others. As he spoke to the others of
our guild, this small family informed me that they had been told that the only
way to go home would be through
Maybe that’s why it bothered me that one so young would recognize something like me, so worthless. And that he’d mark me for remembrance at some date in the future.
That day would come when my sneaking ways got me caught. As I said, I had earned it, but man, there are easier punishments. They could have just cut my hand off or something, but no. They had gotten this nifty little idea from the Carthagians.
Now (*lower voice*) something funny
was going on here. There are rules that need to be followed, and ways to do
things. These soldiers (*shake head slowly*) not happening on their shift.
First off, criminals are NOT to be brought in for charging during the night, and most certainly not right before a Passover eve. Charges
were supposed to be pronounced the day following the trial. Funny things, says
Keep in mind this part is purely hearsay, what the guards said to each other. I just know the rules.
These same men brought him in, teasing him of being the king of the jews. When he remained silent, the soldier struck him. The palace guards blindfolded him, playing a cruel game the rest of the evening. None of us slept. Battered, bruises, dehydrated, we were then called to the Praetorium of the Fortress Antonia. Gestas and I held no hope for reprieve, but perhaps for this other… and yet Herod said no; the crowd cried Bar-Abbass.
Next came the scourging. We were all three taken away for this part of the punishment. Scourging is another matter of saying being whipped. The first step in preparing for crucificixition is something called flogging.
The Roman rule with scourging is that you may only be given forty lashes, but to be sure of holding to the law, they insisted on only 39 being given. Just in case of a miscount, considering that two guys are taking turns on you.
We were stripped of our clothing, and our hands tied to a post over our heads. I’m sure most of you have heard of whips, but maaaaan, let me tell you, Indiana Jones has got NOTHING on this guy. They legionnaire brings in a whip called a flagellum that has at least three leather thongs on the ends with small balls of lead attached near the ends of each, and each one ALSO carries some small sharp objects like metal, glass and bone.
Without all the details, I’ll tell you hurts like…. *winks* let’s say it’s got hockey sticks on the ends of the word. It turns your back black and blue, then cuts through to show blood and ooey gooey stuff. In the end, the skin on our backs is hanging in long ribbons and is an unrecognizable mess of tissue.
We all fell to the ground, weak and half-fainting, but at that moment, I felt more sorry for Jesus. Being the “King of the Jews” they felt he needed a robe. And this they left on just long enough for it to stick to the mess of his back. Think about how when you scrape your knee, and then your pants stick to it before you get home? Yeah, that’s what it felt like; only worse. They gave him a scepter to hold, then took it away to beat him with that too. And a crown! One of thorns driven into a forehead already swelled with blood vessels and ready to bleed. They beat this onto him as well.
Then, if you were Jewish, your clothes were returned to you to put on again. I’m sorry to say I actually was glad to say I wasn’t a jew at that moment. After this, we all had a heavy patibulum tied across our shoulders. This is the part of the cross our arms are hung from. We actually didn’t carry the whole cross all the way there. But then hey, this sucker was heavy enough. Close to 100 lbs, depending on the wood they used.
Now, being King, they had Jesus go first, so Gestmas and I, we had a pretty clear idea of what they were doing up ahead on that 650 yard long walk to the hill. The rocks thrown, the spitting, the name calling. At one point, we saw Jesus fall, striking his chest quite hard. And keep in mind here, we’ve got these big ol’ beams tied over a shoulder to prevent us from reaching out to catch our balance. He couldn’t get up. One of the centurions, impatient, and already wanting to get this whole mess over with, grabbed some Simon guy from the sidelines and made him carry the patibelum for Jesus. Not out of kindness; no. He just wanted to keep things moving. And ever closer came the three stipes. These were the poles that were permanently mounted at the hilltop, about 6 to 10 feet long, so wild animals could eat the corpses. Once there, they would affix our patibulum to the top of it, making a T shape.
So we reach the
hill at
On refusal, they threw him to the ground, the legionnaire feeling for the depression at the front of the wrist, driving a heavy square, 7 foot wrought-iron nail through the wrist and deep into the wood. Not into the hands themselves. That would have simply been stripped from the flesh between his fingers. They went for the wrists. Same thing on the other side, but he makes sure the arms aren’t too tight, so he gets some movement. We had to watch as the wrist muscles spasmed, forming claws.
Then the patibulum is lifted into place at the top of the stipes. The left foot is pressed backward against the right foot, and with both feet extended, toes down, a nail is driven through both, leaving the knees both moderately flexed.
