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Remembering His Hands



“Come with me to the hill of Calvary…

Watch as the soldiers shove the carpenter to the ground and stretch his arms against the beams. One presses a knee against a forearm and a spike against a hand. Jesus turns his face toward the nail just as the soldier lifts the hammer to strike it.

Couldn’t Jesus have stopped him? With a flex of his biceps, with a clench of the fist, he could have resisted. Is this not the same hand that stilled the sea? Cleansed the temple? Summoned the dead?

But the fist doesn’t clench… and the moment isn’t aborted…

As the soldier pressed his arm, Jesus rolled his head to the side, and with his cheek resting on the wood he saw: a mallet? Yes. A nail? Yes. A soldier’s hand? Yes.

But he saw something else. He saw the hand of God. It appeared to be the hand of a man. Long fingers of a woodworker. Callous palms of a carpenter. It appeared common. It was, however, anything but.

These fingers formed Adam out of clay and furrowed truth into tablets. With a wave, his hand toppled Babel’s tower and split the Red Sea. From this hand flew the locusts that plagued Egypt and the raven that fed Elijah. Is it any wonder that the psalmist celebrated liberation by declaring: “You drove out the nations with Your hand… It was Your right hand, Your arm, and the light of Your countenance” Psalm 44:2-3.

The hand of God is a mighty hand.

Oh, the hands of Jesus. Hands of incarnation at his birth. Hands of liberation as he healed. Hands of inspiration as he taught. Hands of dedication as he served. And hands of salvation as he died.

… As the hands of Jesus opened for the nail, the doors of heaven opened for you.”

-Max Lucado, ‘He Chose the Nails

… Remembering His hands; remembering that as the body of Christ, we have made a promise to serve Him. Let’s remember to be His hands in a hurting world.