Station Eleven: Jesus is Nailed to the Cross

contemplative imaging/ flickr

"With him they crucified two insurgents, one on his right and one at his left."
   Mark 15. 27

I don’t know which was the harder part—nailing Jesus to the Cross or hanging there naked in the sun as his flesh tore and the pain was unbearable.

We arrive at Station Eleven. Soon our journey will be over and we can get back to buying groceries, paying bills and worry about what the doctor will say. Why stop here—we know the rest of the story. We’ve read the book—we know how this journey ends.  But we must linger here and remember that our Lord was nailed to the cross. We cannot even imagine what torture that was.

But we do know that everything nailed down does not come loose. Through the years as the pilgrims shuffled to this Station—they pondered the nails—and so do we. All the constrictions and all the box-in-ness. All the painful, painful sides of life.

We have our nails, too.

We lose loved ones and life is forever different...

We have cancer...

Our hearts break—literally...

Or depression comes that seems endless...

Sometimes saying goodbye to your first child who only lived one day...

Or being told you can’t drive anymore...

Or not being able to reach that child you loved with all your heart...

Or wishing you could call back that terrible thing you said or did...

Or divorce...

Or the word, inoperable...

Or falling down and not able to get up...

We could go on and on. For standing in the hardware store there is a whole section for nails. They come in all sizes—we know that well, these nails.

We cannot move on without pondering his nails and ours. But we remember later when the tears had dried and the grief was not so strong—Jesus came back. Thomas, who was not there said: “Unless I see the nail prints I cannot believe.” And days later Jesus came with his outstretched nail-scarred hands. And Thomas who never missed a chance to talk—could not say a single word. Everything nailed down really does come loose. Just look at those scars—his and ours.

                       --Roger Lovette /  rogerlovette.blogspot.com