My name is Joseph.  No, not that Joseph.  I have never been to Egypt in my entire life.  Oh, no, I am not that other Joseph either, I was not married to a lady named Mary, although I did get the opportunity to meet her, and I do feel a special attachment to her husband…more about that later. Anyway, this is my workshop.  I am a smith…a smithy.   I am a blacksmith and my name is Joseph.  I am glad we finally got that cleared up!  My work is to fashion all kinds of things out of metal; plows, shovels, nails, rakes, hinges…all kinds of things.  This was my Dad’s shop, he’s dead now, but he was a great smithy.  He is the one that taught me the trade.  I miss him quite a bit.

Let me tell you a story.  About a year ago, just before Dad died, I was called to replace some hinges on an old stable door.  As I arrived, sure enough, there was a heavy wooden door, supported by three hinges.  Two of the hinges were completely broken, the one remaining hinge was supporting all the weight.  It was rusted and bending under the heavy load.  The owner was right to call me.  The heavy door was going to fall at any moment.  What I needed to do was to take some measurements, go back to the shop and fashion some new hinges, while hoping the old ones might hold for another couple of days.  As I began to examine the hinges closer, it became apparent to me that Dad had built those hinges years ago.  The quality of his workmanship was still apparent under layers of rust and corrosion.

So, with the measurements in hand I went back to the shop, fired up my furnace, prepared the raw metal, and began to hammer out the new hinges.  The next day I took the new hinges back to the job site, removed the old hinges, and installed the new ones.  I was pretty proud of the job I had done.  I remember wondering if my hinges would last as long as Dad’s.  Now, a smithy doesn’t waste anything.  Metal can be reused, so I placed the old rusty and broken hinges in my work box and took them back to the shop.  Upon my arrival, I removed my tools from the box and took out the old hinges one by one and placed them on the bench.  My plan was to melt them down later and reuse them for another project.

Well, about that time Dad came into the shop and saw the hinges lying on the bench.  Recognizing his own work, he appeared to be intrigued by the hinges and asked where they came from.  I told him they came from the stable doors at the inn.  He picked up one of the old hinges and held it tightly in his old calloused hand.  As old memories flooded his mind, he said, “son, let me tell you a story.”

 “About thirty years ago I received a request from the innkeeper to replace the hinges on his stable door.  The taxation was taking place and with the increased traffic using the stable, he was afraid the old hinges would fall apart.  Of course, that would give occasion for the animals to get out and for predators and vagrants to get in.  So, just like you, I fashioned some new hinges, these right here, and returned to install them on the doors.

When I arrived the next day, I was shocked to see a young couple huddled in the corner.  At first, I assumed they were vagrants that had taken advantage of the open doors.  However, the man assured me they had permission to be there—and any way—I noticed his wife was pregnant—so, I decided not to question them any further and just ignore their presence.  But, I couldn’t!  There was something about them—I couldn’t put my finger on it—just something.  Son, you know we always try to do a good job, but barn doors just don’t usually get quite the same level of attention that more important doors might receive.  But not this time.  I made sure those hinges fit perfectly.  I found that the man, whose name was Joseph, was a carpenter from Nazareth.  Now, as you might imagine the main focus of his attention was always on his wife, but he still took the time to help me make sure the door would close tightly to keep out the cold air.  I remember telling Joseph that he appeared to be a victim of bad timing.  I mean, with a wife giving birth in a stable, miles away from home on a cold winter’s night.  But, he smiled and assured me that the birth of the child was coming at God’s perfect time.  What could I do but agree?

As a carpenter, he noticed that originally there were two hinges on the door, but I replaced them with three.  He complemented my work and agreed it took three hinges to properly hang such a heavy door.  The project took a little longer than I anticipated, and even though the night was falling, it seems as if the Lord made the stars shine brighter on our worksite so we could get the job done.  They were most kind and grateful for my efforts.  His wife, her name was Mary, even commented that the Lord must have sent me to make sure the stable could be buttoned up tight.  Well, after I finished my work, we said our goodbyes and I made my way back to the shop.

I saw them several times after that night and had the privilege of meeting their infant Son, His name was Jesus.  That little fellow had the most piercing eyes.  It’s like He could see your very soul.  Anyway, He was a cute little guy.  I also had opportunity to work with Joseph on some projects around town for the next couple of years.  He needed the extra money, was a good carpenter, and frankly I needed the help.  I guess the Lord was meeting both of our needs.  Sadly, they quite suddenly moved away, I later found they went to Egypt, and it was a good thing too, for Herod ordered the death of all the little boys two years old or younger.  That certainly would have meant death for Jesus.  That was a horrible time in our little town.

