_THE FAITH OF THE CENTURION._
LUKE vii. 1-10.
Our Evangelist prefaces the narrative of the healing of the centurion's
servant with one of his characteristic time-marks, the shadow upon his
dial-plate being the shadow of the new mount of God: "After He had ended
all His sayings in the ears of the people, He entered into Capernaum."
The language is unusually weighty, almost solemn, as if the Sermon on
the Mount were not so much a sermon as a manifesto, the formal
proclamation of the kingdom of heaven. Our word "ended," too, is
scarcely an equivalent of the original word, whose underlying idea is
that of fullness, completion. It is more than a full-stop to point a
sentence; it is a word that characterizes the sentence itself,
suggesting, if not implying, that these "sayings" of His formed a
complete and rounded whole, a body of moral and ethical truth which was
perfect in itself. The Mount of Beatitudes thus stands before us as the
Sinai of the New Testament, giving its laws to all peoples and to all
times. But how different the aspect of the two mounts! Then the people
dare not touch the mountain; now they press close up to the "Prophet
like unto Moses" to hear the word of God. Then the Law came in a cluster
of restrictions and negations; it now speaks in commands most positive,
in principles permanent as time itself; while from this new Sinai the
clouds have disappeared, the thunders ceased, leaving a sky serene and
bright, and a heaven which is strangely near.
Returning to Capernaum--which city, after the ejection from Nazareth,
became the home of Jesus, and the centre of His Galilean ministry--He
was met by a deputation of Jewish elders, who came to intercede with Him
on behalf of a centurion whose servant was lying dangerously ill and
apparently at the point of death. The narrative thus gives us, as its
_dramatis personæ_, the Sufferer, the Intercessor, and the Healer.
As we read the story our thought is arrested, and naturally so, by the
central figure. The imposing shadow of the centurion so completely fills
our range of vision that it throws into the background the nameless one
who in his secret chamber is struggling vainly in the tightening grip of
death. But who is he who can command such a service? around whose couch
is such a multitude of ministering feet? who is he whose panting breath
can throw over the heart of his master, and over his face, the
ripple-marks of a great sorrow, which sends hither and thither, as the
wind tosses the dry leaves, soldiers of the army, elders of the Jews,
friends of the master, and which makes even the feet of the Lord hasten
with His succour?
"And a certain centurion's servant, who was dear unto him, was sick and
at the point of death." Such is the brief sentence which describes a
character, and sums up the whole of an obscure life. We are not able to
define precisely his position, for the word leaves us in doubt whether
he were a slave or a servant of the centurion. Probably--if we may throw
the light of the whole narrative upon the word--he was a confidential
servant, living in the house of his master, on terms of more than usual
intimacy. What those terms were we may easily discover by opening out
the word "dear," reading its depths as well as its surface-meaning. In
its lower sense it means "valuable," "worth-y" (putting its ancient
accent upon the modern word). It sets the man, not over against the
tables of the Law, but against the law of the tables, weighing him in
the balances of trade, and estimating him by the scale of commercial
values. But in this meaner, worldly mode of reckoning he is not found
wanting. He is a servant proved and approved. Like Eliezer of old, he
has identified himself with his master's interests, listening for his
voice, and learning to read even the wishes which were unexpressed in
words. Adjusting his will to the higher will, like a vane answering the
currents of the wind, his hands, his feet, and his whole self have swung
round to fall into the unit of his master's purpose. Faithful in his
service, whether that service were under the master's eye or not, and
faithful alike in the great and the little things, he has entered into
his master's confidence, and so into his joy. Losing his own
personality, he is content to be something between a cipher and a unit,
only a "hand." But he is the master's right hand, strong and ever ready,
so useful as to be almost an integral part of the master's self, without
which the master's life would be incomplete and strangely bereaved. All
this we may learn from the lower meaning of the phrase "was dear unto
him."
