A Soldier Gives His Win
Sermon
The Gifts Of Lent
Sermons And Children's Sermons
My name is Saint Longinus. The ancient traditions of the church say I was martyred in the service of Jesus. I was just Longinus then. You'll remember me for a number of things I did on that Friday of Holy Week: commanding the execution squad, giving Jesus a drink of cheap wine as he hung on the cross dying, confessing that he was the Son of God, and finally piercing him with my lance to ensure that he was dead.
And you wonder why I'm called Saint Longinus? I understand your confusion. I guess I'm best described as your famous Dr. Luther would have put it: simil iustus et peccator, saint and sinner at the same time. Rather like you, I suspect.
I hope you won't hold it against me, that I was there doing what I did. It was just part of my job, a job I had learned to do well after nearly twenty years in the legions of Rome. You could describe me as thoroughly professional. One doesn't rise to the rank of centurion by being otherwise.
In combat, a centurion like myself commanded a company of one hundred soldiers. There were sixty companies to a legion. It was largely through the skill and leadership of men like me that the whole Mediterranean world came under Rome's control and peace was maintained for two hundred years, the Pax Romana, it was called.
After spending half my life in the army, I had killed more men than I care to recall. That Friday I was called upon by the governor, Pontius Pilate, to kill again, three men this time. But please don't think I enjoyed killing other human beings. I killed only in the line of duty -- on the battlefield, or to keep the peace, or to protect the interests of the emperor.
Perhaps some of the conscripts, some of those drafted from the jails or the streets, enjoyed killing and watching someone suffer. But not me or the other centurions I knew. Integrity, loyalty, courage, duty -- these were the qualities of my peers. And yet I inflicted my share of suffering. It was as much my skill in battle that earned me the name Longinus, "the lance," as it was my piercing the side of Jesus.
At the time, whether it was right or wrong to command the death squad was not my concern. Whether I enjoyed or abhorred the job was likewise irrelevant. I did as I was told, and did it without hesitation and with complete efficiency. I was a soldier, a professional.
Oh, don't get me wrong. I was no machine. I was a human being. My aspirations were the same as yours. I planned to stay alive, put in my twenty years, and then retire to the rich farmland the emperor promised veterans like me in places like Asia Minor. But unexpected events can change one's plans, can't they?
My soldiers and I had expected to sleep that night, but Friday I was summoned to the palace. It seems that Jesus had been arrested and tried before the high priest for crimes ranging from threats against the temple to blasphemy, claiming to be the Son of God.
The leaders of the people had found him guilty. From the high priest's house the temple guard and most of the Sanhedrin had taken Jesus to Pontius Pilate, the governor, for sentencing. Death is what they wanted, death by crucifixion.
I arrived in time to hear the charges and the governor's response. It looked more like the scene of a riot than a trial, and that's why we were called in. Those citizens of Jerusalem were a hot-headed bunch, rebellion always seething just beneath the surface.
Why they were so enraged I couldn't understand. The charges seemed absurd -- that Jesus and his little group of followers planned to destroy the temple, a huge structure built of stones as big as houses, that he was opposed to paying taxes (who wasn't?), that he claimed to be a king and the Son of God, but even the emperor was worshipped as a god.
Pilate listened, as best he could amid all the noise, and concluded as any reasonable person would, "This man has done nothing worthy of death." But the people wouldn't be quieted. To dramatize the innocence of Jesus, Pilate even brought out a condemned insurrectionist and murderer, Barabbas. Placing him beside Jesus, Pilate asked, "Which one do you want me to release for you?"
It was obvious which one should die -- that foul criminal Barabbas! Even the most hardened opponent of Jesus could see the difference between the two. But they called for Barabbas to be set free -- Barabbas, a murderer!
"What shall I do with Jesus, the one called Christ?" Pilate asked in frustration. "Crucify him!" the crowd shouted. Over and over they shouted, "Crucify him!" Ever louder and with increasing anger they shouted this vicious chant until the governor realized there would be a full-scale rebellion in the city unless he gave in to them.
Knowing full well Jesus was guilty of nothing worthy of crucifixion, Pilate symbolically washed his hands of the whole thing. Jesus was turned over to me, Longinus. Following the governor's orders, we stripped Jesus and flogged him with a Roman whip tipped with bits of bone and lead. But it didn't stop there.
My men, irritated at being aroused in the middle of the night to deal with a problem created by a people they despised, proceeded to humiliate Jesus further, forcing a crown of thorns into his head, beating him in the face again and again, draping a purple soldier's cape around his shoulders. After placing a makeshift scepter in his hand, they pretended to pay him homage as king.
