Capharnaum.

The trek down the mountain to the city had taken the remainder of the day. The light of torches and candles emanated from inside homes as well as boats along the waterfront as they prepared for the next morning's fishing. The noises of the city, a familiar cacophony to all who lived and worked there; it was home. For the most part, it represented for them the security of hearthside and table, bedside and labor.

In the officer's quarters of the Roman garrison in the city, a centurion paced the floor of the room in which his slave lay dying.

Not much longer now.

This thought tortured his mind. He had been a soldier for almost thirty years. He entered the military as a lowly Tirones, playing card games in the barracks with the other members of his contubernium. He had now achieved the rank of an officer, a Pilus Prior Centurion, the highest rank a captain of one hundred could go before promotion to Tribuni Angusticlavii. Having been passed over several times, this was a rank he would never achieve. He was much too close to his men. Because of this, he was thought unfit for promotion to high command. He thought it not "unfit" at all. He preferred to stay close to his men. After thirty years, he would become an Evocarti, a special, long-time veteran who received double pay and exemption from manual labor. The army had always been and still was his life. It was all he had ever known.

During his service, he had seen death dozens of times. He had received numerous decorations for his prowess in combat: one Battlement Crown, three Gold Crowns and five Crowns of the Preserver. Less glorious, and a duty he hated, he had presided over the executions of . . . How many now? Fourteen? Fifteen? Guerrilla monkeys for the most part, the hopelessly ill-trained zealots of the Jewish resistance. But this slave, this servant, this friend had taught him that not all Jews were zealots. He was closer to me than a fellow warrior. Flavius had already begun to think of him as gone.

He had freed Jonathan seven years ago, freed him because he had served him faithfully and well; freed him because he had become more than a slave. He had become a friend, indeed. But Jonathan would have none of it. "I cannot leave you, Flavius Marque," said he. "Where would I go? Your home is my home'even if you are a Roman gentile." The soldier smiled at the amusing memory. He remembered something else. "You are my family, now," the freed slave had said.

The words gave him pain at this time as he watched the last breaths seep from the lungs of his friend. He knelt beside the bed. "God of the Jews," he prayed silently. "If you are there, if you are real, save this man. Save my friend, save my brother." He laid his head on the sick man's feverish arm. "O, Adonai, or whatever it is they call you . . . please!"

"Captain, the healer has returned." Adoniram ben Hadad spoke softly so as not to disturb the soldier's grief. Adoniram was a respected member of the synagogue, an elder and brother to Josiah, whose daughter Jesus had healed. He had been present when Jesus eviscerated the demons from the man in the synagogue earlier. Since the healing of his niece and the spectacular exorcism in the synagogue, Adoniram had become a fervent follower of "the healer." As one who, because of his slave, was deeply impressed with the Jewish God, Flavius had been at the synagogue exorcism as well.

"The healer?"

"Jesus of Nazareth, the man who delivered that sorry soul from the demonic sickness. You remember, in the synagogue?"

"Yes, I most certainly do remember." He rose to his feet, a hint of hope energizing the lines of his face. "He has returned? He is here?"

"He has returned to the city from a tour of teaching throughout Galilee."

Flavius remembered indeed. This man who had impressed him more than all others was actually within reach. He knew that Jesus possessed remarkable powers and that he spoke of the solitary God'as his Father'as everyone's Father. He was reminded again of how close he had come to embracing Jewish monotheism. Somehow it made more sense to him than the absurd pantheon of gods the Romans had invented. This God of the Jews was not "invented," of that he was quite certain. And this Jesus of Nazareth seemed to know him well. Perhaps he could . . ?

"Please, Rabbi. Go. Fetch him! Beg him to come!"

Adoniram smiled imperceptibly. There were only a few like him; elders and rabbis of the synagogue who realized that this carpenter's son may be the One they hoped for. At least, if he were not, he was surely a prophet of ancient stature. Not all of the elders of the Jews were intransigent legalists. Some were compassionate and some followed Jesus. The others? They were all either old men caught up in the cobwebs of rabbinic haranguing, or maturing scholars intent on getting every nuance of the Tanakh precisely correct, or young firebrands bent on destroying the undestroyable' Rome.

Adoniram found Jesus at the home of Peter and Andrew and presented the centurion's case. "This man deserves to have you come and heal his beloved servant because he loves our nation and has built our synagogue." Adoniram clearly understood the Jewishness of Jesus. He knew that he was not only racially a Jew but that he believed the fathers and the prophets, Abraham, Moses, and Isaiah; yet he need not have argued so assiduously. Jesus never refused a cry for help, "deserving" or not.

After listening intently, Jesus was straightfoward, "Of course, I will go. I will go now."

The military garrison was not far and on nearing the centurion's quarters, Jesus was met by some of his friends. "Master," said they to him, "Flavius Marque sent us with a message for you."

"Yes?"

"The captain told us to tell you not to trouble yourself. He said he does not deserve to have you come under his roof." They spoke this deferentially, although it reeked incredulity.

"What?" with surprise.

The man speaking glanced at the others as if seeking support in the face of Jesus' shock at this humble request. "He said these exact words, Sir, 'I do not consider myself worthy to come to him, to be in his presence. If he would just speak the word from where he stands, my servant will be healed.' He said to tell you that he understands you to be a 'man of authority' as he is. When he tells a soldier to 'Go,' he goes; or to another, 'Come,' he comes; and if he speaks to his servant and says, 'Do this,' he does it." So he believes, Sir, that you may but speak the word and it shall be done."

Jesus looked around at all of us and spread his hands as if to say, "Can you believe this?" This man is a combat officer. He knows command. He is not Jewish. He isn't even religious. He follows no rabbinical teachings. Yet he believes! So Jesus said to the friends of the centurion, "Then go! It will be done just as he believed it would be done."

Flavius Marque waited in silence, brooding over Jonathan's labored breathing. Perspiration beaded on his forehead, minute chills played over his dying form. I have seen death all of my professional career, but nothing has so grieved me as this. Deep spears of sadness bled his heart. His hope that the healer would help faded with each moment in which his friend grew weaker. Abruptly, his servant opened his eyes. Here it comes, thought Flavius, I've seen it many times. That moment of lucidity just before death.

"My lord, Flavius?" The words were soft, whispered.

"Jonathan, I am here." He expected some last request, some last words.

"I feel better, my lord." He raised his hands to his eyes, massaging them. "I am feeling much better!" He attempted to sit up. Flavius leaped to assist, his face wet with tears.

As I sit here many years later, scratching away on papyri with my Egyptian ink, I turn to gaze at the flame, the soft corona of my candles, remembering distinctly what Jesus said to us who were with him that day. After the men had left, he turned to us and said, "I tell you the truth, I have not found anyone in the whole of this country with faith like this. Many will come from the corners of the earth and will seek to take their places at the feast with Abraham, Isaac and Jacob in the kingdom of heaven. But these supposed 'subjects of the kingdom' will be thrown outside into darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth."

I can't help but be amazed at how the rejection of those in spiritual leadership must have hurt him. And when it is placed alongside the simple faith of men like Flavius Marque, who by rights should have no faith at all, it makes the rejection seem even more repugnant.

"Gnashing teeth," indeed.