Now, your Mom and I had been praying for a child—for you son—but God had not seen fit to allow it to happen.  We agonized over being childless and couldn’t understand why God would not grant this blessing.  Later, we understood when you were born about six months after the slaughter.  Thank God, He delayed the answer to our prayers.  I remembered the words of Joseph, about how his little boy was born at God’s perfect timing.  I soon realized, so was mine!  Actually son, I had such a high regard and appreciation for Joseph, that’s how you got your name…in honor of him.

I had often thought about that little family and what became of them.  As the years went by I began to hear about a fellow named Jesus who was a prophet and miracle worker from Nazareth. I had often wondered if it was that same little boy.  Eventually, I had the opportunity to meet Him, and sure enough I found He was the same little fellow that was born in the stable that night so many years ago.  Once again, I saw those same piercing eyes…eyes that conveyed love and compassion…but also commanded respect.  I introduced myself and told him about His dad helping me repair the stable door so they could be safe and warm.  I told Him that out of all the doors I’d ever hung, I had always considered that one to be special.  I had even gone back to that door several times over the years just to look inside that old stable and remember that sacred night.

He told me He understood how important a good door could be, but now there was a door of safety for the world, He said “I am the door by me if any man enter in, he shall be saved.” Son, to be honest, I didn’t understand all that He said, but this I am sure of, He is a great man.  Some say He is the Messiah.  I am not sure about that, but I do know He is a man of God.  That was obvious. I also told Him about you, son, and that I hoped you might get to know each other one day.  He seemed excited about the prospect of meeting you and was especially pleased that you were named after His father.  Son, if you ever get chance to see Him, don’t pass up the opportunity.  You’ll never be the same.

You see son, that’s why those hinges are so special for they helped protect that humble family that night, and they helped keep the little child warm from the cold winter’s air.  Those hinges also gave me the opportunity to meet some of the finest folks I have ever known.  Although I did not go back to visit them that night, I understand these hinges also allowed easy access for some shepherds that came to honor Him.  Three simple hinges for a stable door, but for me they were one of the most important jobs I have ever done.”

After Dad shared the story I took those hinges and decided just to hang them up on the wall.  Somewhat of a memento of a special night; a remembrance of some of Dad’s greatest work.  Even after Dad died, I kept them in a special place on the workshop wall.  And there they stayed until late one night a Roman soldier came beating upon my door.  He said he had been sent to get some nails.  Although it seemed like a strange request for the middle of the night, I said sure, as I usually kept a few nails in stock and asked what kind of nails he needed.  He explained that he required nails for a crucifixion taking place the next morning.  Of course, I didn’t have that kind of nail, for two reasons.  First, I just preferred not to have anything to do with Roman executions, and second, the Romans had their own smithy.  He usually handled any work the military needed.  However, the soldier explained that their smithy was sick and although they always kept nails in reserve, an additional execution of an insurrectionist and murderer named Barabbas left them three nails short.  I explained that I didn’t have that type of nail, and furthermore I didn’t even have the metal in stock to make them.  All of that of course was true.  There is no way I was going to deceive a Roman soldier.

Then he looked up and saw the old rusty hinges hanging on the wall.  “Use those”, he said.  I explained that they were very special to me as my Dad had made them over thirty years back, and that now he was dead so they were even more special.  Of course, the soldier didn’t care about any of that.  He knew he could be punished for failing in his mission, and I could be punished for disobeying his order, so he commanded me to fashion the nails from the hinges and told me to bring them to the place of the skull by 8:30 the next morning.

I immediately fired up the furnace.  It would be difficult to get the job done that quickly.  I had to work fast.  Reluctantly, I took the hinges off the wall, gave them one parting glance, and sadly cast them into the furnace.  With every beat of the hammer I was saddened that the old hinges were being destroyed, and saddened that they would soon be used to nail someone to a cross.  I finished the work just in time to get them delivered as ordered.

On the hill top two men had already been crucified.  The scene was gruesome.  I felt sickened by what I saw.  Now, I have no problem with the concept of capital punishment for such crimes as authorized by the law of God, but there are some sites you just would rather not see.  I tried to give the three nails to a soldier, but he wouldn’t take them.  He said I would have to give them to the Centurion who would be arriving shortly with the third condemned man.  I really didn’t want to wait around, but it appeared I had no choice.

As the noise of the crowd began to intensify, I saw the procession advancing up the hillside.  At first, I assumed the fellow carrying the cross was the man who would be crucified, but I soon determined that someone else was carrying the cross and the condemned prisoner was staggering up behind him.  As they drew closer I had to turn my head from what I saw.  Never had I seen a man so beaten and bruised.  I didn’t know the man, but the way he looked, I wouldn’t have recognized him even if he had been a close friend.

