"A Soldier’s Letter Home"
Dr. Bill Groover
Copyright 1997
From Claudius, son of Marcus, Legionnaire in the Imperial Army of Caesar--former Legionnaire in the Imperial Army of Caesar. To my beloved parents and family in Neapolis. May this letter find you in good health and prospering.
Please forgive me if you feel I have brought shame upon our household, but I have resigned from Caesar’s army. I trust after reading my story you will agree I did the only thing I could. This decision was not made suddenly, but after almost two months of constant heart searching, anguish, and desire. I do have plans of returning home, for I have work there to do--telling people about the change I have experienced. But first, I must remain here for a season. There is much I must learn.
Please listen lovingly to my story as I explain the history of why I left the Imperial Army.
I volunteered for duty in Judea like many other soldiers, expecting adventure and rewards. The promise of a parcel of land to call my own upon retirement was indeed appealing. I looked forward to my career with hope and anticipation. But from the very first, I hated this country. I wondered why anyone would fight for this god-forsaken wilderness. The countryside was rocky and barren, nothing like the beautiful green hillsides of Southern Italy. And we all hated the Jews. We called them ignorant little people, too dumb to remember the name of but one god.
I was determined never to volunteer for anything again. I would spend my time, almost serve my sentence, and retire.
But three months ago I volunteered for a detail.
The Jews were going to have another of their endless holidays. "Passover" they called it; we called it "pass out" because of the number of them who would celebrate by getting drunk. We were going to be on alert anyway--there was always the treat of an uprising, but especially during holidays. Pilate had announced plans to crucify three prisoners, just to remind the Jews who was in control.
One of the prisoners was named Barabbas. He had killed one of our soldiers, so we all wanted to be on the execution detail that got to kill him. I was angrily glad when I was selected. Then I was just angry when Pilate decided to play politics with the Jews.
The Jewish Priests brought a prisoner of their own to Pilate, a traveling holy man named "Jesus." It was obvious the Priests were jealous of this man’s following and reputation. It was claimed that he was the Son of God and a miracle worker who could heal the blind and deaf, and even raise the dead. Pilate hoped he could have this Jesus beaten and that would satisfy the Jews, allow them to feel powerful, and force Jesus into retirement.
Since I was already on execution detail, I was there at the barracks courtyard when the beating took place. I enjoyed watching these beatings when I first came to Judea. I hated the Jews so much for forcing me to be there that I felt like all Jews should experience the whip. But after seeing several whippings, I lost my stomach for such. You need to understand exactly how brutal these affairs can be. A veteran soldier, an expert with the whip, will take a nine thonged whip and administer thirty-nine lashes. Forty lashes is the maximum allowed by law. At the end of each of the nine thongs is a piece of sharp metal or broken bone, carefully affixed in such a way as to dig into the flesh of its victim. Once the leather is laid across the prisoner’s back and the end pieces have dug into the flesh, the soldiers know exactly how to jerk the whip back so as to tear the maximum amount of meat from the bones. You can imagine what a bloody mess these beatings become and why even a soldier such as myself had seen all he wanted after only a few of these scourgings.
So Jesus was sent to be scourged. And I watched. I watched first as the younger troops took out their frustrations on him. Since the Jewish Priests charged him with claiming to be a king, the troops gave him a crown, made of thorns, some of which were almost two inches long, and a reed for a scepter. They laughed and mocked him and spat upon him. I took no part in this merriment; when you’ve killed as many in battle as I, and have come as close to being killed as I, you no longer mock your enemies.
After the beating, Pilate wanted to release Jesus. The Priests insisted he be crucified. So Pilate turned to the crowd to let them make the decision (good Roman democracy!). To his surprise the crowd called for Barabbas to be released and Jesus to be crucified in his place. And it was so ordered.
When Jesus was turned over to us, we decided: "If you are to die in Barabbas’ place, we will do to you everything we had planned to do to Barabbas!" Thus instead of tying Jesus to his cross, we nailed him to his cross--just to increase his pain.
Pilate had ordered a sign to be hung over his head saying, "Jesus of Nazareth, the King of the Jews." The crowd, even the other prisoners, mocked him and insulted him.
Then some very strange things began happening. First, we noticed Jesus’ attitude. He was resigned to all that took place, as if he had deserved the torture he was given. He said not a word, never begged for mercy, and never vented his own anger at us. Instead, he prayed for everyone to be forgiven. He said, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do." When he said that, I drew my sword and turned, expecting to see his father charging on a suicide mission to free his son. But there was no father. He was praying to his God.
We always offer the prisoners wine mixed with gall, a poison, to kill the pain and hasten death. Not that we care how much pain they suffer, we just want to finish sooner. But this Jesus refused. I thought, "The fool. He’ll beg us for pure gall in a short time." He never did.
Then even one of the Jewish scum we were crucifying with him asked for forgiveness, and he granted it. As we watched this scene, and we read the words we had placed over his head, we began to believe them. Even though he hung there, naked, nailed to a cross, so much flesh torn from his body he was hardly recognizable as a human, he hung with more dignity than Pilate ever had when he inspected his troops. It was as though he were in control of all he surveyed.
One of the few benefits to being on crucifixion detail is the right to the victim’s possessions. We divided everything amongst ourselves, but we could divide his robe. It was a beautiful, seamless garment. So we gambled for it. I lost.
His Mother and some other women came to weep for him, but most of his male followers hid--afraid we would crucify them, too.
Then the strangest things happened. Suddenly the sun was blotted from the sky. The very earth shook as he cried out, "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?" And then, "Father, into thy hands I commit my spirit."
