"Today You Will Be With Me in Paradise"
Finding True Identity in a World of Illusions
"Truly, I say to you, today you will be with me in Paradise." (Luke 23:43)
On that hill called Golgotha, three crosses stood against the darkening sky. On each, a dying man. On the center cross hung Jesus of Nazareth—Messiah, miracle worker, now mocked as a failed revolutionary. And on either side of him, two thieves—guilty men paying society's ultimate price for their crimes.
Luke's Gospel tells us something remarkable about these two criminals. Both were guilty. Both were dying. Both had front-row seats to the same cosmic drama. But their responses could not have been more different.
One hurled insults: "Are you not the Christ? Save yourself and us!" (Luke 23:39). But the other—the one history remembers as the "penitent thief"—recognized something in this broken, bleeding man beside him. "Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom" (Luke 23:42).
And to this simple, desperate plea, Jesus responds with his second word from the cross: "Truly, I say to you, today you will be with me in Paradise."
The Greek word here for "paradise" means a walled garden or royal park. By Jesus's time, it had become associated in Jewish thought with the Garden of Eden restored—a place of perfect harmony with God. When Jesus promises paradise, he's not offering some vague spiritual comfort; he's promising restored relationship with God himself.
But notice something crucial: despite this promise of paradise, the thief still had to endure the excruciating reality of crucifixion. The promise didn't exempt him from suffering—it transformed the meaning of that suffering. Paradise was coming, but the cross still had to be endured.
In our world today, we're witnessing an unprecedented crisis of identity. Who am I? What gives my life meaning? Where do I belong? These questions have always haunted humanity, but never have we had so many competing answers vying for our allegiance.
Today, we're drowning in artificial identities. The explosion of content creation platforms has turned everyday life into a performance. The average person now has seven social media accounts, each one a carefully curated persona. We've become experts at filtering, editing, and enhancing our lives for public consumption.
The fastest-growing career aspiration among children is no longer astronaut or doctor but "content creator."
We have never been more connected yet never more alone. We have never shared more of ourselves yet never been more unsure of who we actually are.
Our identity marketplace offers endless options:
Define yourself by your politics—right or left, each with its ready-made package of beliefs
Define yourself by your sexuality or gender expression—an entire alphabet of possibilities
Define yourself by your career, your possessions, your lifestyle aesthetic
Define yourself by your traumas, your mental health challenges, your unique neurological wiring
Define yourself by your spiritual journey—not a committed faith but a personalized spirituality that demands nothing
But beneath these proliferating labels lies a devastating emptiness. Like the non-penitent thief, we demand that these identities save us from our suffering. And when they fail—as they inevitably do—we either double down on them or discard them for newer, more promising options.
Into this chaotic identity marketplace comes the radical second word of Jesus: "Today you will be with me in Paradise."
What did Jesus offer the dying thief? Not an escape from suffering but a new identity—one defined by relationship with him. "You will be with me." Not a better version of the thief's old self. Not a set of philosophical principles. Not a religious system. But a person. Jesus himself.
This is the revolutionary truth of Christianity: true identity isn't something we create or curate; it's something we receive. It isn't found by looking inward but by looking outward—to Christ.
When Paul wrote, "I have been crucified with Christ and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me" (Galatians 2:20), he wasn't describing some mystical absorption of his personality. He was describing a profound identity shift—from self-defined to Christ-defined.
In a world obsessed with self-discovery, Jesus offers self-surrender. In a culture promising that your authentic self will save you, Jesus whispers that only by losing yourself will you be found.
And here's the paradox that makes no sense to our self-obsessed age: in this surrender, we don't lose our uniqueness—we find it. When our primary identity is "in Christ," all the secondary identities that previously defined us—our nationality, gender, social status, accomplishments, failures—find their proper place. They no longer have to bear the impossible weight of defining our worth and purpose.
But—and this is crucial—the promise of paradise doesn't exempt us from our cross.
The penitent thief still died that day. His legs were still broken to hasten his suffocation. The promise of paradise didn't spare him physical agony, but it transformed the meaning of that agony.
Jesus's words to us are similar: "Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross daily and follow me" (Luke 9:23). The Christian life isn't a bypass around suffering; it's a path through it, with the promise of paradise giving that suffering new meaning.
This flies in the face of both prosperity gospel preachers promising your best life now and secular wellness gurus promising fulfillment through self-actualization. The path to true identity—Christ-shaped identity—leads through daily crucifixion of our false selves.
What does this look like in 2025?
For some, it means the daily death of digital validation—choosing to be known by God rather than liked by strangers.
For others, it means enduring the cross of misunderstanding and rejection when your Christ-centered values clash with progressive or conservative orthodoxies.
For many, it means bearing the cross of unfulfilled desires—sexual, material, relational—surrendering them to a God who promises something better than their immediate satisfaction.
For all of us, it means embracing the counter-cultural truth that our lives are not our own, our bodies are not our own, our stories are not our own. We belong to Christ, and in that belonging, we find our true selves.
So what does this mean for us today, as we stand at this second word from the cross?
First, it calls us to honest self-assessment. What false identities have you been clinging to? What roles, achievements, relationships, or labels have you been asking to save you? When those identities fail you—as they inevitably do—do you double down on them or seek something more substantial?
Second, it invites us to a radical surrender. The penitent thief didn't offer Jesus a partial allegiance or a conditional faith. In his moment of extremity, he recognized Jesus as Lord and entrusted his future entirely to him. Can we do the same? Can we say, with the hymn writer, "My worth is not in what I own... but in Christ alone"?
Third, it challenges us to embrace our cross. What is the specific cross that Jesus is calling you to bear? What aspect of your false self is he asking you to crucify daily? What suffering is he asking you to endure—not as meaningless pain but as participation in his redemptive work?
Fourth, it offers us the promise of paradise—not as a distant future hope but as a present reality. "Today you will be with me." Not after you've fixed yourself. Not after you've figured it all out. Not after you've achieved some spiritual milestone. Today. Now. In your mess, your confusion, your failing body, your struggling relationships. Paradise begins in the presence of Jesus, even as we hang on our crosses.
Imagine yourself on that hill, hanging on your own cross—whatever that may be in your life right now. The false identities you've trusted are failing you. The performances you've maintained are exhausting you. The filters you've applied to your life are distorting you.
And beside you hangs Jesus, looking at you with eyes of incomprehensible love, waiting for your surrender. Not demanding eloquence or theological precision. Just waiting for your heart's equivalent of "Remember me."
Will you, like the penitent thief, turn to him today? Will you entrust your identity, your future, your very self to him? Will you exchange the exhausting work of self-creation for the liberating gift of being found in him?
The thief asked to be remembered. Jesus promised him something far greater—presence. "You will be with me." This is the heart of the gospel. Jesus says, “I don’t just remember you [your name here], I love you.” Not rules or rituals or requirements, but relationship. Not a better version of your curated self, but a whole new identity founded on unshakable love.
In a world of digital mirages and carefully crafted personas, Jesus offers something revolutionary: the chance to be fully known and fully loved. The chance to stop performing and start being. The chance to find your true self by losing yourself in him.
Today—not tomorrow, not when you've got it all figured out, not when you've fixed all your problems—today, you can be with him in paradise. Will you accept his invitation?
"Truly, I say to you, today you will be with me in Paradise."
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