Dave Hop As the blacksmith hammers away, the metal blows raining down on the sharpening spikes, he has no idea. No idea that these callous bits of iron will one day pin up a three-dimensional, sweating, bleeding holy mosaic. An image captured for all time, pinned on a craggy wooden canvas, set there so that others can go free. He is not an artist. At least he does not think of himself as such. But he does a good job, takes pride in his work. Makes the best of the vocation he has. Hammers and scorches and blasts in the heat. Time and again. Until his creations satisfy his keen eye. Then the work is passed on. To some who construct and others who tear down. To builders and soldiers. Construction and crucifixion. He has no idea what these nails will hold up right now. Could be a shelter for a family in need. Could be a criminal for the sake of justice. Or an innocent man for the sake of something bigger than justice. But he doesn’t know that. He sees glowing spikes emerging as he pummels them. Would not think of them as the channels of ultimate love. Extreme compassion. Total sacrifice. Has no idea how many will be inspired to live and die down the ages, how many will spend themselves and find purpose and love and meaning because of his three nails. He hammers on.
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