By Br. Stephen Camara, MIC
“The Old Soldier and the Young Disciple”
No doubt you’ve heard the tales that old men tell
When, near their end, they look back on their youth,
Bright joys embraced and bitter pains endured,
On vigor past, and great deeds they have done,
Past triumphs won, and mourn their present ills,
Complain of useless days devoid of strength,
Compared with lively limbs they once stretched forth.
But others look with loathing on their past,
Tell few, or none, of bygone wicked works,
The way they handed over high ideals
For base comforts, or whispers of false hopes:
Such is my tale, and I have told to none
The story I’m about to tell you now.
You look at me with bright, young, eager eyes,
Young Christian, coming here from Antioch,
And many times you’ve sat here on my terrace,
Whiling away the time, to visit me,
An old and lonely soldier out to pasture
In my far pagan fields. You persevered
Through my unfriendliness, sarcasm, jeers,
You waited when I closed the door on you.
You are persistent, surely, and for that
You’ll get to hear the tale I’ve never told
To any living soul, until today.
Some part might shock you—but I am not shocked,
No one who’s seen the death of God can be
Shocked again by any other happ’ning.
Yes, I was there: I saw Him on a cross,
The bitter death He bore to save from sin
The crowds that stood by idly with dull eyes,
The priests that strutted, spat, and mocked his nails,
And us! And us, the soldiers playing dice,
Wasting our time while His dripped out in death.
His mother and disciples at His feet,
His arms spread to embrace and to forgive:
I saw what Christians preach, but few have seen.
And my centurion, as He breathed His last,
Cried out in wonder bordering on belief:
“Mehercule! This was the Son of God!”*
I would not echo, but could not deny
His words held truth that lodged deep in my chest.
That night I didn’t sleep well, plagued with doubts,
But I showed up for duty in the morning,
Like many times before, but on this day
I was assigned a place too great for me.
My contubernium was ordered out*
On night-guard duty, stationed at his tomb.
His countrymen, it seems, had squealed too loud:
Rumors abroad spread some fantastic claim
This God, this man, had claimed that He would rise
On the third day, and so his followers
Were now suspected of some harebrained plot
To steal His body, show the empty tomb,
And claim that He had risen as He said.
So we had to make sure: yes, we of Rome,
Impartial, just enforcers of the peace.
I took the third watch, for I needed sleep
(As much as I could get on the cold ground,
And warmed by nothing but a scarlet cloak
Just like the one He’d worn before the judge
The day Rome’s justice failed.) And there was wine,
But not enough to make a man happy—
It merely took the edge off of the night.
“Watchman, how went the night?” you well may ask.
But as I come to this part of my tale,
I’ll say again, and swear, I was not drunk,
Nor sleepy, for the cold wind in my ears
Pricked me to vigilance, and, comfortless,
I watched one hour, two, or maybe more,
As the last earthly night darkened to dawn.
But dawn-light could not sear my vision so
With pain and splendor unforgettable:
The light that blinded me came from on high.
“An angel” you would call it? No, my friend,
More like a son of God, flush with His light,
So bright, no earthly brightness could compare
Save that of lightning ten paces away.
But that was not the brightest I would see,
For as this spirit rolled away the stone
White dawn shone out indeed, but not like dawn,
For dawn strikes first the sky, and then the soil,
But this sprang from the gaping earth itself,
Like water from a rock, or blood from stone.
And from the open door to afterlife,
There came the dazzling figure of a man,
His face shone like the sun, but more clear-cut,
Each feature stark and striking, like the Cross,
Whose wounds shone from His hands and pierced myself
Who made them—I myself who crucified
The God Who, like the sun, rose from below
And filled the earth with heaven’s glorious light.
He strode off, but the shining spirit sat
Upon the stone he’d moved, as if to wait
For someone long expected, soon to come.
How long he waited there I counted not:
I stood stone-still, as did my fellows, dead
To all else, as if we were in the tomb
Awaiting sentence from the gods we’d served.
(Would it were true! Would I had died that day,
Before I spoke the words that stand in shame
Over my life, the death of honesty.)
After what seemed eternity, she came,
She and the other woman with that name
So common among Jews, unique to them.
They too were taken by surprise, and yet,
It did not overwhelm them, as with us.
The godlike figure seated on the stone
Spoke kindly to them, bade them have no fear,
Announced to them in words what we had seen,
That He was raised, no longer in the tomb.
He ordered them to go and tell the few
Who’d followed Him until His final hours.
No word nor look did he direct at us.
What needed it? What good would it have done?
I know not, but I wish I had the guts
Those women showed in after days of doubt,
When all men spoke against them, even we…
But I’m getting ahead of my own tale.
The natural dawn had stirred the birds and beasts
To business before we, released from bonds
Invisible that paralyzed our limbs,
Looked one another in the face again.