But it wasn't just Jesus they intended to humiliate and insult. It was the Jews and their country and culture and religion that they hated. All of this was being despised when my soldiers mocked Jesus.
Meanwhile, two other prisoners were brought up to be crucified also. Why waste all that manpower and money on separate executions? It was the efficient Roman thing to do. Crucify them too along with Jesus and get it over with.
There were twelve soldiers in the execution squad, four assigned to each prisoner. Our job was not only to crucify the prisoners, but also to keep the crowd from getting at them or in some other way causing a disturbance. There was a very real danger of a riot developing that could spread to the whole population.
By now it was daylight and the news of the impending crucifixion had spread through the city. The whole army of Pilate was on alert. Roman military presence was visible everywhere. As rapidly as we could, we made our way to Golgotha, the crucifixion site, near the north gate of the city. Jesus, weakened from multiple beatings and loss of blood, fell repeatedly to the pavement.
A Cyrenian, a strong-looking man, was entering the city as we were leaving. I pressed him into service to carry Jesus' cross. From then on we made better time. All three prisoners were nailed to their crosses and hoisted into place, each being first drugged with strong wine mixed with gall, a painkiller derived from poppies. All that is except Jesus. He tasted it and refused it.
The job done, my soldiers took a few moments to have some fun casting lots for the clothing of the King of the Jews. What a prize a cloak or an undergarment would be for some lucky man to take home! Then it was back to work, posting a guard around the three crosses, keeping the crowds away from the victims lest some distraught relative or wife create an embarrassing situation.
Even I, hardened by years of combat, was shocked by the hatefulness of that crowd. They had gotten what they wanted. Their king was dying and yet they continued to scream their insults at him. But Jesus seemed unaffected.
My soldiers and I, standing as we were so close to the crosses, heard every word each condemned man uttered. Two of them swore at us, as I would probably have done. But Jesus didn't. This Jesus, his face so swollen as to be unrecognizable, his head crowned with thorns still digging into his skin, his back ripped open by a whip, his body held in place by nails driven through his wrists and feet -- this Jesus didn't curse!
Instead, with eyes he could barely open, he looked at me and my men and then the crowd and said softly, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do." Forgive them? Forgive me for what I had just done? Never in all my years as a professional soldier had any victim of mine prayed for my forgiveness. Who was this man?
And not only did he forgive me who had not even asked for it, he forgave one of the thieves nailed to the cross beside him. "Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom," the man had gasped. "Today you will be with me in paradise," Jesus had assured him. Who was this Jesus to make such a promise?
The awful moments dragged on. Jesus seemed to scan the crowd looking for someone. With evident relief, he found them, his mother and a friend called John. "Woman, behold your son," he called out to her. And then, looking straight at John, he spoke again, "Behold, your mother." A dying man, racked with pain, concerned about his mother? Who was this man?
He said other things, including something in Aramaic, the language of the people. I didn't speak it. It sounded as though he were calling for one of their prophets, Elijah.
Then he said something I could recognize though his voice was low and gravelly. "I thirst," he said. My soldiers were busy keeping back the crowds, following orders to let no one interfere with the executions. So who was there to give Jesus a drink? The task fell to me, the one nearest his cross.
Knowing it would be a long and tiring day, I had provided for my men a large jar of wine, not the good sweet wine you'd serve your guests, but wine vinegar, the cheap drink of soldiers and laborers. Filling a sponge with this wine, I put it on a hyssop stick and raised it to Jesus' lips. This time he drank. Though he said nothing, his eyes spoke his gratefulness. Would Elijah now come to save this man? I wondered.
Suddenly, he cried out with a loud and powerful voice, "It is finished!" And again, moments later, "Father, into your hands I commit my spirit!" And he died. Just like that! How different he was from others I had crucified. In the moments before a man on a cross dies, he doesn't shout. His voice gets weaker and weaker. He quits speaking. He passes into a coma. And then, perhaps hours, sometimes days, later, he dies.
But not Jesus. Jesus shouted with a great voice to his Father, and he died, as if it was not me who took his life from him, but he who gave his life up. Who was this man?
"Surely this was a righteous man," I found myself saying aloud. "Surely this man was the Son of God!" That was my confession, straight from my heart, there before the army of Caesar, the leaders of the people, the disciples of Jesus. That was my confession then and it is now.
Oh, I didn't cease being a soldier. I stayed there till just before sundown. And as ordered by the governor, I saw to it that the prisoners were dead. It was my lance that was thrust into the side of Jesus, covering me with the water and blood that poured from his side. One doesn't forget such things, nor sleep easily remembering them.
