A friend of mine, in his mid-thirties, had a large tumor removed from his right arm. You can imagine the fear of that season — the waiting, the surgery, the not knowing. Fifteen years later he told me that every time he looks at the scar where the tumor was removed, he feels gratitude. Gratitude for the use of the arm. Gratitude that the tumor was benign. Gratitude for the gift of life itself.

The scar became a daily reminder of grace.

I think about the woman I knew in seminary who had scars on both arms from a painful season in her adolescence. She carried herself with a poise and a wisdom that seemed beyond her years. I watched her work with the homeless with a gentleness and an understanding that stopped me. And I knew — she would minister to people's pain in ways I never could, precisely because she had lived inside her own.

Carlyle Marney, one of the great Baptist preachers of the twentieth century, once said: "God often uses people who are deeply wounded. On the last day, Jesus will look us over not for medals, diplomas, or honors — but for scars."

Our scars are part of our story. They are the marks of experience — evidence of wounds that were real, of pain that was genuine, of losses that cost us something. They are not signs of weakness. They are signs that we have lived, that we have endured, that we are still here.

And in the hands of a redeeming God, they become something more. They become the very places through which we connect with others. The very places where compassion is born. The very places where grace enters in.

Whatever you have been through — whatever marks it has left — may you come to trust that God is not finished with that part of your story. The scars are not the end. They are where the resurrection work often begins.

Prayer: Redeeming God, we thank you that nothing in our story is wasted — not the wounds, not the losses, not the scars we carry quietly from seasons long past. Take what has been broken in us and make it useful. Take what has been painful and make it a source of compassion for others. May our scars become not reminders of our weakness, but of your resurrection power and grace. Through Jesus Christ. Amen.

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Thomas gets a bad reputation. We call him "Doubting Thomas" as if his skepticism were a character flaw to be corrected. But I've come to think he was pointing to something important.

When Thomas heard that his friends had seen the risen Christ, he said: "Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe." (John 20:25)

That sounds like stubbornness. But listen more carefully. What Thomas was really saying was this: the Jesus I know has wounds. The Jesus I followed suffered. The Jesus I love has scars. Show me those — and then I will believe.

Early in Christian history there was a heresy called Docetism. The Docetists claimed that Christ only appeared to be human — that he didn't really suffer, didn't really live and die as we must. The church said no. Emphatically. Jesus was fully God and fully human. The risen Christ still bore the marks of the cross. Without the wounds, it isn't the gospel.

Because only a wounded God can save.

A woman named Linda once showed up at the home of a stranger named Lonni, whose baby was dying of cancer. Linda stayed for forty-eight hours — through the dying and beyond. At one point she stood looking out into the night and said in a shaky voice: "I don't understand why God allows children to suffer like this. But I know this: you can trust a God who suffers. When you can't trust anything else, you can trust a God who has suffered."

That is the gospel. Not a God who observes our pain from a safe distance, but one who entered it. Who bears the scars of it still.

When you find yourself in the middle of something that is hard to bear — you are not alone in unfamiliar territory. You are in the presence of one who knows the way through from the inside.

Prayer: Lord Jesus, we thank you that you did not come to us untouched by suffering. You entered our pain. You bore our wounds. And you rose still carrying the marks of it. When we are hurting today, remind us that we are not alone — that we bring our wounds to one who understands them completely. Be near to those who are suffering. And may the knowledge of your presence be enough. Amen.

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One summer during seminary I had an internship at an Episcopal church working with the homeless in urban Atlanta. I met a fellow intern there — sharp, professional, remarkably composed. I genuinely admired her.

One day at lunch I noticed her sleeves had pushed back slightly, and I caught a glimpse of pink, raised scars across her wrists. She saw that I saw, and quietly pulled her sleeves back down. Both arms, she told me, were covered on the inside with scars from years ago, when she had cut herself as a teenager.

I must have shown my discomfort, because she looked at me gently and said, "Joe, everyone carries their past with them — whether you can see it or not."

I have never forgotten that.