What could we say? And what were we to do?
We must report to those whom we had served
Or tried to serve and failed (but how on earth
Could we resist such power from on high?)
We knew not what to say, we were so fearful.
We stumbled in upon the Temple priests
At early morning, tending to their work.
Forgetting courtesy in our confusion,
We told our story, one piece on another,
and asked their pardon for our failure (though
We could not do a thing but what we’d done).
Our contubernium spoke as one man,
A doubtful man, and troubled by strange sights.
But soon I saw the priests had no intent
To let the story spread beyond these walls.
They could not quell the women, but they knew
The weaknesses of soldiers, and they pledged
A pretty price to have us turn the tale
Against ourselves, saying we were asleep—
Not dazed by light from heaven as if dead,
Just sleeping—and His cunning followers
Came creeping furtively to steal away
The body right from underneath the nose
Of Roman sentries fully trained and armed.
Such was the tale they urged us on to tell
With gifts and bribes to barter lies for truth,
And, sweetening the deal, they promised us
That, if the governor should hear of this,
They’d pay him, too, and keep us out of trouble.
I was mistrustful, but they promised gold,
Far more than I could earn in several years
Of steady saving such as I had done
Some time now, hoping one day to retire
And see an end of action.
Still, at this,
Refusal was the first word on my lips,
Holding the truth more high than any sum,
But such a sum! I wavered, fought, and I —
I took the money, told the tale they wished,
And I have never been the same man since.
That godlike spirit spoke the truth, but I
Forged on ahead, spinning a web of weeds
Till I could leave the army and depart.
At home I fumed, abroad I spread the lie.
Only when she was there did I fall silent,
The one who visited the tomb at dawn
And saw that spirit too, and heard his words.
She knew my face, and learned and called my name —
I know not how—but I avoided her,
And spewed my falsehoods elsewhere, counting days
Till I could leave my post and live at ease.
At length, when I was discharged from the ranks,
I left Jerusalem soon as I could.
Near Antioch seemed far enough away,
Not in the city, roaring with new trades,
New arts, new gods, new myths from Athens brought.
I chose the rolling pagan countryside,
Where simple folk still dwelt and called on gods
Of hearth and home: no towering deity
Great as the cosmos, small as mustard seed
Falling to earth to sprout grand victories.
The simple gods for simple men like me,
Who’d ask me not too little, nor too much.
But into Antioch disciples came,
Your teachers, whom you’ve known and whiled away
Your hours in listening to, while I sat here,
Hearing only the patter of the rain
On my soft fields. But now these Christians came
With thunder, and with lightning, and with power
To heal, to drive out demons, to move hearts
To love and to forgive where once was hate.
And then you came here, knocking at my door,
Bidding me open to the King of kings.
Oh yes, I’ll grant you that; He is the King.
I know you help His spokesman, one of those
They call the Twelve. He used to work for Rome.
His taxes paid my wages. But he left
It all behind, like me, when he met God.
But he left all to follow, I to flee,
To find a quiet place to nurse my guilt
With gold.
Yes, I am sure he’d like to hear
The story, doubtless pleased to hear the truth
Spoken by one who lived on lies so long.
That is the shameful, that’s the dreadful thing
that bottled up my tongue these many years,
I could not tell the truth: that I had lied,
Yes, lied, I say, and gained a rich reward
A brood of vipers promised with forked tongues.
Could I stand up once more before their fangs,
I’d die a thousand deaths before I’d take
The dirty money that buried the light
Of heaven, turned to darkness in my mouth.
I know what you will say: “Forgive, forgive,”
As He forgave them in His final hour,
But I cannot. The wound is yet too deep
That tore my honesty from me with gold
I still possess, though I regret it. No,
I know forgiveness is the Christian creed,
But I cannot. To that extent, at least,
I am not yet a Christian. I have not
Experienced that healing in my bones
Or in my heart you gladly prattle of.
Let me alone, then! you have heard my tale,
Be off with you to tell the truth I scorned
And then in shame concealed. Let others spit
The lies I spouted right back in my face.
Such sneering would be easier than smiles
And open arms to bid me “welcome in.”
Let me alone, now you have learned the truth
And you can smear my shame across the world.
Forgive me. You’re a good man, and you’ll hold
My story sacred as a word from God.
Go tell your teacher; let him write it down,
A testament to what you Christians preach.
But come and see me sometimes, when you can,
Your presence warms my heart, and that’s the truth.
I know you won’t be gone: you’ll come again
To be with an old soldier in his pain.
*Mehercule! A Roman oath, “By Hercules!” In Greek and Roman legends, Hercules was the son of Zeus (Deus).
*A contubernium was the basic unit of the Roman military, consisting of eight soldiers.
Photo by Maria Dolores Vazquez on Unsplash.
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