But the word has a higher meaning, one that is properly rendered by our
"dear." It implies esteem, affection, transferring our thought from the
subject to the object, from the character of the servant to the
influence it has exerted upon the master, The word is thus an index, a
barometrical reading, measuring for us the pressure of that influence,
and recording for us the high sentiments of regard and affection it has
evoked. As the trees around the pond lean towards the water which laves
their roots, so the strong soul of the centurion, drawn by the
attractions of a lowly but a noble life, leans toward, until it leans
upon, his servant, giving him its confidence, its esteem and love, that
golden fruitage of the heart. That such was the mutual relation of the
master and the servant is evident, for Jesus, who read motives and heard
thoughts, would not so freely and promptly have placed His miraculous
power at the disposal of the centurion had his sorrow been only the
selfish sorrow of losing what was commercially valuable. To an appeal of
selfishness, though thrown forward and magnified by the sounding-boards
of all the synagogues, the ears of Jesus would have been perfectly deaf;
but when it was the cry of a genuine sorrow, the moan of a vicarious
pain, an unselfish, disinterested grief, then the ears of Jesus were
quick to hear, and His feet swift to respond.
It is impossible for us to define exactly what the sickness was, though
the statement of St. Matthew that it was "palsy," and that he was
"grievously tormented," would suggest that it might be an acute case of
inflammatory rheumatism. But whatever it might be, it was a most
painful, and as every one thought a mortal sickness, one that left no
room for hope, save this last hope in the Divine mercy. But what a
lesson is here for our times, as indeed for all times, the lesson of
humanity! How little does Heaven make of rank and station! Jesus does
not even see them; He ignores them utterly. To His mind Humanity is one,
and the broad lines of distinction, the impassable barriers Society is
fond of drawing or setting up, to Him are but imaginary meridians of the
sea, a name, but nothing more. It is but a nameless servant of a
nameless master, one, too, of many, for a hundred others are ready, with
military precision, to do that same master's will; but Jesus does not
hesitate. He who voluntarily took upon Himself the form of a servant, as
He came into the world "not to be ministered unto, but to minister," now
becomes the Servant of a servant, saying to him who knew only how to
obey, how to serve, "Here am I; command Me; use Me as thou wilt." All
service is honourable, if we serve not ourselves, but our fellows, and
it is doubly so if, serving man, we serve God too. As the sunshine looks
down into, and strews with flowers, the lowest vales, so the Divine
compassion falls on the lowliest lives, and the Divine grace makes them
sweet and beautiful. Christianity is the great leveller, but it levels
upwards, and if we possess the mind of Christ, His Spirit dwelling and
ruling within, we too, like the great Apostle, shall know no man after
the flesh; the accidents of birth, and rank, and fortune will sink back
into the trifles that they are; for however these may vary, it is an
eternal truth, though spoken by a son of the soil and the heather--
"A man's a man for a' that."
It is not easy to tell how the seed-thought is borne into a heart, there
to germinate and ripen; for influences are subtle, invisible things.
Like the pollen of a flower, which may be carried on the antennæ of some
unconscious insect, or borne into the future by the passing breeze, so
influences which will yet ripen into character and make destinies are
thrown off unconsciously from our common deeds, or they are borne on
the wings of the chance, casual word. The case of the centurion is no
exception. By what steps he has been brought into the clearer light we
cannot tell, but evidently this Pagan officer is now a proselyte to the
Hebrew faith and worship, the window of his soul open towards Jerusalem,
while his professional life still looks towards Rome, as he renders to
Cæsar the allegiance and service which are Cæsar's due. And what a
testimony it is to the vitality and reproductive power of the Hebrew
faith, that it should boast of at least three centurions, in the
imperial ranks, of whom Scripture makes honourable mention--one at
Capernaum; another, Cornelius, at Cæsarea, whose prayers and alms were
had in remembrance of Heaven; and the third in Jerusalem, witnessing a
good confession upon Calvary, and proclaiming within the shadow of the
cross the Divinity of the Crucified. It shows how the Paganism of Rome
failed to satisfy the aspirations of the soul, and how Mars, red and
lurid through the night, paled and disappeared at the rising of the Sun.
