Seven Words of Love

Now Gaius turned to the last quaterion. “Bring your man here, in front of this center pole. Hold him tight there, though I doubt this one has much fight left in him. What’s it going to be, Jew? Are you ready to plead for mercy, to renounce your throne and armies? Nothing? Well, we’ll see what the hammer brings forth.” Somewhat unnerved by the silent answering inspection of the prisoner’s deep black eyes, Gaius prepared to work. Positioning a spike over Jesus’ left wrist at the juncture of the radius and ulna bones, he brought down the mallet. “Father!” was the cry of the prisoner, “forgive them!” Again he struck and again the cry, “Father! Forgive them.” He looked at Jesus and in his eyes saw—what? Forgiveness? Tenderness? He had looked upon many who were dying at his hand: Soldiers in the field, stragglers in a mob, enemies of Rome he was executing. In their faces he had seen fear, anger, betrayal, hate, even penitence, but this was different. “I must be losing it along with those two fools,” he decided and struck again, finally seating the spike. Again the cry, but this time was it ‘forgive them’ or ‘forgive him?” He crossed quickly to the other side, wanting more than ever for this to be over with. Jesus’ voice, weak with pain, came to him, “they don’t know what they are doing,” Positioning his spike, he hammered again, and again, with every pound came the cry, “Father! forgive, Father! Forgive” an accompaniment in the music of love to his anvil chorus of hate. Rushing now in an agony of confusion seemingly more painful than his victim’s, he ordered the crosspiece raised, and in the exhalation that accompanied the constriction of the hanging man’s chest he heard again, “they don’t know what they are doing.” As he scooped up the mallet to drive the final nail through the crossed feet, he heard the thud of the hammer and the prisoner’s repeated prayer, “Father! forgive….” It was joined by a wildly pleading scream, “Stop! No! No one can love like this.” The voice was his, and his face was streaked by his own streaming tears. ---------------------------- I can believe in the possibility of the executioner’s outburst precisely because he was a professional soldier. A Roman soldier served a twenty-year obligation and seldom made high rank during that obligated period. I made the Principal, Seiberus, a young man for romantic reasons. Assuming he entered military service at sixteen or seventeen, he would have been at least thirty before he reached even this modest rank, the equivalent of a sergeant in the U.S. Army. A centurion, the equivalent of a sergeant major, would be a veteran of at least thirty years service with a fine combat record and the trust not only of his superiors, but also that of his peers and subordinates. This man would have experienced death and suffering in some of its most grotesque forms. As my critic would point out, he had seen it all before. But on this day, he saw something totally out of line with his experience. Get inside his skin. For thirty-plus years, he had fought the empire’s wars in the eastern provinces. He had battled Parthian warriors, Egyptian rebels and Syrian and Palestinian zealots. Warfare had been face to face, and the hatred and anger of his enemies were branded on his soul. He had seen the slaughter of the innocent and guilty alike, as his legion sought to gain control over these obdurate provinces. He had probably helped to line the roads leading to Jerusalem with the crosses of zealots during the rebellion of Thadeus. Herod’s soldiers had done the deed, but he had no doubt heard the stories of how these barbarians murdered their own children in wholesale lots. He had chased brigands through the hills and quelled riots in the towns. Blood, terror, hate and anger were no strangers to a Centurion. When he began his work that spring morning, everything was normal. What we know of Gemas and Dismas argues against any expectation that either man would have reacted in an unusual manner to his execution. Then Gaius comes to Jesus. He expects more of the same but gets a shock. Hatred he understands; he is offered love. Fear he expects; he is offered sovereign grace. Curses he is used to; even prayers he has heard before; but even the prayers were selfish or sectarian. Here, the prayer offered is for him. At the moment he is doing his worst to a half-dead Jewish rabbi, he sees love in those pain-rimmed eyes and hears the voice of innocence calling out in his behalf. We might conjecture the execution of some brave, strong Spartacus, giving payment to his executioner and accepting pain in stoic silence or a fatalistic highwayman saying on execution hill, “It had to come to this eventually. I bear you no ill will.” This was different. He knew this man was innocent; he had been framed and railroaded. There was good reason to expect fury at the unfairness of his death. “FATHER!” the crack of the mallet had called forth, then the whispered, “forgive them.” Bang! “FATHER! Forgive them.” With every stroke, the words of grace pour forth. Paul instructs the Roman Christians to “love your enemies; it will drive them nuts.” (Romans 12:20, the Gospel of Ernie) Here we have the genesis of his argument. The amazing grace that Jesus showed to his executioner drove him right over the edge.