: The Centurion’s Faith: The Authority of the Word

Isaiah 51:4–8; Luke 7:1–10

A Roman centurion’s slave is ill, near death. The centurion does not come to Jesus himself—he sends Jewish elders to plead on his behalf. He is worthy of this, they argue. He loves our people. He built our synagogue. They make a case based on merit: this man has earned your attention.

But then the centurion sends a second delegation with a very different message: Lord, do not trouble yourself, for I am not worthy to have you come under my roof. Therefore I did not presume to come to you. But only speak the word, and let my servant be healed. The first delegation argued worthiness. The centurion himself claims unworthiness—and in doing so, demonstrates the greatest faith Jesus has encountered in all of Israel.

"Faith is the bird that feels the light and sings when the dawn is still dark." —Rabindranath Tagore

What does the centurion understand that the elders do not? He understands authority. As a military commander, he knows that real power does not require physical presence. He says a word and soldiers move. He recognizes in Jesus the same kind of authority—but over sickness, death, the forces that undo human life. Jesus does not need to come to the house. The word is enough.

Isaiah speaks of this same word: my deliverance will be forever, and my salvation to all generations. Lift up your eyes to the heavens, and look at the earth beneath; for the heavens will vanish like smoke, the earth will wear out like a garment. But my salvation will be forever. Everything material is passing. The word endures.

There is something deeply contemplative about the centurion’s posture. He does not demand. He does not perform. He does not even show up. He simply trusts the word. The desert tradition would recognize this as apatheia—not apathy in our modern sense, but a freedom from the anxious need to control outcomes. The centurion has handed the situation entirely over to Jesus.

This prayer—Lord, I am not worthy that you should come under my roof, but only say the word—has been prayed by Christians before receiving communion for centuries. It is a prayer of trust disguised as a confession of unworthiness. We are not worthy. And the word is sufficient.

In Martin Scorsese’s film Silence, the Jesuit missionary Rodrigues struggles through an agonizing crisis of faith in Japan. At the lowest moment, when everything he believed has been tested beyond endurance, he hears the voice of Christ—not thundering from the heavens but whispering in the silence. The word comes. Quiet, intimate, irrefutable.

Today, practice the centurion’s faith. You do not need a dramatic encounter. You do not need Jesus to walk through your front door. Only speak the word. That is enough. Trust it.

The early church made the centurion's prayer a regular part of the Eucharistic liturgy because they understood something essential: the proper posture before God is not achievement but receptivity. We do not come to the altar because we are worthy. We come because the One who speaks is trustworthy. The word is enough—not because our faith is strong, but because the One who speaks has authority over sickness, death, and every force that unmakes us. The centurion saw this from outside the covenant. Sometimes those on the margins see most clearly.