“People to meet in heaven: a Roman Centurion”
Matthew 27:54
Grace to you and peace from God our Father and from our Lord and Savior Jesus.
In an article entitled, My Train Wreck Conversion, author Rosario Butterfield writes, “The word Jesus stuck in my throat like an elephant tusk; no matter how hard I choked, I couldn’t hack it out. And those who professed the name commanded my pity and wrath.”
Stupid. Pointless. Menacing. That’s what she thought of Christians and our Savior Jesus, who looked, she said, “as powerful as a model in a Breck Shampoo commercial.”
She was a leftist, lesbian, tenured professor of English and women’s studies at Syracuse University, and her life was happy, meaningful and full. That’s why she wrote an attack on Promise Keepers in a local newspaper in 1997.
And she got letters. Lots of letters. She got so many, she kept two boxes on either side of her desk—one for fan mail; the other for hate mail.
But there was one letter she didn’t know where to file. It came from a pastor named Ken Smith, of a local church. And in his letter, he didn’t judge her or accuse her. Instead, he encouraged her to ask certain questions like, “How did you arrive at your interpretations?” “How do you know you’re right?” and “Do you believe in God?”
She didn’t know where to put it. It wasn’t fan mail and it wasn’t hate mail. So she threw it away.
Later that night, she fished it back out of her recycling bin and laid it on her desk. And there it sat for a week, staring at her, demanding a response.
So she responded. And over the next two years, she became, in her words, “friends with the enemy.” She met with Ken and his wife, Floy. They shared books back and forth, and they talked about life and politics. She even started to read the Bible. When a friend confronted her and said, “This Bible reading is changing you,” she answered, “What if it is true? What if Jesus is a real and risen Lord?”
She fought it with everything she had. She didn’t want it. She didn’t ask for it. Until finally, one ordinary day, she came to Jesus. And to this day, she said, even though her former life still lurks at the edges of her heart, “shiny and still like a knife,” she will never forget the blood Jesus surrendered for her life.
So it was for a nameless, faceless centurion in the words of Matthew 27.
Please turn with me to page 1060 as I read the words of our text. I’ll start at verse 45 where it says, “The Death of Jesus.”
“Now from the sixth hour there darkness over all the land until the ninth hour. And about the ninth hour Jesus cried out with a loud voice, saying, ‘Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?’ that is, ‘My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?’ And some of the bystanders, hearing it, said, ‘This Man is calling Elijah.’ And one of them at once ran and took a sponge, filled it with sour wine, and put it on a reed and gave it to Him to drink. But the others said, ‘Wait, let us see whether Elijah will come to save Him.’ And Jesus cried out again with a loud voice and yielded up His spirit. And behold, the curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom. And the earth shook, and the rocks were split. The tombs also were opened. And many bodies of the saints who had fallen asleep were raised, and coming out of the tombs after His resurrection they went into the holy city and appeared to many. When the centurion and those who were with him, keeping watch over Jesus, saw the earthquake and what took place, they were filled with awe and said, ‘Truly this was the Son of God!’”
When you hear the word “centurion,” what picture comes to mind? Do you see a man standing at attention, holding a spear in his hand? Do you see his bronze helmet flashing in the sun, with a red-feathered plume on top? Do you see a battle-hardened plate across his chest, a cape flung across his neck, and a double-edged sword ready at his hip, with arms and legs thick and strong?
A centurion commanded one hundred men. That’s how they got that name “centurion.” They were the backbone of the Roman army, chosen for their ability to lead.
And bear in mind, in ancient times, soldiers didn’t sit behind a desk or hide behind a rock and fire missiles at enemies miles away. They fought face-to-face, hand-to-hand. They were known for their strength, agility, loyalty, bravery and courage.
And a centurion was the best of the best--a man’s man, a soldier’s soldier. To be a centurion was an honor, a privilege earned by obeying the law, respecting your commander and performing your duty without question.
And every time the New Testament talks about them, it does so with respect. Every time they appear in Scripture, we hear of their manhood and integrity.
