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BACK IN CAPERNAUM
Mk. il 1 ; Mt. viii. 5-10, 13 ; Lk. vii. 1-10. Mt. viii. 19-22 ; Lk. ix. 57-62.
So extensive a mission would occupy a considerable time, and it was probably toward the close of summer when He returned to Capernaum. The excitement created by His brief ministry had subsided on His departure, but a lively interest had been sustained by reports of His doings in the inland towns ; and on His reappearance at Bethsaida the report spread “He is home!”
It was good news, and none welcomed it more gladly than a centurion in the garrison. He was a Gentile, but, like that other centurion, Cornelius of Caesarea, he belonged to a class known as “the God-fearers” or “the devout” (Ac. x.; Cf. Ac. x. 2,22, xiii. 16,26,50, xvii. 4, 17) —earnest heathen who in that age when the old polytheisms had fallen into discredit, had been attracted by the lofty monotheism and pure ethic of the Jewish faith. The ceremonial law repelled them and they remained uncircumcised, but they revered the Scriptures and attached themselves to the Synagogue, sharing its worship and displaying an exemplary devotion and often a generous liberality. Such was Cornelius (Cf. Ac. x. 2,4), and such also was this centurion of Capernaum. Not merely had he earned the esteem of the Jewish community but he had laid it under a debt of gratitude by building it a synagogue. (Lk. vii. 5)
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It is an evidence of the centurion’s goodness that in an age when slaves were so barbarously treated, he had a slave whom he dearly loved—a faithful retainer who had won his master’s gratitude by some devoted service, perhaps, as in several recorded instances, the saving of his life in battle at the risk of his own. The old man had been stricken with palsy, and the centurion on hearing of the Lord’s return coveted His aid. With the modesty of a simple-hearted gentleman he shrank from direct solicitation and enlisted the mediation of the Jewish Elders. They obsequiously undertook their benefactor’s commission and, hastening to Bethsaida, somewhat haughtily stated their errand. “He deserves that you should do him this service,” said they ; “for he loves our nation, and it was he that built us the synagogue.”
Jesus at once accompanied them, attended by a curious crowd. Meanwhile, however, the centurion had bethought himself. No doubt he had heard the story of his neighbour the noble man—how Jesus at Cana fifteen miles away had healed his child lying sick at Capernaum (Cf. Lk. vii. 9). Surely there was no need for Him to visit his house; and, ashamed of his thoughtlessness, he dispatched some friends hard after the Elders to repair the blunder. So promptly had Jesus responded to the first appeal that He was near the house ere they met Him. They delivered the centurion’s message, and very different it was from the cavalier demand of the Elders. “Lord,” it ran, “I am not fit that you should enter under my roof. Just say the word, and my slave will be healed. For I am a man under authority with soldiers under myself; and I say to this one ‘ Go ’ and he goes, [ p. 90 ] and to another ‘Come’ and he comes, and to my slave ‘Do this’ and he does it.” It was a soldier’s idea. He conceived Jesus as the supreme commander of the heavenly host, Lord of the angels, those ministers of His who did His pleasure. Crude though it was, the thought revealed a high and reverent faith, and He was surprised and gladdened to find it in a Gentile heart. He turned to the crowd. “Verily I tell you,” said He, “not even in Israel have I found such faith.” And it was justified: the slave was healed.
The miracle had diverse consequences. Certainly it won the centurion and his household, and they would find in the Gospel the satisfaction which their heathen hearts had been craving and which Judaism had but imperfectly afforded. And it would impress the people, assuring them of the Lord’s Messiahship and making Him more than ever the hero of the hour. But it was ill pleasing to their rulers. His commendation of a Gentile’s faith as excelling the faith which He had found in Israel would offend their Jewish pride ; and it would aggrieve them that they had lost the devotion of so generous an adherent. Their covert jealousy of Jesus passed into open antagonism, and from that day they were His implacable enemies, eager to find occasion against Him.
He resumed His ministry at Capernaum, having all the while in view the formation of His band of comrades. Already He had chosen four, and He kept observing the disciples whom He won, and wherever He found a man whom He deemed qualified for so high and sacred a trust, He claimed his service and enrolled him in His company. There were many in [ p. 91 ] those days of His popularity who coveted the honour and some who even volunteered for the service; and it proves how deep was the impression which He had created that among these was a Scribe or Rabbi. He was persuaded that Jesus was indeed the Messiah, the King of Israel; and his idea was that, though meanwhile it was veiled, He would presently disclose His majesty, and His followers would then share His glory. And so he approached Him. “Teacher,” said he, “I will follow you wherever you go.”
The accession of so distinguished a personage would have seemed in the popular judgment a conspicuous triumph, and worldly policy would have welcomed it; but Jesus knew the Scribe’s thoughts and He promptly dispelled his fond illusion by setting the stern reality before him. “The foxes have holes,” He said, “and the wild birds nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay down His head.” The Scribe was dreaming of a triumphal progress in the royal train of the Son of David, and Jesus showed what following Him actually meant—fellowship in the sufferings of the homeless Son of Man.
It is written that “even the Christ did not glorify Himself to be made a High Priest” ; and it is no wonder that, when He encountered a light-hearted aspirant to fellowship His redemptive ministry, He sternly bade him count the cost (Heb. v. 5). But where He was satisfied of a man’s fitness, He claimed his service and would take no denial. Once He addressed His call to a disciple. Ancient tradition has it that he was Philip of Bethsaida; and perhaps he was. At all events he displayed the very diffidence which had characterised Philip at Bethabara and which [ p. 92 ] clung to him to the last. “Follow Me” said Jesus. “Lord,” he faltered, “permit me first to go and bury my father.” Observe what this means (Cf. Jo. vi. 5-7, xii. 21,22, xiv. 8-10). It does not mean that the disciple’s father was lying dead. It is a proverbial phrase which to this day a Syrian employs when he would evade a difficult undertaking. “I must first bury my father” he says, pleading the excuse of domestic ties. Surely that disciple had forgotten the example of Simon who had left his wife, and James and John who had left their father and mother at the Master’s call. In truth it was faithlessness that prompted the excuse; for who was ever a loser by obeying God ? Worldly calculation befits worldlings, dead while they live; and Jesus sternly sweeps the pretext aside. “Leave the dead to bury their own dead; but you—you follow Me.” [1]
Another volunteered in a flush of enthusiasm. “I will follow you, Lord,” he cried; “but,” he added like Elisha when Elijah called him, (Cf. 1 Ki. xix. 20) “first permit me to bid my household farewell.” It seems a natural and innocent request, but it betrayed the man’s character. What would have happened had one so impulsive returned home and announced his purpose to leave all and follow Jesus ? His friends would have cried out against it, and he would inevitably have succumbed to their dissuasions. It was an ancient proverb that “a ploughman, unless he bends to the work, draws a crooked furrow” ; and perhaps with this in His mind Jesus replied : “No one who has put his hand to the plough and looks back, is well set for the Kingdom of God.”
So, on ancient evidence, ran our Lord’s command, diversely reported by the Evangelists. ↩︎