I can only praise God that Jesus himself forgave me for what I had done. And I stand in awe that my simple gift of sour wine on a sponge was accepted by him.
Can you imagine what that means for you? If I am forgiven for crucifying my Lord, for thrusting my lance into his side, surely he forgives you for whatever you have done! And if my paltry gift of cheap vinegar wine was welcomed at that bloody throne, surely your gift, whatever it might be, is welcomed too!
Prayer
Heavenly Father, the soldier at the cross heard Jesus cry out, "I thirst," and brought him wine vinegar. Help us, Lord, to realize that when someone cries out, "I am thirsty," or "I am hungry," or "I am naked," it is as though Jesus were speaking. And then, Lord, move us to help in whatever way we can, knowing that to do so is the same as doing it for your Son. In Jesus' name. Amen.
Lent 5
Matthew 27:45-54
Children's Sermon
Object: a bottle of red wine vinegar, clean sponge cut into small pieces, bowl
Hi, boys and girls. You've been very faithful in coming to these special Lenten services. In the Bible lesson for tonight, we learned that a soldier put wine vinegar on a sponge for Jesus to drink just before he died. I brought some. Would you like to try it? (Pour wine vinegar into bowl, and dip sponge pieces into it, giving each child a sample.)
It tastes awful, doesn't it? Why do you suppose the soldier gave wine vinegar to Jesus? (Let several children answer.) I don't think the soldier was being mean by giving Jesus the wine vinegar. I think that even though he helped crucify Jesus, he was trying to be kind. Jesus had said, "I am thirsty." That's what the soldier had with him to drink, so that's what he gave Jesus.
Why do you suppose Jesus drank the wine vinegar? (Answers will vary.) I wonder if he drank it to show how bitter our sins were that he was dying for. Maybe he drank it to show that he was one of us, the Savior of not just the rich, but poor and ordinary people too.
For whatever reasons Jesus drank the wine vinegar, I'm glad he did it. It tells me that even if I don't have a very good or fancy gift to bring Jesus, if it's the best I have, he will receive it. Let's thank Jesus for receiving even our very ordinary gifts.
Prayer
Jesus, you are the King of the whole world and deserve the very best. But like the soldier, sometimes we don't have very much to bring you. Thank you for accepting even our ordinary small gifts. Since we know you receive our offerings this way, help us always to be faithful to bring you something. In your name we pray. Amen.
And you wonder why I'm called Saint Longinus? I understand your confusion. I guess I'm best described as your famous Dr. Luther would have put it: simil iustus et peccator, saint and sinner at the same time. Rather like you, I suspect.
I hope you won't hold it against me, that I was there doing what I did. It was just part of my job, a job I had learned to do well after nearly twenty years in the legions of Rome. You could describe me as thoroughly professional. One doesn't rise to the rank of centurion by being otherwise.
In combat, a centurion like myself commanded a company of one hundred soldiers. There were sixty companies to a legion. It was largely through the skill and leadership of men like me that the whole Mediterranean world came under Rome's control and peace was maintained for two hundred years, the Pax Romana, it was called.
After spending half my life in the army, I had killed more men than I care to recall. That Friday I was called upon by the governor, Pontius Pilate, to kill again, three men this time. But please don't think I enjoyed killing other human beings. I killed only in the line of duty -- on the battlefield, or to keep the peace, or to protect the interests of the emperor.
Perhaps some of the conscripts, some of those drafted from the jails or the streets, enjoyed killing and watching someone suffer. But not me or the other centurions I knew. Integrity, loyalty, courage, duty -- these were the qualities of my peers. And yet I inflicted my share of suffering. It was as much my skill in battle that earned me the name Longinus, "the lance," as it was my piercing the side of Jesus.
At the time, whether it was right or wrong to command the death squad was not my concern. Whether I enjoyed or abhorred the job was likewise irrelevant. I did as I was told, and did it without hesitation and with complete efficiency. I was a soldier, a professional.
Oh, don't get me wrong. I was no machine. I was a human being. My aspirations were the same as yours. I planned to stay alive, put in my twenty years, and then retire to the rich farmland the emperor promised veterans like me in places like Asia Minor. But unexpected events can change one's plans, can't they?
My soldiers and I had expected to sleep that night, but Friday I was summoned to the palace. It seems that Jesus had been arrested and tried before the high priest for crimes ranging from threats against the temple to blasphemy, claiming to be the Son of God.
