[Journey with Jesus – Day 10]
I am a centurion in the regiment in Capernaum. I am responsible, along with the hundred soldiers in my charge, for keeping the peace in this part of Galilee. Capernaum is a key town in the region. Lots of traders pass through, so the locals do a lot of their business here – particularly fishermen; and the tax collectors do their work too. The local population don’t like it very much – but let’s face it, who does enjoy giving their hard earned money away? The job of our regiment is to ensure that all this business goes on tickedy boo. I’m not a religious man, but I have genuine respect for the ways of the Jewish people – there is something compelling about their determination to live differently and to hold onto hope even when things are so hard for them. My fellow soldiers don’t always treat them with kindness – they rather enjoy the power they have over the people, who obey them out of fear, rather than anything else. I’ve always tried to be different. I’ve tried to get to know the elders of the Jewish community, treating them with respect. I’ve grown to love the people here – although I know my fellow centurions would laugh to hear me say this. In fact, when I heard that they wanted to build a new synagogue for their worship, I helped them do this, having it built for them. Why? Because I knew that their worship is at the heart of who they are. There is also something that intrigues me about the God they worship – a god who cannot be seen or touched, yet brought the world into being and holds all the power in its hands. Their god is different to our gods, who fight among themselves and live for their own benefit.
In my household I have a number of slaves who serve me in various ways. Again, perhaps unusually, I try to treat them with kindness. I’ve always found that they work better when I do so. One slave in particular had been with my household since I was young. He’d become part of the family. I was horrified one morning when he failed to come and serve my normal breakfast meal and I learned that he was ill in bed. I went to him and he was very pale indeed. I sent for doctors who told me that he was very ill indeed, and that I should prepare for the worst. I went about my business that day with a heavy heart. As I entered the marketplace, I was approached by one of my soldiers who told me about a local healer who had recently settled in the town and had caused quite a stir with his teaching and reported miracles and healings. Their God listened to him. He had authority unlike any other. My ears pricked up then. Healings? Could he help my slave? I would try anything. So, I went to where I knew some of the local elders of the Jewish community were gathered, and pleaded with them to send for Jesus so that he could heal my slave. I had thought about going myself, but I was a Gentile. Why would a Jewish teacher and healer listen to me? Secondly, I’m a Roman citizen. The Jews hate us, and being a Centurion I would be seen as even more of an enemy. I wanted to give my slave the best chance of living, so thought that the Jewish elders would carry more weight with Jesus.
“Please,” I begged, “He’s my only hope.”
“Of course,” one of theme replied, “We know how much you love us; the synagogue tells us this.”
So they went off, and I went back home to wait. Would he come? I mean, why would he? What was I to him? I took my place by my slave’s bedside and waited.
But then, a couple of hours later, I received a message telling me that Jesus was on his way; I can’t tell you the hope and relief that I felt in that moment. The healer was coming. This seemed extraordinary to me, and I felt so unworthy. It also occurred to me – if he had the authority to heal, as was reported of him, he didn’t even need to come to my home.
Some friends had come to keep me company, so I went out to them. “The healer, Jesus is coming, but could you please send him a message?”
“Yes, of course, anything.”
“Please say to him, “Master, you don’t have to go to all this trouble. I’m not that good a person, you know. I’d be embarrassed for you to come to my house, even embarrassed to come to you in person. Just give the order and my servant will get well. I’m a man under orders; I also give orders. I tell one soldier, ‘Go,’ and he goes; another, ‘Come,’ and he comes; my slave, ‘Do this,’ and he does it.””
Again they nodded, and went out to Jesus, and I returned to my slave’s bedside. Within a couple of minutes he stirred, then stretched, and incredibly began to sit up. All colour had returned to his cheeks. He was completely well. He looked at me, confused. “Master … what?”
“Well, you were sick – we thought we were going to lose you, but Jesus of Nazareth- he healed you.” I embraced my slave, who looked rather perplexed- I’m so glad you’ve been restored to us!”
Moments later, my friends returned. “Well?” they asked?
“He’s completely better!” I replied with awe in my voice, ‘“The teacher did it!”
“He was impressed with you,” one replied, “He turned to the crowd around him and said, “I’ve yet to come across this kind of simple trust anywhere in Israel, the very people who are supposed to know about God and how he works.”
I felt humbled to have been singled out in that way; but even more so to have been heard by this man who had so much authority – an authority greater than any one else I had encountered. He carried the authority of God himself. Who was this man? I didn’t know, not then, but I was certain of one thing, I owed him a great debt of gratitude.
Halwill Publishing 