“Today You Will Be with Me in Paradise”
As we stand at the threshold of Advent, with Thanksgiving just around the corner, the Church presents us with a Gospel that, at first glance, seems more fitting for Good Friday. We hear the story of the crucifixion. We see Jesus, not enthroned in glory, but nailed to a cross between two criminals. Yet, the Church, in all its wisdom, chose this Gospel for the Feast of Christ the King.
It’s jarring, and at the same time, it’s completely perfect.
Christ’s kingship is unlike any other; his crown is made of thorns. His throne is a cross. His royal decree from the cross is announced not with thunder but with mercy: “Today you will be with me in Paradise.” It is a decree that resonates through the centuries to us.
This is the promise made to Saint Dismas—the “Good Thief,” as tradition calls him. We know almost nothing about Dismas. He appears only in this moment, at the end of his life, hanging on a cross beside Jesus. He has no miracles attributed to him, no long record of virtue. He doesn’t even ask for forgiveness. He humbly says, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.” And that is enough.
That is enough.
I find myself returning to Dismas every year at this time. Maybe it’s because, like him, I often feel like I’m running late. The year is almost over. Advent is coming, and I’m not prepared. Thanksgiving is near, and I’m still carrying griefs and pains I haven’t let go. I look back and see the ways I’ve fallen short—of my hopes, of my promises, of the love I meant to give more freely over the past year.
And yet, in this Gospel, God gives us Dismas. Dismas, a man who has nothing left to offer Jesus but his honesty. A man who dared to hope, even in his final hour, that mercy was still within reach. And Jesus—our King—does not hesitate. He doesn’t ask for proof of repentance. He doesn’t demand a better track record. He simply says yes.
“Today you will be with me.”
This is the kind of King we have. One who rules not by force, but by presence. One who shares in our suffering, who walks with us in our death, and who opens the gates of Paradise not to the perfect, but to the penitent.
As we prepare to enter Advent, this Gospel calls us to start not with striving but with surrender. Not with a checklist but with a prayer: “Jesus, remember me.” It’s a prayer for those who feel behind, for those grieving, for those tired, and for those still waiting—for healing, clarity, or peace. For those waiting for God.
And as Thanksgiving approaches, Dismas reminds us that gratitude isn’t only for those with tidy lives. Even amid pain and shadowed by death, he finds something to be grateful for: the closeness of Christ. The promise of Paradise. The hope that it’s not too late.
This year, I want to give thanks like Dismas. Not because everything is resolved, but because Jesus is near. Because mercy is real. Because the Kingdom of God is not a distant dream but a present reality—breaking in, even now, through the brokenness in our lives.
So if you find yourself arriving at this feast feeling unready, take heart. You are in good company. Saint Dismas shows us that it is never too late to turn toward Christ. Never too late to be remembered. Never too late to be welcomed home.
May we enter this final week of the liturgical year with open hands and honest hearts. May we begin Advent not with anxiety but with awe. And may we give thanks—not for perfection but for presence. For the King who reigns from the cross. For the Savior who says to each of us, even now:
“Today you will be with me.”
—Gwen Coté