The leaders of the people had found him guilty. From the high priest's house the temple guard and most of the Sanhedrin had taken Jesus to Pontius Pilate, the governor, for sentencing. Death is what they wanted, death by crucifixion.
I arrived in time to hear the charges and the governor's response. It looked more like the scene of a riot than a trial, and that's why we were called in. Those citizens of Jerusalem were a hot-headed bunch, rebellion always seething just beneath the surface.
Why they were so enraged I couldn't understand. The charges seemed absurd -- that Jesus and his little group of followers planned to destroy the temple, a huge structure built of stones as big as houses, that he was opposed to paying taxes (who wasn't?), that he claimed to be a king and the Son of God, but even the emperor was worshipped as a god.
Pilate listened, as best he could amid all the noise, and concluded as any reasonable person would, "This man has done nothing worthy of death." But the people wouldn't be quieted. To dramatize the innocence of Jesus, Pilate even brought out a condemned insurrectionist and murderer, Barabbas. Placing him beside Jesus, Pilate asked, "Which one do you want me to release for you?"
It was obvious which one should die -- that foul criminal Barabbas! Even the most hardened opponent of Jesus could see the difference between the two. But they called for Barabbas to be set free -- Barabbas, a murderer!
"What shall I do with Jesus, the one called Christ?" Pilate asked in frustration. "Crucify him!" the crowd shouted. Over and over they shouted, "Crucify him!" Ever louder and with increasing anger they shouted this vicious chant until the governor realized there would be a full-scale rebellion in the city unless he gave in to them.
Knowing full well Jesus was guilty of nothing worthy of crucifixion, Pilate symbolically washed his hands of the whole thing. Jesus was turned over to me, Longinus. Following the governor's orders, we stripped Jesus and flogged him with a Roman whip tipped with bits of bone and lead. But it didn't stop there.
My men, irritated at being aroused in the middle of the night to deal with a problem created by a people they despised, proceeded to humiliate Jesus further, forcing a crown of thorns into his head, beating him in the face again and again, draping a purple soldier's cape around his shoulders. After placing a makeshift scepter in his hand, they pretended to pay him homage as king.
But it wasn't just Jesus they intended to humiliate and insult. It was the Jews and their country and culture and religion that they hated. All of this was being despised when my soldiers mocked Jesus.
Meanwhile, two other prisoners were brought up to be crucified also. Why waste all that manpower and money on separate executions? It was the efficient Roman thing to do. Crucify them too along with Jesus and get it over with.
There were twelve soldiers in the execution squad, four assigned to each prisoner. Our job was not only to crucify the prisoners, but also to keep the crowd from getting at them or in some other way causing a disturbance. There was a very real danger of a riot developing that could spread to the whole population.
By now it was daylight and the news of the impending crucifixion had spread through the city. The whole army of Pilate was on alert. Roman military presence was visible everywhere. As rapidly as we could, we made our way to Golgotha, the crucifixion site, near the north gate of the city. Jesus, weakened from multiple beatings and loss of blood, fell repeatedly to the pavement.
A Cyrenian, a strong-looking man, was entering the city as we were leaving. I pressed him into service to carry Jesus' cross. From then on we made better time. All three prisoners were nailed to their crosses and hoisted into place, each being first drugged with strong wine mixed with gall, a painkiller derived from poppies. All that is except Jesus. He tasted it and refused it.
The job done, my soldiers took a few moments to have some fun casting lots for the clothing of the King of the Jews. What a prize a cloak or an undergarment would be for some lucky man to take home! Then it was back to work, posting a guard around the three crosses, keeping the crowds away from the victims lest some distraught relative or wife create an embarrassing situation.
Even I, hardened by years of combat, was shocked by the hatefulness of that crowd. They had gotten what they wanted. Their king was dying and yet they continued to scream their insults at him. But Jesus seemed unaffected.
My soldiers and I, standing as we were so close to the crosses, heard every word each condemned man uttered. Two of them swore at us, as I would probably have done. But Jesus didn't. This Jesus, his face so swollen as to be unrecognizable, his head crowned with thorns still digging into his skin, his back ripped open by a whip, his body held in place by nails driven through his wrists and feet -- this Jesus didn't curse!
Instead, with eyes he could barely open, he looked at me and my men and then the crowd and said softly, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do." Forgive them? Forgive me for what I had just done? Never in all my years as a professional soldier had any victim of mine prayed for my forgiveness. Who was this man?
And not only did he forgive me who had not even asked for it, he forgave one of the thieves nailed to the cross beside him. "Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom," the man had gasped. "Today you will be with me in paradise," Jesus had assured him. Who was this Jesus to make such a promise?
