People of the Passion: The Centurion
Mark 15:39 And when the centurion, who stood there in front of Jesus, heard his cry and saw how he died, he said, "Surely this man was the Son of God!"
The day had begun as had a hundred others – dreadfully. It was bad enough to be away from beautiful Italy and be stuck in this backwater country of Judea, but it was hell to spend hot afternoons on a rocky hill supervising the death of pickpockets and rabble rousers.
The centurion was a man of discipline and self-restraint, hardened and unemotional. But all around him he witnessed a wild, unrestrained mob-mentality, with the religious leaders whipping the crowd into an emotional, religious frenzy.
Half the crowd taunted. The other half cried. The priests bossed. It was a thankless job usually, but today it was unsettling and dangerous with all the Jews filling the city for their Passover. And now they were riled up. The centurion was ready for the day to be over before it began.
All the attention was centered around the Jew on the center cross. He smirked as he read the sign above the head of the condemned. “The King of the Jews.” Bah! He looked anything but a king. His head was adorned not with gold but with thorns. His hands held no jewelry, instead his hands were held to wood by nails. His face had no beauty, but was puffy and swollen from the beatings. Surely this man was no king.
“Some harmless hick,” mused the centurion. “What could he have done?”
Then Jesus raised His head. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t uneasy. He was in excruciating pain, but there was a silent power in this man. His voice was parched and dry, but there was a strength and authority contained in that voice. His eyes were strangely calm as they stared from behind the bloody mask.
He looked at those who crucified Him and prayed, “Father, forgive them.”
He turned to the criminal who defended Him and comforted him, “Today you will be with me in paradise.”
He took care of His mother who had raised Him by telling a disciple, “Here is your mother.”
He quieted and confused the mob when He cried out to heaven, “My God, why have you forsaken me?”
And then, just for a moment, He looked at the centurion. For a second, the Roman looked into the purest eyes he had ever seen. He didn’t know what that look meant. But the look made him swallow hard and his stomach feel queasy.
Something told him this was not going to be a normal day.
As the hours wore on, the centurion found himself looking more and more at the one hanging on the center cross. He didn’t know what to do with the Nazarene’s silence. He didn’t know what to do with His kindness. He didn’t know what to do with His calmness. He especially didn’t know what to do with His forgiveness. He had never witnessed such a thing.
And then he was perplexed by the darkness. He didn’t know what to make of a black, foreboding sky in mid-afternoon. It was as if a pall had been draped over a coffin. No one could explain it. … no one even tried. One minute the sun … the next darkness. One minute the unbearable heat … the next an unearthly chill.
It was as if even God could not bear to watch.
For a long time, the centurion sat on a rock and stared at the three silhouetted figures. Their heads were limp, occasionally rolling from side to side. The jeering was silent … eerily silent. Those who had wept, now waited.
Suddenly the center head ceased to bob. It yanked itself erect. Its eyes opened in a flash of white. A roar silenced the silence. “It is finished.” It wasn’t a yell. It wasn’t a scream. It was a roar … a lion’s roar. It was the triumphal roar of the Lion of Judah (Revelation 5:5). From what world that roar came from the centurion didn’t know, but he knew it wasn’t from this one.
“It is finished!” “What was finished?” the centurion wondered.
The history-long plan of redeeming mankind was finished. What had begun in Eden was finished at Calvary. The Seed of the woman had crushed the serpent’s head. Though Satan had overcome the world with a tree, Satan had been overcome by the tree of the cross. The tree of death became the tree of life.
The salvation won by God in the flesh was finished. The sacrifice of the Lamb was finished. The justification of mankind was finished. The reconciliation between sinful man and perfect God was finished.
On the sixth day, namely on Friday – God’s Friday, God created man and woman in His image, but sin and Satan marred that perfection and brought death with it. So on the sixth day, namely on Friday – Good Friday – mankind’s Creator died on the cross to bring perfection and life back to His people.
“It is good,” God said on the Friday when He finished creation. “It is finished,” God said on that Good Friday when He had completed all that was necessary for creation’s salvation.
Sin was there on Calvary. Love was there on Calvary. Life was there on Calvary. God was there on Calvary. As God died for us there on Calvary. (CW: 140)
Atonement was made. The ransom was paid. The curtain was torn and entrance into God’s presence was gained.
Hell’s gates had been slammed shut. Heaven’s doors were opened wide.
The song of salvation had been sung. The blood had been poured. The cup of God’s wrath had been emptied. The sting of death had been removed.
