The Centurion's Word

Today's Poem Inspired by Matthew 8:10-13 

In Capernaum's dust, where Roman boots  

Pressed hard the earth of Galilee,  

A centurion stood apart, his rank  

A barrier of iron and empire,  

Yet his heart crossed every line  

Drawn by law or lineage.  

He had heard the rumors of the teacher  

Who touched the unclean without recoil,  

Who spoke to storms and they grew still,  

And in that hearing faith took root,  

Quiet, unbidden, like dawn light  

Slipping through a shuttered window.  

His servant lay in torment,  

Paralyzed, the body a prison  

Of sudden silence and pain,  

Dear to him beyond the claims  

Of duty or coin, a bond  

Forged in the daily turning  

Of household wheels.  

He did not stride forward himself  

But sent elders, then friends,  

To carry the plea: Lord, my servant suffers.  

Yet when the teacher offered to come,  

The centurion stepped into the open air  

And spoke directly, voice steady  

As command on the parade ground.  

Lord, I am not worthy  

That you should enter under my roof.  

I know the weight of authority:  

I say to this one, Go, and he goes;  

To another, Come, and he comes;  

To my servant, Do this, and it is done.  

Speak but the word,  

And my servant will be healed.  

No pleading flourish, no elaborate bow,  

Only the soldier's logic applied  

To the things unseen:  

If my orders carry force across distance,  

How much more the word  

Of one who commands creation itself.  

And Jesus, hearing this, marveled.  

The Son of Man, who had walked among  

The chosen from birth, who had taught  

In synagogues and fields,  

Found in this Gentile stranger  

A faith unmatched in all Israel.  

Not in the scribes with their scrolls,  

Not in the Pharisees with their zeal,  

Not even among the twelve  

Who followed closest,  

Had he seen such clarity of trust.  

Truly I tell you, he said to the crowd,  

Many will come from east and west,  

From horizons beyond the Jordan,  

Beyond the sea, beyond every map  

Drawn by human pride,  

And they will recline at table  

With Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob  

In the kingdom of heaven.  

A feast without walls,  

Where the patriarchs sit shoulder to shoulder  

With men whose ancestors never knew  

The covenant name, yet whose hearts  

Recognized the voice that called  

Light from darkness in the beginning.  

But the sons of the kingdom,  

Those born to promise and privilege,  

Who presumed the seats were theirs by right,  

Will be cast into the outer darkness—  

A place of weeping and gnashing of teeth,  

Where regret burns colder than any flame.  

Faith, not bloodline, opens the door;  

Trust, not tradition, claims the place.  

The table stretches farther than imagination,  

Set for the unexpected guest  

Who dares to believe the word alone  

Suffices.  

Then Jesus turned to the centurion:  

Go your way. As you have believed,  

So let it be done for you.  

No hand laid on, no journey to the house,  

Only the word released like an arrow  

That finds its mark across the miles.  

In that very hour the servant rose,  

Limbs loosed, strength returned,  

The paralysis broken by belief  

Uttered in another's voice.  

So the story rests,  

A quiet thunder in the gospel's pages:  

One man's insight piercing the veil  

Between occupier and occupied,  

Between Jew and Gentile,  

Between doubt and certainty.  

And still the marvel lingers—  

That the Lord of all authority  

Was astonished, not at power displayed,  

But at faith that saw through power  

To the mercy beneath.  

East and west the invitations go out,  

The banquet lamps are lit,  

The places prepared for those  

Who answer with the centurion's humility:  

Speak but the word.  

And the word, once spoken,  

Continues to heal at a distance,  

To gather the scattered,  

To upend every expectation,  

Until the table fills  

And the kingdom comes in full.