24/02/2026
I was a centurion. Which means I managed roughly one hundred soldiers and one hundred personalities, and if anything went wrong, Rome did not offer grace. Rome offered consequences. Crucifixions were not spiritual moments for me. They were state policy. They were visual reminders of who held power.
That morning the inscription above His head read exactly what Pilate ordered in John 19:19, “Pilate also wrote an inscription and put it on the cross. It read, ‘Jesus of Nazareth, the King of the Jews.’” We made sure it was visible. If you are going to execute a man claiming kingship, you make the irony public.
My men carried out their assignment. Mark 15:24 says, “And they crucified him and divided his garments among them, casting lots for them, to decide what each should take.” That was normal. Soldiers do not waste good fabric. We gamble for it. We laugh. We keep watch. It is how you make brutality feel routine.
He had already been flogged nearly beyond recognition. Most men at that point scream until their voices fail. Pain usually reveals what is truly inside a person.
This man prayed.
Luke 23:34 records His words, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”
Forgive them.
I have overseen ex*****ons for thieves, rebels, murderers. I have heard threats against Rome and promises of revenge from the grave. I have never heard a man ask heaven to pardon the soldiers driving nails through his wrists.
That was the first crack in my certainty.
The crowd shifted between mockery and discomfort. The religious leaders stood nearby, satisfied. One criminal hurled insults. The other pleaded to be remembered. And the man in the center answered with authority that did not match His condition. Luke 23:43 says, “And he said to him, ‘Truly, I say to you, today you will be with me in paradise.’”
Who grants paradise while suffocating?
Around midday the sky darkened. Luke 23:44–45 says, “It was now about the sixth hour, and there was darkness over the whole land until the ninth hour, while the sun’s light failed.” I have seen storms. I have seen dust swallow the horizon. This felt different. The air itself felt heavy. Even my soldiers stopped their joking.
Then He cried out in a loud voice, quoting words from their Scriptures. Matthew 27:46 says, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” Later, Luke 23:46 records, “Then Jesus, calling out with a loud voice, said, ‘Father, into your hands I commit my spirit!’ And having said this he breathed his last.”
Here is what unsettled me most. Crucifixion takes life slowly. The cross steals breath inch by inch. But when He died, it did not feel stolen. It felt surrendered.
And I said words that were not rehearsed and certainly not politically safe. Mark 15:39 says, “And when the centurion, who stood facing him, saw that in this way he breathed his last, he said, ‘Truly this man was the Son of God.’”
That was me. A Roman officer. A man trained to enforce Caesar’s authority. Declaring divinity at an ex*****on site. I supervised the nails. I confirmed the death. I ensured order was maintained. I did my job well. And yet standing beneath a darkened sky, watching a man die praying for the men killing Him, I realized something I had never considered on any battlefield.
I was not the one with authority.
Rome meant to display strength that day.
Instead we displayed mercy nailed to wood, asking forgiveness for its ex*****oners.
Lent forces us into that uncomfortable space. We prefer to picture ourselves as the grieving mother or the reluctant helper. But many of us are far closer to the centurion. Doing our jobs. Following orders. Participating in systems. Calling it necessary.
I oversaw His ex*****on.
And somehow, impossibly, He was still the One in control.
