The sandal dust hadn’t yet settled on the road from Capernaum when I saw the servant collapse. My villa stood just outside the city wall, a stone house lent to me during my assignment as centurion over this remote corner of Galilee. Roman blood and armor stirred uneasily among the Jewish customs, but I did my best. I respected their God, even helped fund their synagogue. It was the least I could do after years of occupying their streets.
But now my most trusted servant—more son to me than slave—lay fevered and gasping, chest rising like a fish on dry land. I had seen men die of wounds on the battlefield with more peace than this.
I tried physicians. Paid too much, bribed for better herbs. Nothing eased his trembling. As I watched him tighten into pain again, I gripped the doorframe to steady my breath. “Stephanus,” I whispered, his name catching in my throat.
That’s when I heard whispers in the courtyard—fishermen speaking of a healer who had entered Capernaum that morning. A Jew, they said. Called Rabbi, called Holy, called Son of God. I had heard murmurs before, stories of blind beggars restored and lepers cleansed. But I never imagined they could matter to me.
I sent elders from the synagogue—men who owed me favors. “Speak to this Jesus,” I begged them. “Tell him my servant is dying.”
Within an hour, one of my runners sprinted across the threshold. “He’s coming,” he said breathlessly, “Jesus is on his way.”
I froze.
Coming here?
To my house?
Under my roof?
I, a Roman commander in Caesar’s empire, knew rank. I knew what it meant to order a man and be obeyed. Yet I was not worthy to host a man who claimed to heal with only a word. And I feared—if He crossed my threshold, everything in me would be exposed.
Heart pounding, I sent another message: “Tell Him not to come here. Just say the word, and my servant will be healed. I understand authority. If He holds power from above, then He can command sickness like I command soldiers.”
Minutes later, it happened.
No flashing light. No earthquake. Just a shift—sudden peace where there had been agony. My servant, drenched in sweat, opened his eyes and breathed evenly for the first time in days. He looked confused, then smiled faintly.
I fell hard onto the stone floor, knees scraping. For a moment I couldn’t move. Could only whisper to the ceiling, “It’s true. Every word.”
When the eldest envoy returned, he seemed stunned. “He said... He said He’s never seen faith like yours. Not anywhere.”
Not in His people. Not in mine.
I closed the door softly behind him and walked to my servant’s bedside. The fever was gone. His skin was cool. Miracle of God.
I sat beside him that evening, no longer a man torn between two worlds.
I believed.
The sandal dust hadn’t yet settled on the road from Capernaum when I saw the servant collapse. My villa stood just outside the city wall, a stone house lent to me during my assignment as centurion over this remote corner of Galilee. Roman blood and armor stirred uneasily among the Jewish customs, but I did my best. I respected their God, even helped fund their synagogue. It was the least I could do after years of occupying their streets.
But now my most trusted servant—more son to me than slave—lay fevered and gasping, chest rising like a fish on dry land. I had seen men die of wounds on the battlefield with more peace than this.
I tried physicians. Paid too much, bribed for better herbs. Nothing eased his trembling. As I watched him tighten into pain again, I gripped the doorframe to steady my breath. “Stephanus,” I whispered, his name catching in my throat.
That’s when I heard whispers in the courtyard—fishermen speaking of a healer who had entered Capernaum that morning. A Jew, they said. Called Rabbi, called Holy, called Son of God. I had heard murmurs before, stories of blind beggars restored and lepers cleansed. But I never imagined they could matter to me.
I sent elders from the synagogue—men who owed me favors. “Speak to this Jesus,” I begged them. “Tell him my servant is dying.”
Within an hour, one of my runners sprinted across the threshold. “He’s coming,” he said breathlessly, “Jesus is on his way.”
I froze.
Coming here?
To my house?
Under my roof?
I, a Roman commander in Caesar’s empire, knew rank. I knew what it meant to order a man and be obeyed. Yet I was not worthy to host a man who claimed to heal with only a word. And I feared—if He crossed my threshold, everything in me would be exposed.
Heart pounding, I sent another message: “Tell Him not to come here. Just say the word, and my servant will be healed. I understand authority. If He holds power from above, then He can command sickness like I command soldiers.”
Minutes later, it happened.
No flashing light. No earthquake. Just a shift—sudden peace where there had been agony. My servant, drenched in sweat, opened his eyes and breathed evenly for the first time in days. He looked confused, then smiled faintly.
I fell hard onto the stone floor, knees scraping. For a moment I couldn’t move. Could only whisper to the ceiling, “It’s true. Every word.”
When the eldest envoy returned, he seemed stunned. “He said... He said He’s never seen faith like yours. Not anywhere.”
Not in His people. Not in mine.
I closed the door softly behind him and walked to my servant’s bedside. The fever was gone. His skin was cool. Miracle of God.
I sat beside him that evening, no longer a man torn between two worlds.
I believed.
