The Crucifixion Encounter (Vol. 2)

After my military training, it was finally an honour to render service in Judea—under the command of the Governor, Pontius Pilate. Rising to the position of Centurion was no small feat. I’m certain many questioned it—seeing more of my shortcomings than my many merits.

Following the capture of the Nazarene—sold out by one of his own—I knew we were in for not just a long night, but some intensely stressful days. This case had the attention of every high-ranking official. No room for errors. No escape. Security was tight.

He was first sent to Annas, the father-in-law of Caiaphas, the High Priest. The elders and teachers of the Law had all gathered.

The man was plain-spoken—just as the rumors claimed. He dared to talk back to the High Priest. Honestly, I would’ve hit him myself if someone else hadn’t already done it. Annas then had him sent, still bound, to Caiaphas.

But they had nothing on him—no real charges. So, they tried desperately to manufacture something. Clearly, whatever he had done—or said—shook them to their core. Eventually, they accused him of blasphemy, claiming to be the Son of God (Mark 14:64).

At daybreak, he was sent to the governor’s palace, handed over to Pilate at the judgment hall. As custom demanded, one prisoner could be released at Passover. Pilate tried to give the people a choice—Jesus or Barabbas, a known murderer. Herod too declared him innocent. Yet the crowd—manipulated by their leaders—chose Barabbas.

To think… Pilate and Herod, once enemies, became friends that day over this man. Can that count as one of his miracles? I chuckled at the irony.

I broke my men into groups. One was to prepare Golgotha, another to escort the priests, and the last to transfer the prisoners.

At the common hall, we had our sport. He was stripped, dressed in a scarlet robe, crowned with thorny branches—a mockery fit for the “King” he claimed to be. We flogged him. Mocked him. Then I had him changed back into his garments. We had to reach Golgotha by noon.

Crowds lined the streets. People threw stones, cheered at his suffering. The man collapsed under the weight of his cross. We yelled. Hit him. Nothing worked. So, I forced a bystander, Simon of Cyrene, to carry it for him.

Somewhere along the route, I noticed a soldier pulling someone away from the prisoner. I thought it was a man—bad eyesight will deceive you like that. Turned out it was a woman. They checked her for weapons, but found nothing.

At Golgotha, he was stripped again and crucified beside two robbers. As Pilate ordered, the sign above him read: “Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews.”

The soldiers cast lots for his clothing—routine business. I found myself a spot to sit and oversee things while my men kept watch.

Then came the strange signs. Darkness covered the land from the sixth hour. An earthquake shook the ground. My vision, already poor, worsened. I moved closer.

One soldier leaned toward me. “He’s dead,” he said.

I wasn’t convinced. I took a spear and pierced his side. Blood and water spilled out—and splashed onto my face.

I stepped back slowly, rubbing my eyes. They stung. I heard laughter around me. But suddenly—rays of light pierced through the darkness. I blinked. Again. Again.

My hands!

I could clearly see them.

I stared at the stains on them—blood and water. A soldier approached for orders, but I couldn’t respond. I just looked up at the man we had crucified.

“Who is this man?”

I kept asking as I walked closer.

“I’ve heard them say he’s the Messiah. But who is he, that even in death… he could heal my sight?”

For a moment, I wished he were alive—to answer me.

For a minute, I wished I had known him.

I wished I had been kinder.

Nearby, a woman held his body in her lap. She looked like his mother. It reminded me of a mother holding her newborn child—only this child was dead.

“Truly, this man was the Son of God.” (Mark 15:39)