09/02/2026
IF LOVE HAD HANDS
(why we do outreach)
A love poem for us, the hands and feet of Jesus.
If love had hands,
would they look like ours?
Would they be clean,
untouched,
folded safely in prayer?
Or would they be dirty
from digging through somebody else’s wreckage?
Would they smell like perfume—
or like the street,
the hospital room,
the shelter,
the kitchen,
the shoulder somebody cried on
until there were no tears left?
If love had feet,
where would they go?
Would they stay where it is comfortable,
where everybody looks like us,
believes like us,
lives like us?
Or would they walk toward
the places everybody else
keeps walking past?
Because we keep asking,
“Jesus, where are You?”
when another child goes hungry.
“Jesus, where are You?”
when somebody sleeps beneath a bridge.
“Jesus, where are You?”
when the lonely decide
that nobody would notice
if they disappeared.
“Jesus, where are You?”
when a mother is choosing
between groceries and electricity.
“Jesus, where are You?”
when the forgotten
start believing
they were meant to be forgotten.
And I wonder
if Heaven ever whispers back:
“Where are My hands?”
“Where are My feet?”
Because maybe
we have been waiting for Jesus
to come down and change the world,
while Jesus has been waiting
for His children
to get up.
Maybe the miracle
is already in the room.
Maybe it looks like your hands.
Maybe it walks on my feet.
Maybe it sounds like,
“I see you.”
“I brought enough for you too.”
“Sit with me.”
“You don’t have to pay me back.”
“You can call me.”
“I remembered.”
“I came back.”
“You matter.”
Maybe love isn’t always
a grand altar call.
Sometimes love
is a plate of food
placed into trembling hands.
Sometimes it is
a coat.
A ride.
A phone call.
A grocery bag.
A seat at the table.
A name remembered.
A door held open.
A bill quietly paid.
A person who refuses
to let another human being
hurt alone.
Because Jesus did not only tell us
that He loved us.
He put skin on love.
He touched the untouchable.
He sat with the unwanted.
He defended the condemned.
He fed the hungry.
He washed dirty feet.
He wept with grieving people.
And then—
as if loving us with words
would never be enough—
He stretched His hands
across a wooden cross
and let nails
tell the world
how far Love was willing to go.
Those hands were pierced.
Those feet were pierced.
And now He calls us
His body.
So how dare His hands
refuse to reach?
How dare His feet
refuse to go?
How can we sing about His heart
and ignore what breaks it?
How can we pray,
“Lord, send somebody,”
when perhaps
we are the somebody
He sent?
we are not here
just to fill buildings.
We are here
to fill empty stomachs.
Empty seats.
Empty hearts.
Empty spaces
where hope used to live.
We are here
to love so recklessly
that people who have forgotten God
taste something familiar
when they encounter us.
Because some people
will never read a Bible
before they read you.
Some will never hear a sermon
before they hear
the kindness in your voice.
Some may never understand
the bread of life
until somebody
hands them actual bread.
So feed them.
Hold them.
See them.
Hear them.
Go back for them.
Stand beside them.
Learn their names.
Sit on the pavement
if that’s where they are.
And if they ask,
“Why do you love me like this?”
don’t give them a performance.
Just tell them,
“Because once,
when I had nothing to offer Him,
Jesus loved me like this too.”
That is our banner.
Not fame.
Not applause.
Not titles.
Not how loudly
we can say His name—
but how deeply
someone can feel His love
because we came.
Let them taste it.
Let them feel it.
Let love have weight.
Let love have hands.
Let love have feet.
Let love show up
before somebody gives up.
Let love arrive
before hunger becomes hopelessness.
Let love knock
before loneliness locks the door.
Let love interrupt
what this world has decided
is inevitable.
Because maybe we cannot
fix everything.
But we can refuse
to do nothing.
And maybe one meal
doesn’t end hunger—
but for one person,
tonight,
hunger ended.
Maybe one embrace
doesn’t heal every wound—
but for one moment,
somebody remembered
what safe felt like.
Maybe one act of kindness
doesn’t change the whole world—
but it can change
someone’s whole world.
And isn’t that
what Jesus did?
One table.
One touch.
One person.
One broken heart
at a time.
Until Love
became a movement.
So let this be
our inheritance.
Let this be
what they say about
the children of God:
They came.
When everybody else walked away,
they came.
When nobody wanted to touch us,
they touched us.
When nobody remembered our names,
they remembered.
When we were hungry,
they fed us.
When we were ashamed,
they covered us.
When we were invisible,
they saw us.
And somehow,
when they loved us,
we could have sworn
Jesus Himself
had walked into the room.
So here are my hands, Lord.
Let them become Yours.
Here are my feet.
Send them where Yours would go.
Here is my table.
Make room.
Here is my heart.
Break it
for what breaks Yours.
And when this hurting world
asks us,
“Where is Jesus?”
may we never have to answer
only with words.
May they look at our hands.
May they follow our feet.
May they taste our love.
May they feel our embrace.
And through tears
may they finally whisper,
**“Oh…
there He is.”**