“It is finished!” It was not a cry of death. It wasn’t an admission of defeat. It was a statement of fact. It was an acclamation of victory. It was an exclamation of fulfillment. Had His hands not been fastened down, I dare say that a triumphant fist would have been punched into the sky.
These words moved the centurion. He found his heart racing, his hands trembling, his feet shaking – actually the whole earth was moving. It was an earthquake. It was a quaking of his soul. It was a quaking of the world. It was as if the whole earth was convulsing at the death of this man.
The centurion had to get closer to this man on top of Golgotha’s hill. The centurion tried to walk, but he stumbled. He stood and took a few more steps and fell again – this time at the foot of the cross.
He looked up at the face of this one near death. The King looked down at the crusty, cynical centurion. Jesus’ hands were fastened – they couldn’t reach out. His feet were nailed to timber – they couldn’t walk toward him. His head was heavy with pain – he could scarcely move it. But His eyes … His eyes were afire. They were unquenchable.
They were the eyes of God.
The centurion saw the same eyes that had been seen by a near-naked adulteress in Jerusalem, a friendly divorcee in Samaria, a once blind man near the pool of Siloam, and a four-day dead Lazarus in Bethany’s cemetery.
The centurion heard the voice of God. The voice that had called the world into existence. The voice that had calmed the storm and driven out the demons. The voice that had called the dead out of their graves and had forgiven His executioners.
Perhaps these eyes and this voice made the centurion say what he said. “This was no carpenter,” he spoke under his breath. “This was no peasant. This was no normal man.”
He pushed himself off his knees and onto his feet and looked around at the rocks that had fallen and the sky that had darkened. He turned and stared at the soldiers as they, too, stared at Jesus with frozen faces. He turned and watched as the eyes of Jesus lifted and looked toward home. He listened as the parched lips parted and the swollen tongue spoke for the last time.
“Father, into your hands I commit my spirit” (Luke 23:46).
Had the centurion not said it, the soldiers would have. Had the centurion not said it, the stones would have cried it (Luke 19:40). Had the centurion not said it, the angels would have sung it, the stars would have praised it (Psalm 148:3), even the demons would have believed it – and shuddered (James 2:19).
And we would have still preached it and sung it and proclaimed it today.
But he did say it. It fell to a nameless foreigner to state what they all knew.
“Surely this man was the Son of God.” Amen.
Good Friday at Epiphany on April 22, 2011
The day had begun as had a hundred others – dreadfully. It was bad enough to be away from beautiful Italy and be stuck in this backwater country of Judea, but it was hell to spend hot afternoons on a rocky hill supervising the death of pickpockets and rabble rousers.
The centurion was a man of discipline and self-restraint, hardened and unemotional. But all around him he witnessed a wild, unrestrained mob-mentality, with the religious leaders whipping the crowd into an emotional, religious frenzy.
Half the crowd taunted. The other half cried. The priests bossed. It was a thankless job usually, but today it was unsettling and dangerous with all the Jews filling the city for their Passover. And now they were riled up. The centurion was ready for the day to be over before it began.
All the attention was centered around the Jew on the center cross. He smirked as he read the sign above the head of the condemned. “The King of the Jews.” Bah! He looked anything but a king. His head was adorned not with gold but with thorns. His hands held no jewelry, instead his hands were held to wood by nails. His face had no beauty, but was puffy and swollen from the beatings. Surely this man was no king.
“Some harmless hick,” mused the centurion. “What could he have done?”
Then Jesus raised His head. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t uneasy. He was in excruciating pain, but there was a silent power in this man. His voice was parched and dry, but there was a strength and authority contained in that voice. His eyes were strangely calm as they stared from behind the bloody mask.
He looked at those who crucified Him and prayed, “Father, forgive them.”
He turned to the criminal who defended Him and comforted him, “Today you will be with me in paradise.”
He took care of His mother who had raised Him by telling a disciple, “Here is your mother.”
He quieted and confused the mob when He cried out to heaven, “My God, why have you forsaken me?”
And then, just for a moment, He looked at the centurion. For a second, the Roman looked into the purest eyes he had ever seen. He didn’t know what that look meant. But the look made him swallow hard and his stomach feel queasy.
Something told him this was not going to be a normal day.
As the hours wore on, the centurion found himself looking more and more at the one hanging on the center cross. He didn’t know what to do with the Nazarene’s silence. He didn’t know what to do with His kindness. He didn’t know what to do with His calmness. He especially didn’t know what to do with His forgiveness. He had never witnessed such a thing.