Gestmas and I were next, enduring the same treatment. Even with the pain killer, I couldn’t imagine that Jesus could have withstood a single moment of what they did to him… and never cry out.
All this would have been enough, but you and I both know it not to be true. There was still more coming for us. The next thing to come were cramps and waves of pain in the arms as we were unable to pull ourselves upright. Our breath began to weeze in a little, but because the chest was expanded, we couldn’t exhale. Carbon dioxide built up. Our faces started turning purple. The only relief was then to push up through the nail in our feet to earn a hard-won breath. It was at these times we were able to speak, if able.
I had nothing and no one to speak for me in that crowd. No one. No one to offer me succor or a drink of water. I had thought only to my next meal, to saving myself. But here next to me hung a man whom thought to save everything. Why would a man with friends, family, and women at his feet have chosen this? I would have taken my hand being severed, the way it had once been done for thievery. But even in this, I knew I deserved my place on this cross. He didn’t. He… had done… nothing wrong. I had! I earned my place here!
Do you know what it was like to look out in the crowd, seeing his friends and his family? Even if I didn’t know their names, I knew them by how they each looked at Jesus. And his mother. Stretch out your arms right now, making a Y shape with them, above your head. Hold this. Now, when it starts to hurt, which should be scant moments, look at your mother. Or your father. Look at the pain in their eyes; how badly they want to come to you, to take this from you. A mother should never see her child go through something so terrible. She’d likely picked him up every small time he had fallen as a child. I bet she had given him all the hugs and kisses I thought I’d been denied. And now she couldn’t even come near him. Close your eyes and face up. Imagine how badly God wanted to come take this from his own son.
Hours of this pain and agony would break anyone, and even Jesus cried out for relief. “My god, my god! Why have you forsaken me?”
And the criminal, Gestmas, is also recorded as mockingly asking Him, “Are you not the Christ?” And demanded that Jesus save himself and us.” I was shamed that Gestmas could be so cruel, especially when Jesus had handled this whole matter much, much better than us. So, though it took me several breathes, I said my piece as well. “Gestmas, don’t you fear God? You’re in the same condemnation. And us; justly, for we receive the due rewards of our deeds; but this man has done nothing wrong.”
And I rememembered him then from his childhood. The child that day – the man now - saying we would meet again someday. Forcing another breath, I turned as I could to Jesus. “Remember me Lord, in your kingdom.”
And for me. FOR ME! Lowly criminal, with nothing to speak for me, he wasted a hard-won breath on me. “I say unto you, that today, you shall be with me in paradise.”
And I was. For all
I suffered in life, Jesus took me to his side after. In the 12th
century, I was given the name Dismas. A large part of
the cross I was believed to have hung from is preserved at
The lack of breathing, the strain on our arms, the pain in our feet, and the dislocation of our shoulders took a toll on us. Seeing as how we weren’t to be left up for Passover, it was crucial (and important!) to some of us, that our pain be lessened. As badly as I wished to die, I was now truly wishing his mother’s pain to end. To do this, the legionaries would break the bones in our legs in a process called crurifracture. But as they approached Jesus, his head hung limp. His mother’s eyes welled with all the pain of being unable to help him.
It’s important to
know that crusifixition is a quiet death. There is no air for words. So for
Jesus to speak several times, then LOUDLY and CLEARLY call out his final words:
“It is finished. Father, into thy hands I commit my spirit,” spoke of the power
of God through his son. And to add further insult, a soldier drove a spear into
his side to guarantee his death. Fluid came out instead of blood. Our Lord died
not of crusifixition. He died of a broken heart from all that was necessary to
save us.
“I am poured out,” he said,
“like water. And all my bones are out of joint; my heart is like wax; it is
melted in the midst of my bowels. It is now almost over – the loss of tissue
fluids has reached a critical level – the compressed heart is struggling to
pump heavy, thick, sluggish blood to the
tissue – the tortured lungs are making a frantic effort to draw in small gulps
of air.
My last sights were of his mother; that beautiful woman who had endured so much and even to the end, kept her eyes on her son, hands clasped to her breasts. And then my own was over. It was finished.
Bibliography
Gospel of Matthew and Luke, NIV Student Bible
Book of Nicodemus, Gnostic Gospel of the Aprocrypha
http://www.chrisloanshome.8m.com/ Church/topics/crucifiction.htm
JAMA, crucifiction description