Remember…

Your country needs you.  You volunteer.  Part of the reason you volunteer is selfish: you need a career, and this is a good one.  But there is more.  You want to serve.  You know there is a real danger in taking the oath “To protect and defend the constitution of the United States, from all enemies foreign and domestic.”  But you are pretty sure you will not be one of the ones who die.   

They send you off to boot camp, put a rifle in your hand, and teach you how to be a soldier.  You learn how to take orders without debate, how to navigate in the field, how to survive with what you can carry on your back.  Most of all, you learn how not to die in a dangerous business.  After a few weeks, you ship out for additional training.  You might learn to drive a tank, or fix a plane, or jump out of a plane, or interpret sonar.  

You get your first assignment.  You are being sent overseas into a combat zone.  Your stomach tightens; you knew you signed up for this, but the danger seemed far away back then.  Even when your drill sergeant regaled you with tales of narrow misses, bombs blowing up, or a bullet that went through a sleeve but not a body, it did not seem like any of that could happen to you. 

When you step off the plane, it hits you that you are not in Kansas anymore.  This is foreign territory.  There are people out there who want to kill you, who hate that you are in their territory.  You get your quarters and get going on your job.  Then it happens. 

You might have been out on patrol.  Something looks suspicious about a car parked on the street.  Your eye catches someone running around a corner.  Before you can say a word, a bomb is detonated.  A piece of that car flies toward you at a hundred miles an hour.  There is no time to react. Your left leg is sheared off, your femoral artery is severed, and you start to bleed out. 

You might have been on the flight line.  You are topping off a fuel tank when you hear someone yell, “Incoming!”  Before you can get away from the plane, a rocket lands dead center.  You are engulfed in a fireball.  In your body’s final act, it protects you from the overwhelming pain by sending you into shock as blazing fuel coats you. 

You might have been assigned to a boarding party.  You approach what looks like an innocent fishing vessel.  Suddenly a man on deck raises a missile launcher and points it right at you as you stand in the front of the boat.  There is no time to react or jump off the skiff.  The missile is already on its way, about to pierce your body. 

Before death takes you, you have a rush of final thoughts.  You think about your fiancé and your plans to get married as soon as this tour is over.  You think about your kid brother, how he admired your dress uniform when you came home from basic.  You think about your Mom and Dad, how this was their worst nightmare.  You even think about what is next and remember what your Student Pastor said about life and death and Jesus.  Then you die. 

There will be a story on the news about your death, but they will not mention you by name.  It will be one more story about a soldier being killed in a far-off land, and they need to move on to the latest news about the Kardashians.  Your body will be brought home in a flag-draped box.  Your fiancé will sob throughout your funeral, holding onto your Mom, who is also weeping.  Your Dad will be wide-eyed in shock.  Your kid brother slowly shakes his head back and forth.  Friends will be there, but no one, not even the preacher, really knows what to say.  They will lower your body in the grave, give you a rifle salute, and play taps. 

Your Mom and Dad will never be the same.  They come to your grave every week.  Just to stare, just to cry.  Your fiancé isolates for a year then moves on.  She finds someone else, marries, has kids, but she always wonders, “What if…”  Your kid brother, in a move that your parents opposes, joins the military.  He, too, gets sent into combat but emerges unscathed.  He does his twenty years, gets out, and starts a new chapter. 

But every Memorial Day, these most important people in your life pause and remember.  While everyone else is cooking out or going to the lake or sitting on the beach, these people remember your life, your sacrifice, and all that could have – should have – been. 

This Memorial Day, even if we do not know your name, we pause for just a moment and think of you too.  We wish we could say “Thank you,” but that does not seem like enough.  We know we counted on you, and you did not let us down.  We are sorry this happened to you.  Most of all, we remember.

The Centurion…

He took off his helmet and set it on the stone pavement.  Then he unbuckled his breastplate and let it fall onto the stone floor.  Sitting on his cot, he unbuckled his sandals and rubbed his tired feet.  He could feel the fatigue of a long, strange day.   

He was a centurion, a Roman soldier in charge of a hundred men – theoretically.  In truth, his command occasionally shrank to less than fifty; a new influx of recruits might bring the total up to eighty.   

The centurion had seen his share of blood.  He enlisted in Caesar’s army at thirteen, fought the Barbarians at border outposts, stood guard over a government treasury in Philippi, and finally rose to be an independent commander.  Master of the whip, he knew how to rip the flesh off a man’s back, leaving him in agony but short of death.   It took a hard soul to persevere in hand-to-hand combat; a calloused soul was needed to crucify a man. 

