Name, Rank and Serial Number, right?
OK, I am Cornelius, Centurion of the Italian Band, Roman Foreign
Legion, serial #: MMCMXXXIV
I was in charge of funeral escort back in Rome. That is the softest duty a legionnaire can draw. Whenever there was a state funeral, we went ahead of the procession and cleared the road, stopped traffic at intersections, and made sure everybody showed proper respect for the deceased.
Then, one day I got a note in my in-box that Caesar wanted to see me. I did not know what to think; that never happened before. I put on a clean uniform, shined my brass and hustled right on over to the Admin Building.
I didn’t have to wait very long. Security guards took me right into the imperial office. I snapped to attention and saluted. I couldn’t believe I was standing before Tiberius
Caesar himself. “At ease, soldier,” he said, “I’ve been hearing some good things about you, Cornelius.” A wave of relief engulfed me and I replied, “Thank you, Sir! I try to do my best.” Then he continued, “I hear that you are real good at crowd control. Just yesterday a senator mentioned how well you handled a procession: courteous, but firm.” This was sounding more and more like I was going to get a commendation.
Then he smiled and dropped the other sandal, “I need a man like you for a special assignment.” I said, “I am ready to do my duty for my country, sir.” He continued, “I need to beef up the security cohort in Caesarea, in Palestine.” I was dumfounded. That’s a frontier province, worse than Siberia. I stammered, “Uh, isn’t that under the jurisdiction of the local
Samaritan National Guard and Syrian mercenaries?”
Caesar dismissed that observation with a wave of his hand and said, “Normally, it is, but I’ve got a situation down there right now. You know Pontius Pilate is the Procurator of
Judea. That fool has provoked the locals to the point of riot.
He paraded right into Jerusalem flying legion ensigns with my picture on them. The Jews would rather die than see that happen. He has some kind of feud going with Herod Antipas, my tetrarch in Galilee. Worst of all, his wife, Claudia Procula, is mixed up with some local sect that thinks Jesus of Nazareth is some kind of Jewish messiah. It’s a royal mess down there.”
I said, “Well, sir, I really hate to turn you down, but
I’m not qualified for the job. We just do funeral procession escort.” The smile disappeared, he squinted and his lips got thin. He said, “Cornelius, I have been hearing some bad things about you too.” I thought, “Uh-oh, that’s not good.” I stiffened back to attention and got a frog in my throat.
He said, “Specifically, I have been trying to upgrade the state religion and you have been undermining my efforts.” I said, “But Sir, the state religion is the worship of Jupiter, Diana, Captain Marvel, and Superman; characters out of funny books. Even the pontifex maximus jokes about them.” Haughtily, he said, “I’m talking about the Roman tradition that divinity resides in the title of Caesar. You all have been snickering in the barracks about my divinity. Well, I’m sick and tired of it, so I’m packing the lot of you off to Judea. The Jews down there have gone to seed on religion. Maybe there you will find your god. Dismissed!”
Caesar was right about one thing. I was looking for
God. I had been looking for Him a long time. I would know Him when I found Him. He would be looking for me. He would have the answer to my question: “What am
I doing here?”
At Caesarea, my neighbors were devout Jews. I started going to synagogue with them. That was a place where they read their book. The book was called the
Torah. It provided the only possible logical answer to my question: We were created by the one true, holy, unchanging, eternal, self-existent God for Himself. The book even recorded His name: I AM.
The book contained a perfect law of right and wrong.
It was a Manual to Live By, and us military types are big on manuals. I tried to live by the book. I really did. Just couldn’t do it all the time.
They had all the answers, and they shared them with me freely. I came to know about God by way of the book.
I gratefully embraced their philosophy, though not their rituals. I was what they called a God-fearing Roman. I wasn’t the only one. Pilgrims came from Ethiopia, Asia,
Europe, and everywhere seeking God.
I found God, and He blessed me. One afternoon about
3:00 o’clock while I was praying, an angel visited me.
The angel said, “There is a man named Peter at Joppa you must see. He will tell you what to do.” I sent my best men to fetch this man Peter. When he arrived, he said the angel had visited him too. It seems that God had chosen me to be the first person outside of the Hebrew world to hear His message. It seems that God chose Peter to be the one to bring that message to me.
When Peter spoke, I understood the majesty, the simplicity, and the mystery of life and death, and of God and man. God created us, but we got lost in the sins of the world. Jesus Christ, God’s Son, the One promised in the book, found us, forgave us, redeemed us, and reconciled us with our Father. I understood. God loves us, even me.
That was His message and it changed everything. I believed, confessed, and at Peter’s hands received the gift of the Holy Spirit and was baptized. I was the first Roman to become a Christian.
I don’t think Peter fully comprehended until that moment how big the world really was.
Barto Fanning @ 2006