As He arrived at the crest of the hill, the cross was thrown on the ground, and the man was placed upon it.  The Roman Centurion called out, “Where are the nails?”  I ran to bring the freshly forged spikes to the soldier.  He examined my work and with a smile on his face and mockery in his voice he looked down at the condemned man and said, “These should do nicely, after all, it will require three strong nails to hang Jesus of Nazareth, the King of the Jews.”  What did he say?  I thought it was to be a man named Barabbas, but he called him Jesus.  Could this be that same Jesus that Dad had met when he was but a child?  Was this the man of God he had told me about?

Yes, yes it was.  There was no doubt.  Rather than look at the smirking soldier, Jesus looked at the spikes and then He looked directly at me—as if—as if, He knew me.  In spite of all His pain I saw the love and compassion in His eyes, just as dad told me, I saw it, too.  He looked as if, He knew a friend had made those nails.  However, I didn’t feel like a friend.  I felt like I had not only betrayed this man of God, but my own father, also.

As they readied to drive the spikes, the spikes I had just forged, the spikes made from the hinges of the stable door, with tearful eye I walked away.  I wanted to leave that place, but something compelled me to stay.  I heard His words of compassion from the cross.  I witnessed the jeering crowd.  I was especially grateful that I had opportunity to meet His mother.  I was hoping to meet her husband, my namesake, but sadly I was told he had passed away some time back.

After Jesus died, I heard the Centurion, the very one who sent the soldier who ordered me to make the nails, he said “Truly, this was the Son of God.”  You know something?  He was right.  There was no other answer for all the things I had seen.

I left the hill top along with others to prepare for the Passover.  But, I left as a follower of Jesus Christ.  Making my way down the hillside I remember thinking, it was my sins that forged those spikes.  I am a sinful man.  Those spikes should have been mine.  Indeed, they were mine, I once owned them and my father owned them before me, but Jesus Christ took ownership of those spikes and received them in my place.  I remembered how Dad had told me that Jesus was the door.  Suddenly, it all made sense, three spikes from three hinges, because it takes three hinges to properly hang such a mighty door.  Once again, the work from our little shop held a door, the only door that led to God.  But, this time it was not the door of a stable, but the door of salvation.

 I thought about how the hinges that dad installed on the stable door would have swung open to allow easy access to anyone who wanted to worship Jesus, apparently only the shepherds accepted the offer.  It is likely that dozens of others walked by the stable door that night without so much as a pause.  After all, they were busy.  They had things to do.  Anyway, could anything of real importance be going on in a stable?

I thought of how Jesus, the door who hung on the cross, was the same way.  Anyone had access to worship Him, but only one of the men dying on the cross beside Him accepted the offer.  Dozens of others could have, but they chose not to.  After all, I am sure most would not think that anything of importance could come from a condemned man hanging on a cross.  But, they were wrong.  He alone had the words of life.  I knew it, and so did the repentant thief.

Just like those shepherds, I worshipped the King within that door.  I received Jesus as my Saviour.  I would later meet other followers of Christ, I would be baptized, receive the Holy Spirit, and become an active member in the church.  As a matter of fact, I was proud to be one of the 500 who saw my resurrected Lord.  We all saw His scars, but no one saw them quite the same as me.  You see, I forged the spikes that made them.

I can tell you this, when I first started meeting with other believers, I was afraid that they would not receive me once they found out that I had forged the nails that pierced the Lord, but I was wrong.  They were all understanding and forgiving.  Apparently, they found it far easier to forgive me, than it was for me to forgive myself.  Such is the nature of  the members of our little church.

So, what am I doing now?  Well I’m still a smithy, and still forging all kind of things out of metal; plows, shovels, nails, rakes, hinges…all kinds of things…just like before, but now I am Christian smithy. I can also tell you this, not a day goes by that I don’t look up at that blank space on my workshop wall; the place where the hinges used to hang.  As I gaze at the empty void, the Holy Spirit reminds me.  The hinges dad forged are now gone, because they have finished their work and are no longer needed.  They helped shelter the holy family while providing access to those who wished to worship the infant King.

The nails I forged are also gone, they too have finished their work and are no longer needed.  They did the work God wanted them to do as the Lamb of God was sacrificed to pay for the sins of the whole world.  Now, the space is empty, but that empty space reminds me of my latest forging project for the Lord, and that is, I am busy trying to forge my life into the image of Jesus Christ.  My goal… is to fashion my life, and then clearly display it in a way that might bring Him the most honor and glory.

Dr. Worthington has been in the ministry over forty years and serves as President of Pathway Ministries.