And then he was perplexed by the darkness. He didn’t know what to make of a black, foreboding sky in mid-afternoon. It was as if a pall had been draped over a coffin. No one could explain it. … no one even tried. One minute the sun … the next darkness. One minute the unbearable heat … the next an unearthly chill.
It was as if even God could not bear to watch.
For a long time, the centurion sat on a rock and stared at the three silhouetted figures. Their heads were limp, occasionally rolling from side to side. The jeering was silent … eerily silent. Those who had wept, now waited.
Suddenly the center head ceased to bob. It yanked itself erect. Its eyes opened in a flash of white. A roar silenced the silence. “It is finished.” It wasn’t a yell. It wasn’t a scream. It was a roar … a lion’s roar. It was the triumphal roar of the Lion of Judah (Revelation 5:5). From what world that roar came from the centurion didn’t know, but he knew it wasn’t from this one.
“It is finished!” “What was finished?” the centurion wondered.
The history-long plan of redeeming mankind was finished. What had begun in Eden was finished at Calvary. The Seed of the woman had crushed the serpent’s head. Though Satan had overcome the world with a tree, Satan had been overcome by the tree of the cross. The tree of death became the tree of life.
The salvation won by God in the flesh was finished. The sacrifice of the Lamb was finished. The justification of mankind was finished. The reconciliation between sinful man and perfect God was finished.
On the sixth day, namely on Friday – God’s Friday, God created man and woman in His image, but sin and Satan marred that perfection and brought death with it. So on the sixth day, namely on Friday – Good Friday – mankind’s Creator died on the cross to bring perfection and life back to His people.
“It is good,” God said on the Friday when He finished creation. “It is finished,” God said on that Good Friday when He had completed all that was necessary for creation’s salvation.
Sin was there on Calvary. Love was there on Calvary. Life was there on Calvary. God was there on Calvary. As God died for us there on Calvary. (CW: 140)
Atonement was made. The ransom was paid. The curtain was torn and entrance into God’s presence was gained.
Hell’s gates had been slammed shut. Heaven’s doors were opened wide.
The song of salvation had been sung. The blood had been poured. The cup of God’s wrath had been emptied. The sting of death had been removed.
“It is finished!” It was not a cry of death. It wasn’t an admission of defeat. It was a statement of fact. It was an acclamation of victory. It was an exclamation of fulfillment. Had His hands not been fastened down, I dare say that a triumphant fist would have been punched into the sky.
These words moved the centurion. He found his heart racing, his hands trembling, his feet shaking – actually the whole earth was moving. It was an earthquake. It was a quaking of his soul. It was a quaking of the world. It was as if the whole earth was convulsing at the death of this man.
The centurion had to get closer to this man on top of Golgotha’s hill. The centurion tried to walk, but he stumbled. He stood and took a few more steps and fell again – this time at the foot of the cross.
He looked up at the face of this one near death. The King looked down at the crusty, cynical centurion. Jesus’ hands were fastened – they couldn’t reach out. His feet were nailed to timber – they couldn’t walk toward him. His head was heavy with pain – he could scarcely move it. But His eyes … His eyes were afire. They were unquenchable.
They were the eyes of God.
The centurion saw the same eyes that had been seen by a near-naked adulteress in Jerusalem, a friendly divorcee in Samaria, a once blind man near the pool of Siloam, and a four-day dead Lazarus in Bethany’s cemetery.
The centurion heard the voice of God. The voice that had called the world into existence. The voice that had calmed the storm and driven out the demons. The voice that had called the dead out of their graves and had forgiven His executioners.
Perhaps these eyes and this voice made the centurion say what he said. “This was no carpenter,” he spoke under his breath. “This was no peasant. This was no normal man.”
He pushed himself off his knees and onto his feet and looked around at the rocks that had fallen and the sky that had darkened. He turned and stared at the soldiers as they, too, stared at Jesus with frozen faces. He turned and watched as the eyes of Jesus lifted and looked toward home. He listened as the parched lips parted and the swollen tongue spoke for the last time.
“Father, into your hands I commit my spirit” (Luke 23:46).
Had the centurion not said it, the soldiers would have. Had the centurion not said it, the stones would have cried it (Luke 19:40). Had the centurion not said it, the angels would have sung it, the stars would have praised it (Psalm 148:3), even the demons would have believed it – and shuddered (James 2:19).
And we would have still preached it and sung it and proclaimed it today.
But he did say it. It fell to a nameless foreigner to state what they all knew.
“Surely this man was the Son of God.” Amen.
Good Friday at Epiphany on April 22, 2011
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