Easter Sunday 2002; Sermon delivered in Roman Centurion Costume
What a strange religion these followers of Jesus Christ profess. Giving their money to the poor, helping the rejected, believing a virgin can have a son, and that a man raised from the dead. That’s the impression we all have when we hear this story of Jesus.
I was born in a small village in Ittalia. I enjoyed all the benefits of Roman citizenship during my youth. As most young men, I joined the great Roman army after completing my studies under my schoolmaster.
I trained under the strictest military captains and traveled abroad enforcing the great “Pax Romana”. Rome has spread its strength, government, peace and prosperity throughout the Meditteranean world.
After a short tour of duty throughout the beautiful Greek Isles, I was assigned to the tumultuous troubled area of Palestine. I would command a band of 100 soldiers to bring order to this region. This group had resisted Roman rule, despite the temple that had been built for them. This assignment was rumored to be filled with violent uprisings and continual resistence and resentment from the Israelites.
The religion of this region was its most eccentric peculiarity. They believe in only one God, have no religious icons, and worship with strange ceremonies and rituals. The political power of this whole region is controlled by the religious leaders.
Just a few months earlier, the Jewish priests sent a group of our officers to arrest a “heretical treasonist”. I remember standing there for hours that seemed like minutes hearing this itinerant preacher say, “If any man thirst, let him come unto me, and drink. He that believeth on me, as the scripture hath said, out of his belly shall flow rivers of living water.” I stood captivated by His words as I had before no caesar, philosopher, or orator before. He had long left while me and my soldiers remained dumbfounded. When we reported back to the priests, all we could say was “Never before have we heard a man speak like this.”
The religious leaders grew even more frustrated and jealous. It was past midnight and I was summoned to accompany the chief priest to arrest this poor Galilean preacher out in a dark, lonely garden. He was betrayed by one of his followers, and another of his followers cut off the ear of someone with the priests. Strange thing happened though. We asked which one was Jesus of Nazareth and when He said “I AM,” we trembled in horror and fell prostrate on our backs. Penned to the ground by His mighty words, I feared to rise and face this prophet. Was He God, or was He man? My soul was thrust in the crucible of convicting power and I did not know what to do. I pulled on every ounce of strength and courage within my being and rose to my feet. With fear I approached Him, and graciously He allowed me to take Him into custody.
The trial was held quickly and secretly. The leaders demanded his execution, but neither Pilate nor Herod wanted to be responsible. Finally, to appease the priests before their holiday, Pilate washed his hands of the whole matter and turned this innocent, kind, loving man over to be crucified. I oversaw the events that began to transpire.
First, Jesus was ridiculed. Because He was accused of treason, He was crowned with a thorny diadem. He was blindfolded, beaten, spat upon and His beard plucked from His face. Then He was beaten with the deadly, torturous whip called the “cat of nine tails.” The stripes from this whip lashed across His back and separated sinew from flesh, muscle from bone.
He was led up the hill to be crucified. And there worldly justice unraveled, this innocent man, wrongly accused, was being executed. How could this be? I had witnessed and partaken of many crucifixions. I remember my first, nearly a decade earlier. I executed a traitor to Rome who had attempted to poison his governor. It was difficult to drive spikes through a man’s wrist as he screamed in pain and writhed like a serpent. The horror of those nightmare had long grown cold. I had now moved up in rank and crucifixions were not usually done by my hands.
The roar of the crowd, its wild jeering and mockery, the shuffling on the cobblestone streets of Jerusalem, the weeping ladies, the midnight blackness during the noonday hour, and the splattered blood all along the road are all vivid memories that I cannot shake.
Gambling. I must confess that I have become quite engrossed in gaming to pass the time. Whatever few possessions from the criminal we could take, became to the loot for us to gamble over during the hours of execution. That day, there was only one purple robe from the Galilean. And through the luck of the dice, I inherited an ever-haunting memory of that day.