We all carry scars, don't we? Some are visible. Most are not. The wound from a relationship that never healed. The loss that quietly reshaped everything. The chapter of our story we don't easily share. We learn to cover them, to appear composed and professional and together — and we are, mostly. But the scars are there.

What strikes me about the resurrection story in John's gospel is that when the risen Christ appears to his disciples, he doesn't arrive unmarked and triumphant. He shows them his hands and his side. He shows them his scars. And it is precisely by his wounds that they recognize him.

He carried his past too. And he was not diminished by it.

Perhaps our scars are not the evidence of our weakness but of our common humanity — the quiet language that connects us to one another, and to a God who understands from the inside what it means to suffer.

Prayer: Loving God, we come to you today carrying things we don't always speak of — old wounds, hidden scars, the weight of a past we can't quite set down. Remind us that you know what it is to carry those things too. Meet us in our pain, and in our hiding. And may the scars we carry become, in your hands, a source of connection and compassion rather than shame. Through Jesus Christ. Amen.

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Today's message was written by my friend, Rev. Roger Kunkel, founder of Dial Hope.

There is a strange sentence in one of the Psalms: "I will keep a muzzle on my mouth" (Psalm 39:1). These are the words of a man sorely tempted to spread gloom and despair and discouragement. Yet he held himself in check, knowing there was enough pessimism around, that he should rally the courage of those who felt down and out. That's good advice. The world is longing for words of assurance and encouragement. When will we ever learn? People don’t want to be put down; they are crying out to be lifted up. The choice is ours; we can encourage, or we can discourage. 

Isn't it sad that many people think they are divinely ordained to point out all the bad things, show us all the problems, underscore all the negative? Isn't it tragic that some choose to be gloom spreaders rather than uplifters? It is so much more fun to lift people up than to tear them down. Each one of us has the power to make others feel better or worse. And, making others feel better, generally makes us feel better. 

One of the great personalities of the early church was Barnabas, which means "son of encouragement." He was an encourager. He put flesh on the verse, "Therefore encourage one another and build up each other" (1Thessalonians 5:11). Simply put, we need to be people who listen, who care, who affirm, who help and support one another. The choice is ours. We can encourage or discourage. 

Let us pray: God of love, forgive us for marching to the beat of drummers other than you. May we resolve today to get our lives back with your plan and purposes. Transform our gloom, despair, discouragement, and negative/mean spirit into positive encouragement and affirmation. Remind us to gossip the Gospel of good news and joy and hope because of Jesus Christ. Now may God surprise you with grace in at least three or four places where you never thought to look for it. In Jesus' name. Amen.

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There is a Calvin and Hobbes comic strip that depicts young Calvin marching into the family living room early one morning. His mother is seated in her favorite chair, sipping her morning coffee. She looks up, amused, at what she sees: Calvin's head encased in a large space helmet, a cape draped around his shoulders and dragging on the floor, one hand gripping a flashlight, the other a baseball bat.

"What's up today?" she asks.

"Nothing, so far," Calvin answers.

"So far?"

"Well, you never know," he says, marching off with great purpose. "Something could happen today. And if anything does, I'm going to be ready for it!"

In the final panel, Calvin's mom watches him go and says simply: "I need a suit like that."

Don't we all.

There is something almost theological about Calvin's posture — the combination of readiness, hope, and just enough equipment to feel brave. He doesn't know what the day holds. But he has decided, before anything has happened, that he will show up for it.

So often when we look at the world around us — the conflict, the suffering, the need that seems to stretch in every direction — we feel overwhelmed. We wonder what difference one person could possibly make.

The truth is, we can't do it all. But we can do something. And Paul reminds us that it matters: "Always give yourselves fully to the work of the Lord, because you know that your labor in the Lord is not in vain." (1 Corinthians 15:58)

Not in vain. Even the small things. Even the quiet acts of kindness that no one notices. Even showing up, suited up, ready for whatever today might bring.

Prayer: Loving God, some days the need feels overwhelming and we don't know where to begin. Grant us faith — even the size of a mustard seed — that we would not lose hope. Show us the one thing we can do today. And remind us that it is ultimately your work, and that you are ever making all things new — even us. Amen.

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