The Story of the Nails…

Their story begins in the iron ore deposits on the Ramim-Manara Ridge.  A miner dug out some ore, packed it on his donkey, and made his way to a regular customer, a blacksmith just outside of Jerusalem. 

The blacksmith heated the ore, burning off the impurities.  He knocked off pieces of the surrounding rock that were not pure enough to process.  Then, while the iron was hot, he shaped it with repetitive swings.  Some ore was heated again to a liquid state and poured into molds.  One of the molds was for nails.  Not skinny nails, but ones designed to hold heavy weight.  These were for his best customer, the Roman soldiers stationed in Jerusalem.

The Centurion would pick up twenty or so of these nails each month, paying with Roman coins that had real value.  The blacksmith was not naïve.  He knew what the nails would be used for.

The nails would be used in crucifixions.  Often, the soldiers would use ropes to hold those under a death sentence on crosses.  Ropes were not as expensive and allowed the ones being crucified to linger longer, sometimes for weeks.  But nails were for the hurry-up jobs, when prisoners needed to be dead in 24 hours.  Driven through the hands and feet of the victim and the wood, the nails were often hammered over to prevent them from pulling out as the men writhed in agony.

Once, when the blacksmith was on his way to take care of business in Jerusalem, he saw a crucifixion in progress.  He heard the screams of agony as the soldiers drove the nails through the victim’s hands and feet.  He knew they were probably his nails.  His conscience bothered him some, but the Romans were going to buy nails from some blacksmith, so it might as well be him.

After the crucifixion was over, the soldiers would take the victims down.  If no family member claimed the body, it would be thrown in the city dump to rot.  The cross beams would be reused.  The nails would be hammered straight, to be used again. 

The iron that made up the nails was brittle.  After repeated nailing and straightening, the nail would often break apart.  The soldiers would gather up the pieces and return them to the blacksmith, who would melt the iron down and pour the molten iron back into the molds.

The Centurion arrived one day to pick up a fresh batch of nails.  Rumor had it that several men were going to be crucified that week, so Pilate could show the Jews who was really in charge.  Jerusalem was crowded with pilgrims, who had made their way into the city to celebrate Passover.  Pilate wanted them to know that if anyone entertained a thought of rebelling against Rome, they too would hang on a cross.

The blacksmith was not there when Jesus was nailed to the cross.  He did not hear his screams; he did not see the blood flow from his hands and feet.  But he had to go back to Jerusalem that morning to get some supplies.  As he rounded the curve, he saw three crosses.  As he drew closer, morbid curiosity drew his eyes to the nails.  Were they using his nails? 

He could see the nails clearly, noting they were brighter than used nails.  These were the nails the Centurion picked up earlier in the week.  His normal ability to shrug it off failed him.  There was something disturbing about seeing his craftsmanship used for such a cruel purpose.  He paused his walk and looked at the man in the middle.  He was in obvious pain, but he managed to choke out, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.” 

This struck the blacksmith as odd.  What criminal ever forgave those who were crucifying him?  But there was something about this man, a peace as he faced death, that he had never seen before.

The blacksmith moved on, for clouds were gathering and it looked like rain.  As he left “Skull Hill,” he thought, “At least my nails are holding.”

But the blacksmith was wrong.  The man in the middle could have popped those nails right out.  As the old song goes, he could have called ten thousand angels.  He had that power.  But he stayed on that cross.  He stayed with the pain of the nails in his hands and feet. 

The nails were not holding him.  He chose to stay on the cross because he loved the whole world.  He loved you.  And he loved me.   And love, his love, has more holding power than any nail.