“And he said to him, ‘Truly, I say to you, today you will be with me in Paradise.'” – Luke 23:43 (ESV)

I deserved to be there.
Let that be clear from the beginning—
I was no innocent man wrongly condemned,
No victim of circumstance or injustice.

But on that hill called Golgotha,
I found myself crucified alongside a different kind of man.
Jesus of Nazareth—I had heard of him,
Though I had never sought him out.

At first, I joined the chorus of mockery:
“Are you not the Christ? Save yourself and us!”
Words thrown like stones at the man beside me,
Bitter challenges born of pain and despair.

But as the hours passed on that dark day,
I watched him, this Jesus, this supposed criminal,
And saw something I had never witnessed before.
“Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

When my companion continued his mockery,
Something rose within me—not anger, but indignation,
Not bitterness, but a strange, new clarity,
As if scales had fallen from my dying eyes.

“Do you not fear God,” I rebuked him,
“Since you are under the same sentence of condemnation?
But this man has done nothing wrong.”

With my last breaths and my newfound faith,
I turned to him with the most audacious request:
“Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”

His response exceeded all possible expectations:
“Truly, I say to you, today you will be with me in Paradise.”

Today—not some distant future,
Not after centuries of punishment or purification,
But this very day, within hours,
My suffering would end and Paradise would begin.

With me—not separated from him,
Not relegated to some lesser place,
But in his very presence,
Companion not just in death but in what follows.

In Paradise—not oblivion, not merely rest,
But a garden of delight, a place of beauty,
The dwelling place of God himself,
The kingdom I had only just begun to glimpse.

Mine was the briefest discipleship in history—
No time to learn his teachings,
No opportunity to follow his example,
No chance to serve his mission.

I brought him nothing but my dying faith,
Offered nothing but my last-minute recognition,
Contributed nothing to his kingdom or his cause,
Had nothing to give but my broken, sinful self.

Yet he accepted me, promised me Paradise,
Assured me of his presence beyond death,
Granted me not just forgiveness but fellowship,
Not just mercy but membership in his kingdom.

The Challenge

Perhaps you, like me, have wasted much of your life,
Have taken wrong turns and made destructive choices,
Have lived in rebellion rather than submission,
Have come to the end of yourself with nothing to show.

Perhaps you, like me, are facing your own kind of cross—
Not necessarily death, but the painful consequences
Of your choices, your sins, your rebellion,
The just reward of your deeds.

Hear the good news from a dying thief:
It is never too late to turn to Jesus.
Your final chapter has not yet been written.
Your story can still end in Paradise.

The same Jesus who heard my desperate request
Hears your prayers today.
The same Jesus who promised me his presence
Offers you his companionship now and forever.
The same Jesus who saw faith in my dying moments
Sees your heart in this very moment.

Will you, like me, recognize who he truly is?
Will you acknowledge your guilt and his innocence?
Will you make the same audacious request:
“Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom”?

For his promise still stands across the centuries:
Today—not after you’ve improved yourself,
Not when you’ve earned it or deserved it,
But today, this very moment—
You can be with him in Paradise.

“And Jesus said to him, ‘Today salvation has come to this house, since he also is a son of Abraham.'” – Luke 19:9 (ESV)

I was the most hated man in Jericho.
Chief tax collector, collaborator with Rome,
Wealthy from the excess I squeezed from my own people,
Short in stature but tall in infamy.

But when I heard Jesus was coming through Jericho,
Something stirred within me—curiosity? Hope?
A longing to see this man who, they said,
Welcomed sinners and ate with tax collectors.

The crowd was thick that day,
A wall of backs and shoulders blocked my view.
So I, a wealthy man of position,
Did something utterly undignified:
I ran ahead of the crowd
And climbed a sycamore tree like a child.

Perched among the leaves, hidden yet exposed,
I waited to catch a glimpse of Jesus.
Just a glimpse—that’s all I wanted,
All I dared to hope for.

The crowd moved forward, Jesus at its center.
And then—the moment that changed everything:
He stopped directly beneath my tree,
Looked up, and called me by name.

“Zacchaeus, hurry and come down,
For I must stay at your house today.”

He knew my name! How did he know my name?
And he wanted to come to my house?
Not just to speak to me, not just to acknowledge me,
But to enter my home, to share my table?

