This past Sunday was "Christ the King Sunday," bringing to mind, as it usually does, a church from my growing up years called, "Christ the King."
It was located in a rough area of San Diego, and that was before city planners and highway builders bifurcated it, not too unlike what Highway 59 did to Akron neighborhoods when it first went in.
"This is my kind of church!" I told my dad. During the coffee hour you could get tamales and burritos and tacos. (Then if you wanted, I think you could go to Weight Watchers too.)
For adults - and for others who somehow were not thinking about their next enchilada during the pastor's sermon - this church was also a refuge and sanctuary in a turbulent place and time.
There was a statue of Jesus Christ on the front lawn. One day people noticed that the hands of the statue were missing. Vandals? Pranksters? No one knew.
They decided not to replace the hands, because it would help them remember that they themselves were the hands of Christ in that neighborhood, just as we are in our neighborhoods, even if we don't happen to have any handless statues around.
During this coronavirus pandemic I have missed singing many songs with you, including this one:
Take my hands Lord Jesus, let them work for you,
make them strong and gentle, kind in all I do,
Let me watch you Jesus, till I'm gentle too,
Till my hands are kind hands, quick to work for you
(Hymn 273, "Jesus' Hands Were Kind Hands")
God Bless and Be with you,