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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There is a story about a young girl taking her first overnight train ride with her parents. That night she was a little anxious. Her mother placed her on the upper bunk of the sleeper car and, while tucking her in, told her that up there she would be nearer to God — and that God would watch over her.

As the quiet of night settled in, the girl became afraid and called softly, "Mommy, are you there?"

"Yes dear," came the reply.

A little later, in a louder voice: "Daddy, are you there too?"

"Yes dear."

After this had been repeated several times, a passenger sharing their sleeper car finally lost his patience and shouted, "Yes, we're all here — your father, your mother, your brother, and all your aunts and cousins. Now settle down and go to sleep!"

There was a moment of silence. Then, in hushed tones, a small voice asked, "Mommy — was that God?"

Most of us have had moments when we needed exactly that reassurance. The diagnosis that arrives without warning. The future that refuses to come into focus. The fear that settles in at 3 in the morning and won't be reasoned away. In those moments, we need to know: is anyone there?

Psalm 46 has been answering that question for centuries:

God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth should change, though the mountains shake in the heart of the sea... God is in the midst of the city; it shall not be moved. God will help it when the morning dawns... The Lord of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our refuge.

A very present help. Not a distant observer. Not a force that set things in motion and stepped away. Present — here, now, in the middle of the night, in the middle of whatever you are facing.

The morning will dawn. And God will be there when it does.

Prayer: O loving God, to turn away from you is to fall, to turn toward you is to rise, and to stand before you is to abide forever. Grant us, dear God, in all our duties your help; in all our uncertainties your guidance; in all our dangers your protection; and in all our sorrows your peace. Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

— Saint Augustine, early 5th century

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You may know that the American author Flannery O'Connor was a sincere and deeply committed Christian. Even though her writings are not classified as religious works, they are saturated with spiritual insight. What you may not know is that in her mid-twenties she was diagnosed with lupus, a devastating disease that attacks the joints and slowly restricts movement. She died young, at the age of thirty-nine.

At one point O'Connor's aunt encouraged her to travel to Lourdes, France, to take a healing bath in the waters of the famous shrine there. O'Connor agreed to go — but only reluctantly. She wrote: "About the Lourdes business, I am going as a pilgrim, not a patient. I am one of those people who could die for his religion easier than I could take a bath for it."

That line makes me smile. But underneath the wit is something worth reflecting on. O'Connor understood that while miracles occasionally happen, they are not among God's promises to us. She would surely have welcomed healing. But she had learned — through years of living with pain and limitation — that faith is about more than receiving. It is about how we carry what we are given.

Paul knew something about this. Writing from prison, he said: "I have learned, in whatever state I am, to be content... I can do all things through him who strengthens me." (Philippians 4:11-13) Not a triumphant claim of superhuman endurance — but the hard-won testimony of someone who had discovered that God's grace is sufficient even when the circumstances are not.

The witness of people of faith across the centuries bears this out: even in the midst of our own struggles, there is something quietly restorative about turning outward — about giving, serving, showing up for others. When we get outside of our own pain and focus on something beyond ourselves, our spirits are lifted. Not always dramatically. But enough.

I don't know what you are carrying today. But I pray that God's grace would uphold you — and that in giving to others, however small that might look, you would find new strength, new courage, and perhaps even unexpected joy.

Prayer: Write your blessed name, O Lord, upon my heart, there to remain so indelibly engraved that no prosperity, no adversity, shall ever move me from your love. Be to me a strong tower of defense, a comforter in tribulation, a deliverer in distress, a very present help in trouble, and a guide to heaven through the many temptations and dangers of this life. Amen.

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