Hands and feet of Jesus

I’ve heard it a thousand times—

Be the hands and feet of Jesus.

And I’ve nodded along, stirred by the idea of love in action,

of compassion that gets dirty,

of a gospel that walks and serves and carries and touches.

But lately, I can’t shake the image…

Those hands we speak of—

They were pierced.

Those feet we long to imitate—

They were nailed through.

We say it so casually, like it’s a slogan,

a mission statement

stitched on a tote bag or etched into a coffee mug. But do we remember what it really means?

To be the hands and feet of Jesus

is to surrender to a love that bleeds.

It’s not always tidy ministry hours or smiling acts of service.

It’s the ache of being misunderstood.

It’s the weight of forgiving someone who isn’t sorry.

It’s loving when you’re exhausted.

It’s holding on when everything in you wants to run.

It’s staying soft when the world goes hard.

It’s choosing obedience over applause.

It’s pouring yourself out when no one claps for it.

It’s laying down your life—not once, but daily.

To follow Jesus is to walk a cruciform path.

And I’m learning that real love doesn’t just reach—

it stretches.

Sometimes painfully.

Sometimes to the point of breaking.

And in that stretch, in that sacred tearing,

something holy is born.

I said I wanted to be like Him.

I still do.

But I didn’t know that love would sometimes look like a cross more than a crown.

Like a silence more than a song.

Like wounds more than wins.

Still, I believe it’s worth it.

He is worth it.

So I will go where He leads.

Even when it hurts.

Even when it costs me comfort, reputation, security, or strength.

Because those pierced hands healed me.

Those nailed feet ran toward me.

And if I am to be His body in this world—

I cannot expect it to come without scars.

Let me love like that.

Let me serve like that.

Let me surrender like that.

Not just with my hands.

Not just with my feet.

But with my whole heart—

pierced, poured out, and fully His.