The crowd’s murmurs turned to outright criticism:
“He has gone to be the guest of a man who is a sinner.”
Their judgment was familiar, but this time it was directed at him,
At Jesus, for choosing to associate with me.

Something happened in that moment of being truly seen,
Of being called by name without condemnation,
Of being chosen despite my reputation,
Of being valued despite my past.

Jesus’ response sealed my transformation:
“Today salvation has come to this house,
Since he also is a son of Abraham.
For the Son of Man came to seek and to save the lost.”

Salvation—not just forgiveness, but wholeness,
Not just pardon, but restoration to community,
Not just spiritual reconciliation, but practical redemption,
Had come to my house, to my life, to my heart.

“Son of Abraham”—words I never expected to hear applied to me.
I who had been excluded from my heritage,
I who had been considered a traitor to my people,
Was reclaimed as a true child of the covenant.

Perhaps you, like me, have been defined by your worst choices,
Labeled by others’ perceptions,
Excluded from community,
Convinced that change is impossible.

Perhaps you’ve been watching Jesus from a distance,
Curious but cautious,
Interested but afraid,
Hoping for a glimpse but not daring to hope for more.

Hear the good news from a former chief tax collector:
Jesus knows your name.
Jesus sees you in your hiding place.
Jesus invites himself into your life.

And when he comes, salvation comes with him—
Not because you have earned it,
Not because you have deserved it,
But because the Son of Man came to seek and save the lost.

Will you, like me, welcome him gladly?
Will you allow his acceptance to transform your priorities?
Will you let his grace redefine your identity?
Will you receive the salvation that comes to your house today?

For the same Jesus who called me by name calls you,
The same Jesus who entered my home seeks entrance to yours,
The same Jesus who brought salvation to my house
Stands ready to bring it to yours.

The question is not whether you are worthy—
I certainly wasn’t.
The question is whether you will come down from your tree
And welcome him with joy.

“Mary has chosen the good portion, which will not be taken away from her.” – Luke 10:42 (ESV)

I welcomed Jesus into our home with joy,
My hands already planning the meal,
My mind cataloging what needed to be done,
My heart eager to serve him properly.

So I bustled about the kitchen,
Kneading dough, chopping vegetables,
Stirring pots, arranging platters,
Determined to make everything perfect.

But as I worked, frustration grew within me.
There sat my sister Mary at Jesus’ feet,
While the work of hospitality fell entirely to me.

With each passing moment, my resentment grew,
Until it spilled over in an outburst directed not at Mary,
But at Jesus himself: “Lord, do you not care
That my sister has left me to serve alone? Tell her to help me!”

I expected him to agree, to send Mary to help,
To affirm the importance of the work I was doing.
Instead, his response stopped me in my tracks:
“Martha, Martha, you are anxious and troubled about many things.”

“But one thing is necessary.”
“Mary has chosen the good portion,
Which will not be taken away from her.”

The good portion—not the food I was preparing,
But the nourishment Mary was receiving.
Not the meal that would satisfy for a moment,
But the words that would sustain eternally.

The contrast became painfully clear:
I had chosen the temporary; she had chosen the eternal.
I had chosen activity; she had chosen relationship.
I had chosen service; she had chosen presence.

It wasn’t that my service was wrong.
Hospitality matters; practical needs are real.
But I had allowed the good to become the enemy of the best,
Had prioritized doing for Jesus over being with Jesus.

In my desire to serve him well,
I had missed the opportunity to know him better.
In my focus on providing for his needs,
I had neglected my own deeper need for him.

That day changed my understanding of discipleship.
I learned that service disconnected from relationship
Becomes anxious, troubled, resentful activity,
Rather than joyful, loving ministry.

Perhaps you, like me, find yourself anxious and troubled about many things,
Rushing from task to task in service of good causes,
Resenting those who seem less burdened,
Missing the one necessary thing in the midst of many good things.

The question is not whether service matters—it does.
The question is whether your service flows from relationship,
Whether your doing springs from being,
Whether your work is rooted in worship.

Will you, like Mary, choose the good portion?
Will you prioritize presence over productivity?
Will you recognize that some opportunities to be with Jesus,
Once missed, may not come again?

For the good portion—relationship with Jesus himself—
Is the one thing that truly matters,
The one thing that cannot be taken from you,
The one necessary thing.