Although identifying himself with the religious life of the city, the
centurion had not yet had any personal interview with Jesus. Possibly
his military duties prevented his attendance at the synagogue, so that
he had not seen the cures Jesus there wrought upon the demoniac and the
man with the withered hand. The report of them, however, must soon have
reached him, intimate as he was with the officials of the synagogue;
while the nobleman, the cure of whose sick son is narrated by St. John
(iv. 46), would probably be amongst his personal friends, an
acquaintance at any rate. The centurion "heard" of Jesus, but he could
not have heard had not some one spoken of Him. The Christ was borne
into his mind and heart on the breath of common speech; that is, the
little human word grew into the Divine Word. It was the verbal testimony
as to what Jesus had done that now led to the still greater things He
was prepared to do. And such is the place and power of testimony to-day.
It is the most persuasive, the most effective form of speech. Testimony
will often win where argument has failed, and gold itself is
all-powerless to extend the frontiers of the heavenly kingdom until it
is melted down and exchanged for the higher currency of speech. It is
first the human voice crying in the wilderness, and then the incarnate
Word, whose coming makes the wilderness to be glad, and the desert
places of life to sing. And so, while a sword of flame guards the
Paradise Lost, it is a "tongue" of flame, that symbol of a perpetual
Pentecost, which calls man back, redeemed now, to the Paradise Restored.
If Christians would only speak more for Christ; if, shaking off that
foolish reserve, they would in simple language testify to what they
themselves have seen, and known, and experienced, how rapidly would the
kingdom come, the kingdom for which we pray, indeed, but for which,
alas, we are afraid to speak! Nations then would be born in a day, and
the millennium, instead of being the distant or the forlorn hope it is,
would be a speedy realization. We should be in the fringe of it
directly. It is said that on one of the Alpine glaciers the guides
forbid travellers to speak, lest the mere tremor of the human voice
should loosen and bring down the deadly avalanche. Whether this be so or
not, it was some unnamed voice that now sent the centurion to Christ,
and brought the Christ to him.
It was probably a sudden relapse, with increased paroxysms of pain, on
the part of the sufferer, which now decided the centurion to make his
appeal to Jesus, sending a deputation of Jewish elders, as the day was
on the wane, to the house to which Jesus had now returned. They make
their request that "He would come and save the servant of the centurion,
who was now lying at the point of death." True advocates, and skilful,
were these elders. They made the centurion's cause their own, as if
their hearts had caught the rhythmic beat of his great sorrow, and when
Jesus held back a little--as He often did, to test the intensity of the
desire and the sincerity of the suppliant--"they besought Him
earnestly," or "kept on beseeching," as the tense of the verb would
imply, crowning their entreaty with the plea, "He is worthy that Thou
shouldest do this, for he loveth our nation, and himself built us our
synagogue." Possibly they feared--putting a Hebrew construction upon His
sympathies--that Jesus would demur, and perhaps refuse, because their
client was a foreigner. They did not know, what we know so well, that
the mercy of Jesus was as broad as it was deep, knowing no bounds where
its waves of blessing are stayed. But how forceful and prevalent was
their plea! Though they knew it not, these elders do but ask Jesus to
illustrate the words He has just spoken, "Give, and it shall be given
unto you." And had not Jesus laid this down as one of the laws of mercy,
that action and reaction are equal? Had He not been describing the orbit
in which blessings travel, showing that though its orbit be apparently
eccentric at times, like the boomerang, that wheels round and comes back
to the hand that threw it forward, the mercy shown will eventually come
back to him who showed it, with a wealth of heavenly usury? And so
their plea was the one of all others to be availing. It was the precept
of the mount evolved into practice. It was, "Bless him, for he has
richly blessed us. He has opened his hand, showering his favours upon
us; do Thou open Thine hand now, and show him that the God of the
Hebrews is a God who hears, and heeds, and helps."
