Luke 7:1-10: Centurion

This installment of Turning the Diamond turns the diamond on The Centurion from Luke 7:1-10. Why did Jesus say- “I tell you, I have not found such great faith even in Israel.”, well I have some thoughts. I have taken some creative license to make my point, I will be curious what you guys think.

All Galilee quivered beneath the gravity of Caesarea Philippi.

A city of marble- which in and of itself is the image of Rome. Strength and Piety. Loaded with temples dedicated to gods in the stars- and to men who built themselves towards divinity. The name proclaimed it: Herod Philip and Caesar—the King and the King of Kings, the Lord of Lords. Caesar- the name to which everyone submitted. From the Gauls to the Jews, everyone served Rome.

Caesarea Philippi held the strength of gods in its bosom. Pan’s presence marked the entire region. Endless livestock grazed across the lush land, the water flowed from within the heart of Caesar Philipi- its source lay within a cave, where the spring emerged from hades. From the gate of hades, it flowed through the area and flowed into the Jordan river.

These easterners might believe this is strength- But what is this compared to marble? And what was marble compared with an empire?

An empire was something any man with enough strength or knowledge could wield and claim for himself. Rome was an invitation: take up her sword and use it for yourself. Who was greatest—the man who built the city, the god who created the lush land upon which the city stood, or the man who held the seven stars in his hands?

It was Caesar.

So, what had I given my life to? Worshiping Pan at the gateway to Hades? No. Becoming a slave beneath Rome’s boot, as Herod was? Never. I had chosen, in the spirit of Rome, to become Roman—to dominate. I would not be dominated like a sheep or a slave.

Taking up arms, I became a soldier in Herod’s forces.

There were no Roman legions in the area, but I might still amass enough wealth to purchase citizenship. One was usually born a citizen, but one could also bribe his way into citizenship. First, however, I had to work my way up through the system.

I began as an ordinary soldier. During my early years, I spent much of my time policing the wealthy Nabataeans. I knew how to intimidate people and use my natural strength. I worked hard every day, grinding it out.

I was a foot taller than most men and broad-shouldered. With every promotion came more praise, more money, and more slaves. More. Every new season I wondered when I might finally have enough to bribe my way into citizenship.

Eventually, I was promoted to centurion. I was assigned to the cohort stationed in Galilee, in Capernaum. It had been more than twenty years since the last Galilean revolt, but still Herod demanded us there to be a reminder to them.

I demanded respect everywhere I went. I struck fear into the soldiers under my command and even into my slaves. I was making more money than ever before—thousands of denarii each year. A common soldier could not ponder my riches and pride.

To be a centurion in Capernaum- working my way up, I had to learn about the people I was expected to dominate.

At first, I did not think much of them. I had heard how strange the Galileans were. This sect of their Jewish brethren seemed even stranger than the Jews themselves. Everyone throughout the Roman Empire knew how peculiar the Jews were. Even the divine Augustus could not make them conform and join us, despite the concessions he had made for them.

Capernaum was nothing compared with Caesarea Philippi. While we had endless livestock in Caesarea, they had sardines. While we had the source of the river and all its strength, they had only a lake fed by it. Yet they did not seek to dominate the lake or find its source. We had marble, and they had dirt.

I had traveled down the Jordan to the “comfort of Nahum.”  I ruminated with disdain- “What comfort could be found here?”

As the days passed, with less fighting and less moving up the ladder- as my will softened, confusion followed. It was not only Capernaum that confused me, but also the Galileans and the Jews.

What followed next was depression. I was no longer moving up. I was no longer amassing more wealth. Dominating the soldiers I led felt good, but even that lost flavor. Only my curiosity saved me from my depression.

I turned my eyes to how they dressed, attaching little knots to the ends of their garments. They spoke highly of their women. Every seventh day, they stopped working. They praised their God. They left the corners of their fields uncut while widows and the poor gathered what remained in the harvest seasons.

Year after year- as a centurion, I watched every day. I watched their weekly and monthly rhythms, their festivals, their debates, their fishing—all of it.