And sure enough, even at the foot of the cross, sent by Pilate himself, there stands a centurion.
For him, it wasn’t a good Friday, neither was it a bad Friday. It was just another Friday, another ordinary day in Palestine. Three men dared to defy the emperor, were found guilty in a court of law and now would get what they deserved—death on a cross, in full public view, for everyone to see. It was Rome’s of saying, “Mess with me and I will mess with you.”
Sure the soldiers seemed to single out that Man in the middle, the one named Jesus. There was the scourge, the purple robe, the wooden stick shoved into His hand, the crown of thorns pressed down onto His head. But why should he care? Let the men have a little fun. He’d be dead soon anyway.
And over his many years on the job, he had his fill of shouting and cursing, pleading and anger, threats of violence and fear. He saw it all. He heard it all. Some cursed him, kicked him, spit on him and even scratched his face. Others pled for mercy and offered a bribe. Every one did something.
Yet this One, this Jesus, was different. As men stripped Him and stretched Him and drove nails through His hands and feet, He didn’t cry or beg for mercy. Instead, He said, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”
Forgive them? He hadn’t done anything wrong. He was just doing his job, what Pilate ordered him to do.
And what about the words others were shouting at the foot of His cross? “He saved others, but He can’t save Himself. Come down from the cross that we may see and believe.” And the sign posted above His head—“Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews.”
He saved others? King of the Jews?
And for six hours, He suffered and died. He promised Paradise to a dying thief, and showed love for a disciple and for His mother. And in the deep darkness, He cried, “My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?”
Finally, as a curtain tore, the earth shook and tombs broke open, He breathed His last breath and committed His life into His Father’s hands.
There was never anyone like Jesus.
That’s why he, “and those who were with him,” the Bible says, couldn’t help but cry, “Surely, absolutely, truly, without a doubt in our minds, this Man was the Son of God.”
If you think about it, it’s a strange thing to say. As a Roman soldier, a centurion, he was surrounded by those who believed in many gods and goddesses, supernatural beings, and even children of the gods. There were altars and statues and temples of all kinds.
Even more, he and his fellow countrymen worshipped the “divine emperor,” Tiberius Caesar. He once marched in a crowd numbering in the thousands, past the viewing stand, where Caesar himself stood resplendent in golden robes. He had seen his palaces and slaves who did his bidding. He could ride a horse for months and still not reach the borders of the kingdom.
That was glory! That was power! That was a son of the gods!
Yet as he saw Jesus die, he couldn’t help but say, “Surely, this Man was the Son of God.”
It’s amazing if you think about it. He had never seen Jesus raise the dead. He never heard Him speak or command the wind and the waves to obey Him. He never saw Him give sight to the blind, hearing to the deaf or make the lame walk again. He knew nothing of His warmth, His kindness or His compassion.
He didn’t see the way He lived. He only saw the way He died. Yet in that moment, as blood and water poured from Jesus’ side, a man of war was conquered by the Prince of Peace.
And that’s the challenge of faith there at the foot of the cross, and even today—to believe that this One so badly beaten, scorned and humiliated is the sinless Son of God.
But that is the miracle of faith.
Studdert Kennedy was an English priest and poet who lived at the time of the first World War. His friends nicknamed him “Woodbine Willie,” because he gave Woodbine cigarettes to sick and dying soldiers.
And among the many poems for which he’s known is one that speaks of the soldiers at the foot of the cross. This is what he said: “And sitting down they watched Him there, the soldiers did; There, while they played with dice, He made His sacrifice and died upon the cross to rid God’s world of sin. He was a gambler, too, my Christ; He took His life and threw it for a world redeemed and ere His agony was done before the westering sun went down, crowning that day with crimson crown, He knew that He had won.”
How did He know He had won? Because there, at His feet, were the very ones who took His life. And before the day was done, they believed. That’s the power of the cross.
Gracious God, heavenly Father, lead us to see that it was our sins that caused Christ’s great agony on the cross and that He was forsaken that we might not be forsaken by You. Grant that, by Your grace, we may die to sin and live to You both now and always, for Jesus’ sake. Amen