Marcus: The Centurions Journey To Faith - Episode #1

Journal Entry-Monday, August 3, 26 A.D.

Journal Entry - Marcus the Centurion
Date: Monday, August 3, 26 A.D. (Year of the Consulship of Lentulus and Agrippa, 778 Ab urbe condita)

Today, I find myself standing at the edge of something I can’t quite put into words. Maybe it’s the heat. Maybe it’s the endless dust that clings to everything, the smell of sweat and sunbaked earth that fills the air in Judea. I’ve been stationed in many provinces, but this one—this one is different. The people here are different. And there’s something else too. A tension, like the air before a storm. I’ve felt it before, that uneasy stillness right before everything changes. But this time, it feels… heavier.

I’ve spent the better part of my life in service to Rome. My father was a soldier before me, and I followed the path laid out for me since I could first hold a sword. Discipline, order, loyalty—these are the things that define a man, at least according to the ways of Rome. I’ve risen through the ranks because of those values, earned my place through blood, sweat, and a fair bit of brutality when it was necessary. That’s how you maintain control. That’s how you build an empire. It’s not pretty, but it’s effective.

Judea, though—it’s like no other place I’ve been. There’s a fire here that burns beneath the surface of everything. You can feel it when you walk through the streets, hear it in the way the people talk, catch it in the looks they give us soldiers when they think we’re not paying attention. They hate us. That’s no surprise. We’re occupiers, after all. But there’s something more to it than just the usual resentment of a conquered people. They’re waiting for something. Or someone.

The whispers started a few weeks ago, though I didn’t pay much attention at first. It’s always the same in these provinces—stories of rebellion, of saviors, of someone who’s going to come along and free them from the hand of Rome. It’s nothing I haven’t heard a hundred times before. But these whispers… they’re different. The people are talking about a Messiah. Not just a rebel leader or a new king, but something more. Something divine.

I’m not one to believe in fairy tales. Rome’s power is real, it’s tangible. You can see it in the cities we build, the armies we command, the laws we enforce. The gods? They’re a different matter. I’ve never given much thought to the divine. My father always said that a soldier’s gods are his sword and his shield, and that’s been good enough for me. But here, the people seem to believe in something I can’t quite grasp. This Messiah they speak of—it’s not just a man they’re waiting for. It’s a savior, someone who’s supposed to deliver them from oppression. And by oppression, they mean us.

It would be easy to dismiss it all if it weren’t for the fact that the whispers are spreading. In the marketplace, at the well, in the synagogues—people are talking. They don’t speak too loudly, but they don’t seem to care who hears them either. It’s as if they think this Messiah is already here, walking among them, just waiting for the right moment to reveal Himself. And lately, there’s been a name attached to those whispers: Jesus of Nazareth.

I’ve never heard of Him before, and from what I gather, there’s not much to know. Nazareth is a small, insignificant town. Nothing of importance has ever come from there, or so I’m told. And yet, people are starting to mention His name alongside that of the Messiah. At first, it was just a few, but now it’s growing. They say He’s a teacher, a preacher, someone who speaks with authority. No miracles yet, nothing flashy. But still, the people seem to be listening.

I’ve been given no official orders regarding Him. Not yet, anyway. But I can sense that might change soon. The local authorities are nervous. They’ve seen this sort of thing before, and they know how quickly a movement like this can turn into something much bigger. It starts with a few people talking, and before you know it, you’ve got a crowd, then a mob, and then an uprising. And in Judea, uprisings tend to end in blood. Rome doesn’t tolerate unrest, and it’s my job to ensure that things stay quiet. If this Jesus starts drawing too much attention, we’ll be forced to act.

The strange thing is, though, I’m curious about Him. I’ve heard plenty of would-be prophets and messiahs make grand claims, but there’s something different about this one. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but the way people talk about Him… there’s a kind of quiet reverence that makes me wonder. They’re not shouting His name from the rooftops or calling for rebellion in His name. No, it’s subtler than that. They speak as if they’ve found something they’ve been searching for their whole lives. It’s unsettling.

I think of my mother sometimes when I hear these whispers. She was a woman of faith, though not in the way the Jews are. She believed in something greater than Rome, something beyond the reach of men. I never understood it, and I didn’t try. My father was a soldier, and so was I. Faith was a luxury we couldn’t afford. But here, in this strange land, surrounded by people who seem to live and breathe their beliefs, I find myself thinking about her more often. She would have believed in this Jesus, I think. She would have listened to His teachings and found comfort in His words. I wonder if that’s what these people are feeling—comfort. Hope. A belief that maybe, just maybe, there’s something more to this life than what we can see.

It’s a dangerous thought, though. Hope can lead people to do foolish things. I’ve seen men die for less. They get an idea in their heads, some grand notion of freedom or justice, and they throw themselves at the feet of the gods or at the mercy of an army, thinking they can change the world. But the world doesn’t change so easily. Rome doesn’t change. And neither do men like me.

Still, I can’t shake the feeling that something is coming. I’ve been stationed in enough provinces to know when a storm is on the horizon. And here in Judea, it feels like we’re standing at the edge of one. Maybe this Jesus is nothing more than another wandering preacher, someone who will come and go without much notice. But maybe… maybe He’s something more. Maybe the whispers are just the beginning of something far bigger than any of us realize.

I’ve always prided myself on being a man of reason, a man who deals in facts and reality. But there’s something about this place, about the way the people speak of Him, that makes me question things I never thought I would. I’ve spent my life serving Rome, believing in the power of the sword, in the strength of the legions. But here, I find myself wondering if there’s more to power than just brute force. Could it be that this Jesus, this man from Nazareth, holds a different kind of power? One that can’t be measured by armies or weapons, but by something… deeper?

I’m not ready to believe that yet. But I am ready to watch, to listen. I have my orders, and I’ll follow them, as I always have. But I won’t ignore the whispers. I’ll keep my ear to the ground, and when the time comes, I’ll be ready to act. Whether that means dealing with this Jesus as a threat or something else entirely, I don’t know. But something tells me I’ll find out soon enough.

Until then, I’ll do what I’ve always done. I’ll serve Rome, keep the peace, and ensure that order is maintained. But I’ll also keep watching. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my years as a centurion, it’s that sometimes, the most dangerous threats aren’t the ones you can see coming.

—Marcus