I was perplexed by their contentment with what I considered weakness. My strength had brought me here, but no further.

On one Sabbath—not a holiday, with nothing special going on—I saw a man walking toward the Sea of Galilee.

His name was Nicodemus. He was a teacher held in high regard and an elder among the people.

I called out to him.

“Jew, why do you do this today?”

Nicodemus answered with a twinkle in his eye. “Julius, if only you asked me that every Sabbath.”

“But you do not do this every day. Why do you do all this on this day? Why is this day unlike any other?”

“Because we are free. Adonai rested and commanded us to rest.”

“You simply stop? What does that accomplish?”- I made no effort to hide my contempt for his answer, but he continued all the same.

“To stop—as El Shaddai did, the One who said to His creation, ‘Enough.’”

“What is left when you stop?”

“As Adonai has revealed in His holy name: breath.”

“Where is an image of this god? You have no temple here. How do you draw out his power?”

“Everything reveals Him.”

“But what about an idol?”

“From the lowest slave to the highest king, every breath they take reveals a bit of Adonai. Now, lift one foot from the ground.”

His demeanor changed in an instant, from playful to commanding.

“What? Who are you to—” I stammered.

“Just do it,” Nicodemus interrupted.

With a deep sigh, I said, “Why not, I suppose.”

Nicodemus watched as I awkwardly lifted one foot from the ground.

“That which is hateful to you, do not do to your neighbor,” he said. “This is the basis of the Torah and of our whole life. Go and study the Torah; the rest is commentary. Good Sabbath.”

I was left in shock, overwhelmed by the insights of this one elder.

So I followed him. He met with the rest of the town near the lake. I tried to listen from a distance, but everything was spoken in Hebrew—a language I had learned only well enough to perform my duties and police the area, even after all these years.

After their Shabbat service, I returned to the barracks. I pondered his teaching: Do not do unto others what you would not want done to you. During my solitary hours, I would lift one foot from the ground and reflect on his words.

But what evidence was there of this god’s power? These were people who had been dominated time and time again. They fished for sardines—what a joke. They did not even have their own king. They had Herod, and before him there had been many other Herods.

And yet, they seemed content—happier than any Herod I had known, or than what I had heard of the gods or Caesar, or even any Roman I had met. Their lives seemed different. Better.

I thought, Our idols and temples do not hold a candle to what the lowest person here possesses.

That lit an idea within me—something stirred in my soul.

The next day, I went to Nicodemus and asked him to act as my delegate. I would build them a temple.

He informed me that they did not build temples in that manner, but that they would accept a synagogue.

I agreed.

I saw the joy that came over them when I did this. I also saw the joy it sparked in me. Even though I held authority over them, I found it better to lift them up—to care for them, defend them, and advocate for them.

I instructed my soldiers on how to treat these people:

“Do not do unto them what you would not want done to you.”

My slave, Felix, taught me the most. If I were a slave, I would not want to be mistreated. So I gave him extra food. I did not dominate or abuse him.

I noticed what this work had done in me. My men were no longer afraid of me. They had become my friends. When I sat in the synagogue, a man named Zebedee would occasionally help educate me about a word or phrase after the service, even though he did not sit with me.

As for Felix, I noticed something growing in my heart—a longing for his support and friendship. That maybe he gives me more than I give him.

I also noticed the joy of the people in Capernaum. My friends, the soldiers under my command, no longer abused the Jews. And Felix was happy.

One day, however, Felix became sick. I didn’t know what to do—I would have done anything.

So I ran to find Nicodemus. He told me about a teacher he had heard of—a man who was healing people. He was from Galilee, too. “A famous teacher,” Nicodemus said. “Someone who teaches from the same traditions that have impacted you.”

I begged him to go and advocate on my behalf.

After he left, I called for my friends—the soldiers I led—and sent them after him. I did not want Nicodemus to disgrace himself by lowering himself to enter a Roman home.

So I wait, listening for word of whether this rabbi will heal Felix.