Remember Me
There is a kind of striving that never quite lets you rest. You reach the thing you were reaching for, someone you love tells you they are proud, and instead of settling in, you feel the pull to go further still. I know that pull well; reassurance tends to slide right off it. Maybe you know it too.
Lately that same restlessness has shown up in my faith. I catch myself trying to become a better version of myself to please God. Not to prove I outrank anyone, and not to collect something He has already promised. It is quieter than ambition and harder to name. Near the end of his life, Paul wrote:
“I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, and I have remained faithful. And now the prize awaits me—the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will give me on the day of his return. And the prize is not just for me but for all who eagerly look forward to his appearing.”
2 Timothy 4:7–8 (NLT)
But here’s the honest part: the race isn’t over. I am still running, and I still wonder whether I have been faithful enough.
That wondering is why one of the people I return to most in Scripture is not a hero of the faith at all. He is a criminal, dying beside Jesus, with nothing left to offer and no time left to fix any of it. Some of us have lived lives fully devoted to God since childhood. Others arrive late, carrying a record we had rather not read out loud. The man on the cross belonged to the second group, and his story is for anyone who has ever quietly wondered whether it is too late or whether they have done enough.
Luke tells us that as Jesus hung between two criminals, one of them mocked Him. But the other turned and said something different:
“Don’t you fear God even when you have been sentenced to die? We deserve to die for our crimes, but this man hasn’t done anything wrong.” Then he said, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your Kingdom.” Luke 23:40–42 (NLT)
Notice what he does not do. He does not promise to change. He does not list his good intentions or bargain for a chance to earn his place. He simply sees who Jesus is, admits who he is, and asks to be remembered. And Jesus answers with a welcome so immediate it should stop us in our tracks: “Today you will be with me in paradise.” Luke 23:43
He was not worthy. Neither man was. That is the power of the whole scene: one dying criminal is handed the Kingdom with empty hands, in the last hour of the worst life imaginable, because grace was never something he could have earned.
Which brings me back to my restlessness, and maybe to yours. If grace cannot be earned, why keep striving at all? I have sat with that, and here is what I found. The criminal’s request settles the matter of worthiness once and for all: none of us is worthy, and yet, we are welcomed anyway. Striving was never going to close that gap. Only God’s grace could. But grace, once received, does not leave us unchanged. God does not hand us His holiness so we will fear Him. He hands us His grace so we will love Him. And love, real love, always wants to give something back. That is when the true transformation begins.
So, the striving itself is not the problem. The reason underneath it is. When we try to be better in order to earn what is already ours, we exhaust ourselves climbing a mountain God has already carried us over. When we try to be better because we have been loved the way that criminal was loved, the very same effort becomes worship instead of anxiety.
You do not have to sort out your whole record before you turn your head, the way he did, and ask to be remembered. You do not have to be worthy first; that was never the entry fee. And if you already know that grace in your bones, the invitation is gentler still. Let your striving soften into gratitude and stop paying for a gift that is already resting in your hands.
Where in your life are you still working to earn something God has already given you freely? And what might change if your effort flowed from being loved, rather than from trying to deserve it?
My prayer is we come to Christ with empty hands and honest hearts. Thank You that we do not have to be worthy to be welcomed. That grace reached the man beside You and reaches us too. Teach us to stop striving for what You have already given, and to let our lives become our thanks. Remember us, Lord, and help us rest in knowing that You already have. Amen.