As Jesus hang there, between two thieves, the crowd jeered, the priests cursed, and the sun hid its face. One of the thieves mocked Him. How could this happen? He was not guilty, and I knew it. The crowd knew it. The priests knew it. Herod and Pilate knew it.
How could the priests in their jealousy do this to a holy man?
How could they lead to the slaughter an innocent lamb?
How could they crucify the Great I AM?
How could the world stand by and curse His healing hands?
How could none of His followers with Him stand?
Infuriated with anger, I blamed the Jews, Pilate, and his followers too.
But then I heard Him pray, Father forgive. . .they know not what they do.
What is this love being shown from such a man?
Who is He forgiving? Who would find His merciful plan?
Who was guilty of the crime of His cross?
Who was to blame for this holy life that was lost?
With sorrow and anger, I could hardly stand.
And then I looked down and saw the hammer in my hand.
It was not another who was guiltiest now.
It was none but me who was most sinful in that crowd.
I crucified Him.
I drove the spikes through His skin.
I caused His agony and pain.
But forgiveness, for me, He has prayed.
Then the shadows of darkness fell.
The earth quaked, the air was filled with the stench of hell.
Jesus had fallen into the hands of death.
This prophet had breathed His last breath.
With my spear, I thrust His side.
Out flowed blood and water – a crimson tide.
At that moment, I knew it was true.
He who died on the cross, was my Maker too.
He was more than a man, His Godhood I could see.
It was apparent, if not to the religious, it was to me.
I dropped my head and said, “Surely this man was the Son of God.”
His followers resurfaced and carried Him to a borrowed tomb.
But the religious leaders, with more faith than his followers, knew this man was not through.
So they hired me, to guard the grave, sealed with a stone.
Watch, they said, be certain His body is not stolen.
So me and my men guarded for three days and three nights.
We watched and protected that sealed tomb from dusk until morning light.
But early, early on Sunday morn.
With the sound of an earthquake and the thunder of a storm.
We fell as dead men, my soldier and me.
For out of nowhere, a bright light and an angel we did see.
We trembled, collapsed and fell at their feet.
For in all our strength, their power we could ne’er defeat.
This angelic being rolled the stone away.
That is why, I believe, to this very day.
Jesus is the Son of God, the risen Lord.
His life that I might see my Maker.
His death was for my crimes.
His resurrection for my hope.
HYMNS TO QUOTE before invitation:
Alas and did my Savior bleed
And did my Sov’reign die?
Would he devote that sacred head
for sinners such as I?
Was it for crimes that I had done
He groaned upon the tree?
Amazing pity, grace unknown,
And love beyond degree!
Well might the sun in darkness hide,
And shut His glories in,
When Christ the mighty Maker died
For man, the creature’s sin.
But drops of grief can ne’er repay
The debt of love I owe;
Here, Lord I give myself away,
’Tis all that I can do.
When I survey the wondrous cross,
On which the Prince of glory died,
My richest gain I count but loss,
And pour contempt on all my pride.
Forbid it Lord that I should boast,
Save in the death of Christ my God;
All the vain things that charm me most,
I sacrifice them to His blood.
See, from His head, His hands, His feet,
Sorrow and love flow mingled down;
Did e’er such love and sorrow meet,
Or thorns compose so rich a crown?
Were the whole realm of nature mine,
That were a present far too small;
Love so amazing, so divine,
Demands my soul, my life, my all.
There is a fountain filled with blood
Drawn from Immanuel’s veins;
And sinners plunged beneath that flood
Lose all their guilty stains;
The dying thief rejoiced to see
That fountain in His day;
And there may I, though vile as he,
Wash all my sins away;
THERE WAS FORGIVENESS FOR A HARDENED ROMAN SOLDIER
THERE WAS HOPE FOR A DYING THIEF
THERE WAS MERCY FOR A MOCKING MULTITUDE
THERE WAS RESTORATION FOR A CURSING, BACKSLIDDEN DISCIPLE
THERE IS FORGIVENESS, HOPE, MERCY, AND RESTORATION FROM HIS CROSS FOR YOU TODAY.