The day started with word that a quick trial was going to take place at Pilate’s palace.  He sent some of his men there to guard the prisoner and went about organizing the rest of his troops for the missions of the day.  A messenger arrived from Pilate: he was sending over the prisoner for a whipping.  There were clear instructions: do not kill him, just bloody him up.  The centurion thought this over. Usually, he would let one of his squad leaders handle this, but he had just sent out his best man on another assignment.  No one on the guard detail was skilled enough yet to know just how much to beat a prisoner and leave him alive.  He would have to do this job himself. 

They brought the prisoner into the courtyard, and the centurion recognized him.  He was the man they called Jesus, the one who nearly created a riot the Sunday before.  Some of the Jews were spouting their usual non-sense about this Jesus being a Messiah, the one to deliver Israel.  “Not a chance while I am on duty,” thought the centurion. 

He gave the instructions to bend Jesus over a high-rounded piece of wood.  A rope was passed over the man and under the wood to hold him fast.  The centurion lifted the whip from a nail driven in the stone, unfurled it, and sent out the first lash.  The bits of pottery and stone weaved into the leather dug into the flesh.  The centurion pulled back on the wooden handle, and chunks of the man’s back flew across the courtyard.  The blood began to flow.  One of the new soldiers, a boy of fourteen, turned green.  He turned aside to throw up; but resumed his tough demeanor when his comrades made fun of him.  Thirty-nine times the lash struck Jesus’ back.  He screamed like any man would, but there was something different about him.  The centurion could not put his finger on it, but no matter.  Jesus was one more Jew who needed some sense beat into him. 

The soldiers untied Jesus.  Then the young soldier, the one who had thrown up, came out of the barracks with a purple cloak and thorny vine he was weaving into a crown.  The centurion saw the men put the crown and the cloak on Jesus and hit him.  Soldiers have to have their fun. 

They sent Jesus back over to Pilate, and the centurion thought that would be that.  He could hear a crowd shouting in the direction of the palace, but he could not make out what they were saying.  A messenger came back with instructions from Pilate: Release Barabbas (a notorious rebel), get the two other condemned men, come to the palace, and get Jesus, crucify Jesus and the other two, and make sure they are dead before sundown.   

The orders made no sense.  Whoever this Jesus guy was, he was no threat to the Empire.  Barabbas was trouble; he was the one they should be crucifying.  But a soldier learns not to question orders, not even from politicians.  Just carry them out.  And the centurion knew he would have to supervise this crucifixion.  All his squad leaders were out on assignments. 

He instructed his men, took charge of the detail, and went out to get Jesus.  He was weakened by the beating, no question.  The centurion was not sure he would even make it to Skull Hill, where the crucifixions were done.  He picked a man out of the crowd, a foreigner in town for the big Jewish feast, and made him carry the heavy crossbeam. 

When they got to Skull Hill, he issued the necessary orders and watched his men move swiftly to stretch the men out.  The two from the dungeon struggled; they all do.  But not Jesus.  The centurion could not tell if this was from his weakened state or that same thing that made him uneasy during the beating. 

The soldiers divided up the clothes and gambled for them.  It was how the young soldiers passed the time.  As the centurion, he could, of course, claim the best pieces for himself, but it was good to let young ones get their fair share. 

Jesus said things he had never heard from a man on the cross: “Father forgive them, they do not know what they are doing.”  What did this mean?  The two rebels on either side argued, then Jesus said to one, “Today you will be with me in paradise.”   

It got dark about noon, an eerie silent dark, unnatural.  He had to stay at his post.  There were more words from Jesus.  He spoke to his mother who was crying, to a young man, giving her into his care.  Then in rapid succession: “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me;” “I thirst (one of the detail offered him vinegar as a joke); “It is finished;” then, “Father, into your hands I commend my Spirit.” 

The ground shook; an earthquake.  The centurion was not a religious man, but he was superstitious.  The earthquake and the darkness seemed like a sign the gods were angry.  He wanted to tell Zeus he had nothing to do with this.  He looked and saw Jesus breathe his last breath, and his sigh seemed to cover all the darkness.  Words he never thought before came out of his mouth: “This man was a Son of God.” The centurion felt the moment was almost holy, strange like a portal had opened to another world. 

They had to break the legs of the other men; they died quickly.  The detail carried the men off to graves.  Jesus went into a new tomb, provided by a friend.  They worked quickly.  The Jews were so touched about their work after sundown on the Sabbath. 

Now, alone in his room, the centurion could not make sense of all he saw, all he felt.  What had made him cry a confession – a confession of faith?  Something in his heart leaned in the direction of this man Jesus.

Sleep would not come.  He heard the snores of the soldiers in the barracks next door.  His soul was wide awake.  What if Jesus was a son of God?  The centurion knew what that meant.  If you killed the son of a God, it meant you would hear from that God.  How long before he would find what the Father of this Jesus would do? 

On Sunday, he found out.