image from: flikr.com
Under the heat of the rising sun the Centurion cautiously surveyed the familiar surroundings. Countless times he occupied the place where his shadow was cast, but on this day he sensed something out of order and a slight feeling of uneasiness began to wash over him.
As he stood in his place of attention, his authority could not be mistaken, and the stern look on his face was set to serious business as he visually searched the crowd.
Carefully His eyes scanned to and fro, and though the multitude was larger than usual, he found, that satisfaction and appeased anger sat firm upon the majority of faces. It was an expression that he was well acquainted with and usually mirrored on such a day, but not this day.
This day his face reflected the conflict residing in his heart. And though he was a Roman officer known to be hard and swift handed, he was also a man of resolute justice, and today he feared that he saw error in the system he swore an allegiance to uphold and enforce.
* * * *
Slowly wiping the sweat from his brow, he turned his attention back towards the site which held three crosses bearing suffering and dying men.
His eyes narrowed as he studied each man that hung gasping for life, and while he watched their chest heave and their blood steadily run down the chiseled wood, uneasy contemplation grew as he considered the record that weighed them in the balance.
“Why am I vexed?” he scolded himself as his eyes came to rest upon the man that hung in the middle.
Then after taking a visual survey of the man’s fate, he diverted his attention towards the ones who hung to the left and right. Their plight was easier to accept for they were thieves notoriously known for their vile, hostile and debased crimes against man and the Roman Empire.
The very sight of them caused disdain to rise in him for he considered them to be like maggots infesting the skin of man. Convinced that where their feet traveled, rot was sure to follow. He regarded no care for their demise, for their injustices were suffered by many and no one in Jerusalem, or all of Palestine, would argue that the cross was a just end to their reward.
No, it was not for them that his conscientiousness was pricked and he wrestled with the feeling of guilt and shame. Shame for what he does, guilt for what he is. And for this he abruptly turned his back towards the crosses… and the one who hung dying in the middle.
* * * *
Now standing with his back erect and jaw set, he looked beyond the boundaries of Jerusalem in an attempt to divert his thoughts.
“Why does this man trouble me so?” he whispered to himself.
Then turning his sight towards the Mount of Olives, he shifted his weight and adjusted the breastplate so commonly recognized to be Roman, and carefully scanned the familiar landscape with slow deliberation.
As his visual quest came to completion he slowly turned his head downward and focused on the ground underneath his sandaled feet. With the events of the day still looming on his mind he took a step forward, placed his chiseled arms behind his back, and steadily began to pace in hopes to find distraction from his nagging thoughts.
Five paces to his left, three back to his right, but no matter where his feet led, he could not sustain his diversion from the thoughts of the man hanging between the thieves. And as much as he did not want to admit or accept that error played a heavy hand in the making of day, he could no longer deny that it had.
“Is this not the man of peace? The man of miracles?” he questioned as he recalled the Nazarene’s activities and the words of his fellow Centurion and friend, Augustus.
Yes, even Augustus, who was known throughout the Roman Guard to be a honest and trustworthy man, had given compelling testament of this Jesus who miraculously healed his household servant.
“Imagine,” pondered the perplexed Centurion, ” a Jew considering a Gentile worthy of such a gift.”
Then suddenly an angry voice, filled with malice and self-loathing, rose and pierced the air.
The Centurion quickly snapped his head towards the source of the disruption and fumed to see that one of the thieves, even while he hung dying, continued to spit his pestilence towards the crowd.
“Here now!” he barked towards his soldiers who had settled on the ground.
“You!” he pointed sternly to the soldier closes to him.
“Silence him,” he gritted through his teeth, ” or no meal as you pull double guard this night!”
The young soldier jumped to his feet and quickly approached the thief hanging to the right.
As his steps drew closer he shouted a warning for silence, but the thief sneered while throwing his head back to release a defiant laugh.
Then as his laughter began to settle the thief lowered his hateful eyes until they met with the young soldier’s. And once they locked, the thief began to spit and hurl defiled cursing.
This instantly evoked the young Roman to he sharply jab the man’s nailed feet with the blunt end of his spear, which produced a scream almost beyond endurance. Then as the thief’s bellowing slowly trailed off, he dropped his head from exhaustion and silence was rendered.
Satisfied with the effect, the soldier returned to his group and enjoyed the slaps of accolades lain upon him as he settled on the ground.
The Centurion, pleased with the results that his young charge executed, returned to sit on the large boulder positioned several yards away. There he too settled but took great care to avoid gazing towards the place of punishment.
* * * *
Minutes slowly rolled by and time played the role of irritation as the back of the Centurion’s neck grew hot underneath the shedding heat of the sun.
He continued to will his mind to dwell on other matters, but in spite of his efforts, his thoughts persistently returned to the hill and the man who hung between the thieves.
Then as much as he tried avoiding the crosses, his eyes betrayed him and followed the shadow cast by the figure hanging from the crudely carved tree. There his vision led him to the base of the cross where the bright contrast of blood, ground, rock and wood assaulted his eyes.
Stuffing back his astonishment as he lifted his vision upward to a pair of bloody feet, folded upon themselves, and anchored by an iron spike.
Momentarily he viewed the torn flesh, exposed tissue, and the stream of blood that continued to drain from its wound. Never had he considered the devastation that crucifixion rendered before, but today, with this man, all things seem to be exposed for what they were.
Taking in a deep breath, he urged his eyes onward where they rose slowly up the blood streaked legs, crimsoned soaked groin, heaving chest and finally came to rest on the nailed palms of the outstretched arms.
The Centurion found himself to take pause as he watched a large gathering of flies swarming and crawling around the dying man’s wounds. And for the first time he felt sorrowful for the duties tasked to his hands.
“Why this man and not the criminal Barabbas?” he retorted. “Barabbas was scheduled for the cross this day but instead this man hangs in his place!”
Then he rose to his feet and released an exasperated sigh as he forced his eyes to look upon the bowed head encircled by a thorny wreath embedded into its scalp.
Quickly he fought the need to gasp, for even at the distance from where he stood it was evident that the man’s head was greatly swelled and the blood matted hair hung stiffly against his engorged face.
“His beating was too severe,” he reflected as he took a step back. And as he held the total image in his sight, he was caught by surprise as the man, this Jesus, slowly lifted his face and looked directly into his eyes.
In that moment what the Centurion saw astonished him beyond comprehension, and forced him to quickly look away.
As he looked to the ground, the image that would be forever burned into his mind called out to him, and he fought back feelings that he had abandoned long ago.
“How could this be?” he said to himself.
“How could one in such torment display such a thing?” he anguished.
“Never have I seen, or witnessed what was given in his eyes, especially here amongst the suffering. It should not be in such a place. It should not exist in torment, pain, and agony!” he self declared.
And as he turned to walk away, he dared put words to what he saw held within the eyes of the Nazarene.
“Such empathy, such compassion and forgiveness, but mostly,” he paused to confess, dipping his head low, “Love!”
To Be Continued
Donna
Astonishing.