Three Nails

The commander of the Roman garrison in Jerusalem reported there was a new rebellious spirit not only in the city but in the surrounding countryside as well. But Rome wasn't going to allow it. We had received word that Rome was going to put down any troublemakers. Because of potential future needs from the expected trouble brewing, the supply sergeant ordered a new supply of nails to restock the materials crib in his military storeroom.

Since Rome executed all criminals by crucifixion, (whether murderers, thieves, or enemies of the state stirring up insurrection, or for any other charge levied against the citizens of a conquered Israel) the Roman army needed a good supply of the long iron spikes used to nail the hands and feet of the condemned to the many crosses that lined the roads into Jerusalem.

Roman crucifixion did two things. It got rid of criminals, and the sight of men stripped naked hanging on those crosses along the roadsides, many times for days in the hot sun with scavenger birds picking off the flesh of their dead bodies turned out to be the greatest deterrent to crime and rebellion Rome could offer. I can attest to the fact, Roman brutality was more than just a rumor.

After I hand delivered the new order for one hundred nails to the Jew on the north edge of Jerusalem, I followed the old man a few feet from his small house to his workshop to make sure he began working on them immediately. I stayed with him about an hour that morning looking around his shop at all his tools and asking questions about his trade. He also knew very well what the nails he was making would be used for. Herod, the Roman appointed king over Judea and Samaria, trying to stay in favor with the people, decided to send all his trouble makers to the Roman army for trial and punishment ... which usually meant crucifixion.

This old nailsmith made nails for a living, any size or length. This new order would be made out of three-eights of an inch, square iron bar stock he forged himself in his shop. Each bar was a little longer than a normal span, the distance from the tip of a man's thumb to the tip of his little finger when spread out wide. These spikes needed to go through a six inch wooden beam and then have the points clenched over with a hammer to secure them.

He had worked for more than thirty years in this small stone building just like his father before him who had taught him the trade. There was a fire burning slowly in the brick forge, so the old man began to pedal a leather bellows, which brought the fire to a white heat. Next he used tongs to place one of the small bars into the fire. It didn't take long before it turned red, the sign it was ready for him to put the hammer to it.

He pulled the first bar out of the fire with the tongs and held it down on his heavy anvil that was mounted to a big stone base in the middle of the shop next to the forge. With regular timed strikes of his blacksmith hammer he began to taper all four sides equally to a sharp point on one end of the bar. He said by doing so, he thought that his nails might not cause as much pain for the condemned as dull, blunt ones would bring. Why make the pain any worse than need be. He would repeat this process another ninety-nine times before he would be finished with his latest order.

Because he knew the Romans didn't seem to care if the condemned were guilty or innocent, he often wondered if his nails were ever used to crucify those who hadn't committed any crimes. How was he to know that this time, three nails out of this batch were going to be used to change the history of the world.

It was approaching the first week of the Jewish month Nisan just before the Jewish Passover, called by many, the Feast of Unleavened Bread. The city of Jerusalem was beginning to get crowded with people bringing their sheep, spotless lambs without any kind of outward blemish on them to be used for a sacrificial offering for their sins. As I remember, that Passover day was bloody. It was going to be my third and last year stationed in Jerusalem.

Three years earlier I just happened to be down by the Jordan River, assigned to watch the crowds that gathered together as a wild looking man they called John the Baptist dunked people into the river to have their sins forgiven. The Jews said he was baptizing them in water. One day I heard this man John proclaim to all the people watching, something I didn't understand at all. He pointed to an average looking Jewish man walking toward him and said for all to hear ... "Behold the Lamb of God which taketh away the sin of the world."

I learned later this so called Lamb of God was really just a man from Galilee ... Jesus of Nazareth, who his followers believed was ... the Son of God. I had heard that said before about the Roman emperor, Caesar. It seems like men in power always think they are god. But this man didn't act like he was anyone special. I saw him once when he stopped a woman from being stoned to death. After the crowd left, he helped her up, said something to her, smiled and walked away. I think she became one of his followers.

The only reason I am telling you this story is because something happened that changed my life. I met this man again. I was called upon to be part of the Roman detail that crucified three men on that Passover day. Even though I had performed that gruesome task before, I never got used to it. But as a soldier under orders, what could I do. You do as you are told or the same fate might await you.

There were nine of us, three men assigned to each of three prisoners. I had charge of the man who was going to be crucified on the middle of three crosses, this very same Jesus that I had seen a few times before. I'm not even sure what his crime was. He was put on trial and convicted by Pilate for saying he was the Son of God ... at least that's what the Jewish priests said. While the other two prisoners tried their best to resist as the crucifixion process began, the man the three of us had, offered no resistance whatsoever. Most men do.

After the other two men threw him down and dragged him upon the cross that we had laying on the ground ready for him, we stretched out both of his arms as far as we could pull, one man on his right and me on his left. With my knee on his forearm I placed one of the three nails between the upper bones in the palm of his hand next to his wrist. What I cannot get out of my mind, what I haven't been able to forget, if what I was doing wasn't hard enough on me; as I raised the hammer to drive the first of the three nails into his body ... he turned his head and looked me in the eye, called me by name and with such love and compassion in his voice said ... "I forgive you."

Sweat was now pouring down my forehead, the palms of my hands were so wet I could hardly hold on to the big hammer I held in my right hand. I did not want to bring it down onto the nail I was holding in my left ... but the Captain in charge of the crucifixion was standing right over me watching everything we were doing. He allowed no mercy for anyone.

Then this man called Jesus closed his eyes, clenched his teeth and I hammered and hammered and hammered seven hard powerful blows. My eyes filled with tears, I couldn't see him clearly anymore. I dropped the hammer and stood there shaking with tears running down my face. How could this man have known my name? How could he forgive me? I had his blood on my hands ... literally.

From the very moment I drove the first of those three nails through his hand, until he died about three hours later; the heavens turned almost as black as night, lightning flashed and the wind blew over the top of that hill with so much force I thought the cross would come down. But when this man Jesus hung his head in death I really became afraid. The earth itself began to tremble and shake as if what we had done, should not have been done. Not to this man anyway. A few drops of rain fell as if heaven was even crying. I think the earth and nature itself was upset and started shaking and groaning because of his death.

Not too many days later I heard a rumor that the man I helped crucify had been seen in the city. What, he wasn't dead? He was alive? How could that be, I saw him die on that cross. I was there. I was the one with the hammer.

Another ten days came and went and then, I saw a man across the street ... it was him. I couldn't believe my eyes. I didn't walk ... I ran to him. With both of my hands placed upon his shoulders, I stammered, "It is you. You're alive." Then with a lump in my throat, I asked him the same question I heard Pilate had asked him. "Are you really ... the Son of God?"

Once more, this man Jesus from Galilee looked me in the eye, smiled and said ... "I am."

My heart was pounding when I woke up. Thank God I was only dreaming. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, sat up and swung my legs over the edge of my bunk placing my bare feet on the cool stone floor of the barracks I was in. Half awake, I looked down at my military sandals beside the bunk. I could not believe my eyes.

The bloody hammer was laying beside them.



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