The awful moments dragged on. Jesus seemed to scan the crowd looking for someone. With evident relief, he found them, his mother and a friend called John. "Woman, behold your son," he called out to her. And then, looking straight at John, he spoke again, "Behold, your mother." A dying man, racked with pain, concerned about his mother? Who was this man?
He said other things, including something in Aramaic, the language of the people. I didn't speak it. It sounded as though he were calling for one of their prophets, Elijah.
Then he said something I could recognize though his voice was low and gravelly. "I thirst," he said. My soldiers were busy keeping back the crowds, following orders to let no one interfere with the executions. So who was there to give Jesus a drink? The task fell to me, the one nearest his cross.
Knowing it would be a long and tiring day, I had provided for my men a large jar of wine, not the good sweet wine you'd serve your guests, but wine vinegar, the cheap drink of soldiers and laborers. Filling a sponge with this wine, I put it on a hyssop stick and raised it to Jesus' lips. This time he drank. Though he said nothing, his eyes spoke his gratefulness. Would Elijah now come to save this man? I wondered.
Suddenly, he cried out with a loud and powerful voice, "It is finished!" And again, moments later, "Father, into your hands I commit my spirit!" And he died. Just like that! How different he was from others I had crucified. In the moments before a man on a cross dies, he doesn't shout. His voice gets weaker and weaker. He quits speaking. He passes into a coma. And then, perhaps hours, sometimes days, later, he dies.
But not Jesus. Jesus shouted with a great voice to his Father, and he died, as if it was not me who took his life from him, but he who gave his life up. Who was this man?
"Surely this was a righteous man," I found myself saying aloud. "Surely this man was the Son of God!" That was my confession, straight from my heart, there before the army of Caesar, the leaders of the people, the disciples of Jesus. That was my confession then and it is now.
Oh, I didn't cease being a soldier. I stayed there till just before sundown. And as ordered by the governor, I saw to it that the prisoners were dead. It was my lance that was thrust into the side of Jesus, covering me with the water and blood that poured from his side. One doesn't forget such things, nor sleep easily remembering them.
I can only praise God that Jesus himself forgave me for what I had done. And I stand in awe that my simple gift of sour wine on a sponge was accepted by him.
Can you imagine what that means for you? If I am forgiven for crucifying my Lord, for thrusting my lance into his side, surely he forgives you for whatever you have done! And if my paltry gift of cheap vinegar wine was welcomed at that bloody throne, surely your gift, whatever it might be, is welcomed too!
Prayer
Heavenly Father, the soldier at the cross heard Jesus cry out, "I thirst," and brought him wine vinegar. Help us, Lord, to realize that when someone cries out, "I am thirsty," or "I am hungry," or "I am naked," it is as though Jesus were speaking. And then, Lord, move us to help in whatever way we can, knowing that to do so is the same as doing it for your Son. In Jesus' name. Amen.
Lent 5
Matthew 27:45-54
Children's Sermon
Object: a bottle of red wine vinegar, clean sponge cut into small pieces, bowl
Hi, boys and girls. You've been very faithful in coming to these special Lenten services. In the Bible lesson for tonight, we learned that a soldier put wine vinegar on a sponge for Jesus to drink just before he died. I brought some. Would you like to try it? (Pour wine vinegar into bowl, and dip sponge pieces into it, giving each child a sample.)
It tastes awful, doesn't it? Why do you suppose the soldier gave wine vinegar to Jesus? (Let several children answer.) I don't think the soldier was being mean by giving Jesus the wine vinegar. I think that even though he helped crucify Jesus, he was trying to be kind. Jesus had said, "I am thirsty." That's what the soldier had with him to drink, so that's what he gave Jesus.
Why do you suppose Jesus drank the wine vinegar? (Answers will vary.) I wonder if he drank it to show how bitter our sins were that he was dying for. Maybe he drank it to show that he was one of us, the Savior of not just the rich, but poor and ordinary people too.
For whatever reasons Jesus drank the wine vinegar, I'm glad he did it. It tells me that even if I don't have a very good or fancy gift to bring Jesus, if it's the best I have, he will receive it. Let's thank Jesus for receiving even our very ordinary gifts.
Prayer
Jesus, you are the King of the whole world and deserve the very best. But like the soldier, sometimes we don't have very much to bring you. Thank you for accepting even our ordinary small gifts. Since we know you receive our offerings this way, help us always to be faithful to bring you something. In your name we pray. Amen.