Even our Centurion, one of the toughest, meanest soldiers I have ever known, said, "Truly this man was the Son of God!"
The Jews were now in a hurry for the executions to be over so they could precede with their worship (how ironic!). So our Centurion gave us the order to break legs.
We often break the legs of prisoners being crucified so they will die quicker. They are hung on the cross in such a way as they have to push themselves up with their legs, taking the weight of their bodies off their outstretched arms, in order to breath. When their legs are broken, they can’t push up, and they soon suffocate. Soldiers on crucifixion details pride themselves with how effortlessly they can break the longest bone in a man’s body, his upper leg. Some slip their spear between the man’s legs and twist them till they snap. Others strike each leg, and try to break the bones with a flick of their wrist.
We watched as the other soldiers broke the legs of the two prisoners. But when it came my turn to break Jesus’ legs, I saw he was already dead. But even if you are an expert on death, having seen it as many times as you have seen your own face in a mirror, you don’t tell a Centurion, "I believe he was dead." You make sure. So I took my spear, placed the point right under Jesus’ rib cage, and I thrust it into his chest until blood and water drained from his heart. He was dead. Killed by an expert, killed to the satisfaction of a Roman Centurion!
Normally at this point, our job is done. We leave the bodies for display and to feed the carrion birds. But, like I said, this execution was political. So we waited while our Centurion reported in.
He returned confused. He said he had never seen Pilate in such a state of mind. He couldn’t tell if our Governor was grieving for Jesus, having been deeply touched, or if he was depressed over having allowed himself to be so used by the Priests. We had been ordered to stay with the corpse. It appeared the Jews were afraid someone would steal the body.
We stood nearby as Jewish peasants lowered Jesus’ body from the cross and carried him to a tomb. Several men were needed to roll a huge stone in front of the tome. We thought surely now our job was over, but no. We were ordered to keep watch until relieved.
That night and the next day, all was quiet in the cemetery. The Jews were all busy celebrating. It was early Sunday morning that the strangest thing happened. Just before dawn I was awakened by the sound of the heavy stone rolling away from the tomb. I jumped up, wondering why my fellow soldiers who were supposed to be awake had not sounded the alarm. They were just standing on either side of the tomb like statues. Two men, both as bright as though they were carrying torches (though I could see none) suddenly appeared and walked into the tomb. I drew my sword and started in after them. "If you want in the tomb, so be it! You’ll die there and save us the trouble of carrying you in!" But I, too, was frozen in my tracks. I couldn’t move a muscle to so much as sound an alarm myself. I could only watch.
First, the two came back out, but with a third--him! It was Jesus, walking and standing tall as though nothing had happened! Then a couple of women came running up, followed by a couple of men. Within moments, they left and Jesus disappeared. Only then were we all able to move.
All the commotion had awoken our Centurion, who was now able to move as well. He knew immediately how little our lives were now worth. We had been ordered to guard a corpse that was now gone; we had failed. Our bodies would be the next thrown into open graves! Before any could run for freedom, he ordered us into formation and marched us to the barracks. We stayed under guard while he informed Pilate and the Jewish Priests.
The Priests were not surprised, only scarred! They paid our Centurion and us to tell people Jesus’ followers had taken his body. Pilate, on the other hand, seemed relieved! Instead of ordering our execution, he simply said, "Go, and tell no one!" And we were absolved! Free!
But were we? We had been the ones to kill Jesus. Now, he was alive! Surely if he was alive, the first people he would want to see would be us--his executioners! We hated the irony that Pilate had spared us only to be executed by a Jewish holy man.
It was at this moment I realized what had been in the back of my mind ever since reading the sign over his head. "I wish my king so as brave as this one. I wish my king were as forgiving as this one. I wish my king were as regal . . .. I wish this man was my king." I no longer wanted to be in the Roman Imperial Army, I wanted to be in this condemned Jewish king’s army! I wanted to serve him. But how? Especially now that I would probably be executed by him.
How could I serve him? How could I pledge my loyalty to him? If he prayed, "Father, forgive them," could I really be forgiven, too?
I got my answer almost two months later. It had been fifty days since
that crucifixion, and time for yet another holy day: Pentecost. The Jews were filling Jerusalem, and we were on alert again.
I was on patrol not far from the Jewish Temple when suddenly the followers of Jesus appeared, but not with swords looking for his enemies. Instead they appeared preaching, and telling everyone they needed to pledge allegiance to the Kingdom of God. The thing that first amazed me was that these Jewish peasants spoke Latin that would rival Cicero. I commented on their Latin to the soldier who was with me. He, being from a village outside Athens, mocked me for claiming classical Greek to be Latin! Within a few minutes we realized--everyone hear these men preaching in their own native tongues. Truly it was a miracle of God!
One of Jesus’ followers, who I later learned was named Peter, was asked, "How can we join the Kingdom of God?" He answered, "Repent and be baptized for the forgiveness of sins!"
Being keenly aware of the extent of my own sins, having executed Jesus, and being most anxious to serve him in anyway I could, I was among the first to shout, "I repent! I repent! Only let me follow him!"
Thus having sworn allegiance to another, I could no longer serve Caesar. In the weeks that have followed, I have turned in my uniform and my sword. I am in an army that fights with prayer, not spears, and whose enemy is sin, not foreign soldiers.
Dear parents, I hope you can understand all I am telling you, though I know it is hard to believe. But when you see me, and you see the change in my life, I think you will believe me. I pray when you do, you will join me in saying, "Jesus of Nazareth is King of Kings, and Lord of Lords!"
