Stories
of Scars

What healed wounds really tell us. by Donna A. Tallman

Steven drives to his basketball game while I sit beside him marveling at how far he’s come since he got his driver’s permit. He wears one of his ratty shirts with no sleeves, revealing an ugly red scar on his upper right arm. Anxious to prove himself to his high school coach, he played hard throughout his first game, taking an offensive charge in the last minute. Falling against a grate on the floor, he ripped a hole in his arm. He got up undaunted, shot his free throws, and left the floor with blood streaming like jellyfish tentacles down the back of his arm.

The doctor glued the hole together with some kind of medical epoxy that he said would be better than stitches, but within two days the gash had peeled open and was spitting ooze through the bandage.

“No worries, Mom,” Steven said. “It’ll be fine.” By the time the wound healed, he was left with a permanent red scar.

Scars make us authentic

America is obsessed with perfection. We use words like sculptured, manicured, and well groomed to describe not only our bodies but also our lawns. But there’s something wonderfully real about imperfection, about the ordinary.

Jesus was perfect, but He was also ordinary. Raised the son of an everyman, a carpenter, He was so ordinary that hometown people rejected His teaching in their synagogue. They could not believe that the boy they once saw running through their streets was now preaching and performing miracles. He certainly couldn’t be Israel’s promised “king”; He was too much like them!

Hanging on the cross, Jesus didn’t look much like a king either. His face was bloodied and battered, yet He was presented to a watching world as King of the Jews. Stripped and nailed to the cross, His flesh torn from His back, Jesus evoked no aura of nobility or authority. Quite the contrary. Those who passed by Jesus that day hurled insults and mocked His claim as king. Why would God choose such a beaten man to be the Messiah? Who would consider following such a defeated king?

Anyone who had been beaten by the world would be drawn to Jesus. He knew pain; His scars made Him authentic. While His power declared His authority, His anguish connected Him to human suffering, opening the door for all to draw near to Him with confidence (Hebrews 4:16).

Scars identify us

Each of my family members has a scar, the most memorable going to our son, Philip. A cow dog attacked him when he was six, and he now has a scar just above his lip. Philip never tried to hide it. All that’s left now is a tiny white line. To us, it’s a keepsake of the day his life was spared. Like the rest of my family, his scar distinguishes him from the others; it makes him unique.

Jesus knew that. A resurrection tops a crucifixion. Jesus didn’t need to return with scars, but He did. His disciples thought they’d seen a ghost until He showed them His hands, feet, and side (Luke 24:37-40). Thomas wouldn’t believe at all until he touched the scars for himself (John 20:25).

Why was it so hard for them to believe? Because no crucified person had ever yet shown his scars to prove his suffering. Jesus’ scars were a written record that His death on the cross really did happen. Those scars verified Jesus’ victory over death and uniquely identified Him.

Scars validate God’s work

I wish I felt as grateful for the internal scars that have disfigured my heart; I desperately try to hide those. My greatest fear in revealing my scars is that others may see that I have glued the gaps together with an inferior solution, leaving me vulnerable to recurring infection. By not allowing my wounds to heal, I run the risk of spitting infectious ooze on those who inadvertently bump into one of them.

The Apostle Peter loved Jesus so much that He publicly proclaimed his loyalty unto death and sliced off the ear of one who had come to arrest the Lord (John 13:37; 18:10). Jesus knew Peter loved Him, but He also knew Peter would deny ever knowing Him. Imagine Peter’s heartbreak after the rooster’s third call, when he realized he had denied Jesus. He was devastated! From that moment on, Peter would remember his impulsive proclamation of loyalty and his utter failure to follow through. The wound in his heart would live forever. But Jesus moved into that place of painful wounded-ness, helping Peter turn it into a validating scar.

“Simon, son of Jonah, do you love Me?” Jesus asked and asked and asked again (John 21:15-17).

By the time Jesus asked the third question, Peter’s grief was laid bare. With each question came Peter’s affirmation “Yes, Lord; You know that I love You.” Each time Peter verbalized his love for the Lord, his broken heart healed a little more. Eventually that wound became a scar, an intimate tribute of Christ’s forgiveness.

Scars give us authority

Our scars give us authority to minister to others. We are most comforted by someone who understands grief, has encountered pain, felt the sting of betrayal, or walks where we live. These fellow sufferers come alongside and do what no other can do: empathize. Our hearts’ disfigurement allows us to access each other’s pain to bring restoration.

Jesus was tempted in all ways as are we. Perhaps one of the greatest temptations He faced happened on the cross in the midst of excruciating pain. As the crowds jeered and mocked Him, many taunted Him to use His power to get Himself off the cross. Had Jesus opted out of God’s plan for salvation, He would have no authority to speak of endurance to us. His suffering would have no meaning; his torture, no validity. It was in the midst of obtaining His scars that He was most like us.

Every scar tells a story — of what happened, an omen of what could have been, and the relief of what wasn’t. Ask Steven to tell you about the scar on his arm, and you will hear a blow-by-blow account of triumph. He won’t focus on the basketball foul, the crash into the wall, or even the doctor’s visit. No, Steven will tell you that in spite of his injury, he scored two free throws after he was hurt. His scar is a badge of honor!

Scars proclaim life

We all carry scars. Some of them are external — on view for the world to see. Some are so deeply etched into our hearts that we are not even aware of their presence. Each reveals a triumph: Death has once again been cheated and life remains.

Regardless of its source or effect on us, each scar is a written record of the line of God’s limit, His sovereign boundary, His border of restriction. The same God who limited the oceans at the shoreline (Job 38:8-11) can set limits on your pain.

The scars of the resurrected Christ assure us that we too, though wounded now, will experience resurrection one day. Our healing and the scars that remain declare life, providing others with hope that their lives will continue with blessing as well.

Donna A. Tallman writes from Lake Oswego, OR.

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