It has been thought, from the language of the elders, that the synagogue
built by the centurion was the only one that Capernaum possessed; for
they speak of it as "the" synagogue. But this does not follow, and
indeed it is most improbable. They might still call it "the" synagogue,
not because it was the only one, but because it was the one foremost and
uppermost in their thought, the one in which they were particularly
interested. The definite article no more proves this to be the only
synagogue in Capernaum than the phrase "the house" (ver. 10) proves the
house of the centurion to be the only house of the city. The fact is
that in the Gospel age Capernaum was a busy and important place, as
shown by its possessing a garrison of soldiers, and by its being the
place of custom, situated as it was on the great highway of trade. And
if Jerusalem could boast of four hundred synagogues, and Tiberias--a
city not even named by the Synoptists--fourteen, Capernaum certainly
would possess more than one. Indeed, had Capernaum been the
insignificant village that one synagogue would imply, then, instead of
deserving the bitter woes Jesus pronounced upon it, it would have
deserved the highest commendation, as the most fruitful field in all His
ministry, giving Him, besides other disciples, a ruler of the Jews and
the commandant of the garrison. That it deserved such bitter "woes"
proves that Capernaum had a population both dense and, in the general,
hostile to Jesus, compared with which His friends and adherents were a
feeble few.
In spite of the negative manner Jesus purposely showed at the first, He
fully intended to grant all the elders had asked, and allowing them now
to guide Him, He "went with them." When, however, they were come near
the house, the centurion sent other "friends" to intercept Jesus, and to
urge Him not to take any further trouble. The message, which they
deliver in the exact form in which it was given to them, is so
characteristic and exquisitely beautiful that it is best to give it
entire: "Lord, trouble not Thyself: for I am not worthy that Thou
shouldest come under my roof: wherefore neither thought I myself worthy
to come unto Thee: but say the word, and my servant shall be healed. For
I also am a man set under authority, having under myself soldiers: and I
say to this one, Go, and he goeth; and to another, Come, and he cometh;
and to my servant, Do this, and he doeth it."
The narrative of St. Matthew differs slightly from that of St. Luke, in
that he omits all reference to the two deputations, speaking of the
interview as being personal with the centurion. But St. Matthew's is
evidently an abbreviated narrative, and he passes over the
intermediaries, in accordance with the maxim that he who acts through
another does it _per se_. But both agree as to the terms of the message,
a message which is at once a marvel and a rebuke to us, and one which
was indeed deserving of being twice recorded and eulogized in the pages
of the Gospels.
And how the message reveals the man, disclosing as in a transparency the
character of this nameless foreigner! We have already seen how broad
were his sympathies, and how generous his deeds, as he makes room in
his large heart for a conquered and despised people, at his own cost
building a temple for the exercises of their faith. We have seen, too,
what a wealth of tenderness and benevolence was hiding beneath a
somewhat stern exterior, in his affection for a servant, and his anxious
solicitude for that servant's health. But now we see in the centurion
other graces of character, that set him high amongst those "outside
saints" who worshipped in the outer courts, until such time as the veil
of the Temple was rent in twain, and the way into the Holiest was opened
for all. And what a beautiful humility is here! what an absence of
assumption or of pride! Occupying an honoured position, representing in
his own person an empire which was world-wide, surrounded by troops of
friends, and by all the comforts wealth could buy, accustomed to speak
in imperative, if not in imperious ways, yet as he turns towards Jesus
it is with a respectful, yea, a reverential demeanour. He feels himself
in the presence of some Higher Being, an unseen but august Cæsar. Nay,
not in His presence either, for into that audience-chamber he feels that
he has neither the fitness nor the right to intrude. All that he can do
is to send forward his petition by the hands of worthier advocates, who
have access to Him, while he himself keeps back out of sight, with bared
feet standing by the outer gate. Others can speak well and highly of
him, recounting his noble deeds, but of himself he has nothing good to
say; he can only speak of self in terms of disparagement, as he
emphasizes his littleness, his unworthiness. Nor was it with him the
conventional hyperbole of Eastern manners; it was the language of
deepest, sincerest truth, when he said that he was not worthy even to
speak with Christ, or to receive such a Guest beneath his roof. Between
himself and the One he reverently addressed as "Lord" there was an
infinite distance; for one was human, while the Other was Divine.
