Nail, bone and blood.

If you go to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem you'll enter through an ancient door - to your right there are steps carved into the rock of Golgotha, and when you ascend these - as millions of pilgrims have done - you will emerge into the Roman Catholic Chapel of the Nailing of Jesus to the Cross - the 11th Station.. 

It is dimly lit, often crowded with pilgrims, some of whom stop and reflect, while others move more quickly to the Greek Orthodox Chapel which is built over Calvary itself, which you can just  glimpse to the left. 

This chapel commemorates the moment when Jesus was nailed to the cross. There is no way we can imagine the anguish of that moment; there was no way the trauma was lessened because of his divinity. All those who loved him could do was keep as close as they could, willing their presence to bring him some comfort, yet knowing he was already moving beyond their reach.

In the shadowy background to the left, there is the chilling image of the man who drove in the nails. Probably it wasn't the first time he had held a man down with the strength of his body and forced nail into flesh, heard splintering of bone, felt warm blood flow. 

I wonder if he had heard of Jesus, if he had been present when he rode into Jerusalem, if, even as he did the deed, he was wondering, 'Who is this man?' 

I wonder if he heard Jesus's words, 'Father forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing.' Luke 23.34

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Jesus was nailed to the cross two thousand years ago

and yet we nail Jesus to the cross still,

whenever we put ourselves at the centre of our world, 

whenever we ignore those who are poor, in pain, 

homeless or on the margins.

Jesus, forgive us,

Forgive me.​