And what a rare and remarkable faith! In his thought Jesus is an
Imperator, commanding all forces, as He rules the invisible realms. His
will is supreme over all substances, across all distances. "Thou hast no
need, Lord, to take any trouble about my poor request. There is no
necessity that Thou shouldest take one step, or even lift up a finger;
Thou hast only to speak the word, and it is done;" and then he gives
that wonderfully graphic illustration borrowed from his own military
life.
The passage "For I also am a man set under authority" is generally
rendered as referring to his own subordinate position under the
Chiliarch. But such a rendering, as it seems to us, breaks the
continuity of thought, and grammatically is scarcely accurate. The whole
passage is an amplification and description of the "word" of ver. 7, and
the "also" introduces something the centurion and Jesus possess in
common, _i.e._, the power to command; for the "I also" certainly
corresponds with the "Thou" which is implied, but not expressed. But the
centurion did not mean to imply that Jesus possessed only limited,
delegated powers; this was farthest from his thought, and formed no part
of the comparison. But let the clause "I also am a man set under
authority" be rendered, not as referring to the authority which is above
him, but to that which is _upon_ him--"I also am vested with authority,"
or "Authority is put upon me"--and the meaning becomes clear. The "also"
is no longer warped into an ungrammatical meaning, introducing a
contrast rather than a likeness; while the clause which follows, "having
under myself soldiers," takes its proper place as an enlargement and
explanation of the "authority" with which the centurion is invested.
The centurion speaks in a soldierly way. There is a crispness and
sharpness about his tones--that shibboleth of militaryism. He says, "My
word is all-powerful in the ranks which I command. I have but to say
'Come,' or 'Go,' and my word is instantly obeyed. The soldier upon whose
ear it falls dare not hesitate, any more than he dare refuse. He 'goes'
at my word, anywhither, on some forlorn hope it may be, or to his
grave." And such is the obedience, instant and absolute, that military
service demands. The soldier must not question, he must obey; he must
not reason, he must act; for when the word of command--that leaded word
of authority--falls upon his ear, it completely fills his soul, and
makes him deaf to all other, meaner voices.
Such was the thought in the centurion's mind, and from the "go" and
"come" of military authority to the higher "word" of Jesus the
transition is easy. But how strong the faith that could give to Jesus
such an enthronement, that could clothe His word with such superhuman
power! Yonder, in his secluded chamber, lies the sufferer, his nerves
quivering in their pain, while the mortal sickness physicians and
remedies have all failed to touch, much less to remove, has dragged him
close up to the gate of death. But this "word" of Jesus shall be
all-sufficient. Spoken here and now, it shall pass over the intervening
streets and through the interposing walls and doors; it shall say to
these demons of evil, "Loose him, and let him go," and in a moment the
torturing pain shall cease, the fluttering heart shall resume its
healthy, steady beat, the rigid muscles shall become pliant as before,
while through arteries and veins the life-blood--its poison all
extracted now--shall regain its healthful, quiet flow. The centurion
believed all this of the "word" of Jesus, and even more. In his heart it
was a word all-potent, if not omnipotent, like to the word of Him who
"spake, and it was done," who "commanded, and it stood fast." And if the
word of Jesus in these realms of life and death was so imperative and
all-commanding, could the Christ Himself be less than Divine?
To find such confidence reposed in Himself was to Jesus something new;
and to find this rarest plant of faith growing up on Gentile soil was a
still greater marvel and turning to the multitude which clustered thick
and eager around, He said to them, "I have not found so great faith, no,
not in Israel." And commending the centurion's faith, He honours it too,
doing all he requested, and even more, though without the "word." Jesus
does not even say "I will," or "Be it so," but He works the instant and
perfect cure by a mere volition. He wills it, and it is done, so that
when the friends returned to the house they found the servant "whole."
Of the sequel we know nothing. We do not even read that Jesus saw the
man at whose faith He had so marvelled. But doubtless He did, for His
heart was drawn strangely to him, and doubtless He gave to him many of
those "words" for which his soul had longed and listened, words in which
were held, as in solution, all authority and all truth. And doubtless,
too, in the after-years, Jesus crowned that life of faithful but unnoted
service with the higher "word," the heavenly "Well done."