DEC 17 | The Gospel of Scar Tissue: Why Healing Doesn't Erase the Past
Key Passage: "Put your finger here; see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it into my side. Stop doubting and believe." — John 20:27
Big Idea: Jesus kept his scars after the resurrection—and that changes everything about how we understand healing.
What this will give you today: Permission to stop pretending your past didn't happen, and a path toward carrying your wounds with sacred purpose.
Here's the part nobody tells you about healing: it doesn't come with an eraser.
You don't wake up one day with a fresh slate and a factory-reset soul. The divorce still happened. The diagnosis is still part of your story. The thing you said, the thing done to you, the years you lost—they don't vanish when God shows up.
And honestly? That can feel like a rip-off.
We want healing to mean gone. Clean. Like it never touched us.
But Jesus—risen, glorified, death-defeating Jesus—walked out of that tomb with holes in his hands.
He kept the scars.
Not because he had to. Because they meant something.
And if you've ever wondered whether your past disqualifies you from wholeness, this is the passage that rewrites the rules.
The moment you realize this is about you
You're doing fine. Mostly.
The thing that broke you—it was years ago now. You've done the therapy, or the praying, or the white-knuckling through. People tell you how strong you are. You've even started to believe it.
But then something triggers it. A smell. A date on the calendar. A tone of voice that sounds too much like theirs.
And suddenly you're right back there. Heart pounding. Jaw tight. That familiar shame whispering: I thought you were past this.
You start to wonder if you're broken in some permanent way. If everyone else heals "right" and you're the exception. If God's really done anything at all.
Here's the twist.
What if the fact that you still feel it doesn't mean you're unhealed?
What if the scar isn't a sign of failure—but proof of survival?
The common assumption that quietly drains people
Somewhere along the way, most of us picked up a belief we never consciously chose:
Real healing means you won't feel it anymore.
It sounds spiritual. Victorious, even. "God healed me so completely that it's like it never happened."
But this belief quietly sets an impossible standard. Because when the old wound still aches on a random Tuesday, we assume we've done something wrong. Didn't pray hard enough. Didn't forgive completely. Didn't really let go.
So we fake it. Perform wholeness. Smile through the flinch.
And the scar becomes a secret shame instead of sacred testimony.
This belief also distorts how we read the Bible. We expect resurrection to mean reversal—that God will undo the damage, rewind the tape, give us back the years the locusts ate as if they were never eaten.
But that's not what happened on Easter morning.
Something stranger happened. Something better.
The tomb was empty. But the scars remained.
What the passage actually says when you slow down
Let's set the scene.
It's the evening of resurrection day. The disciples are huddled in a locked room, terrified that the same people who killed Jesus are coming for them next. And then—without warning—Jesus is just there. Standing among them. Saying, "Peace be with you."
Then he does something unexpected.
He shows them his hands and his side.
Not to prove he's alive—they can see that. But to prove he's the same Jesus. The one who was broken. The one who bled out on a Roman cross. The wounds are his ID.
Thomas isn't there that night. When the others tell him what happened, he's not buying it. "Unless I see the nail marks in his hands and put my finger where the nails were, and put my hand into his side, I will not believe."
A week later, Jesus shows up again. And here's the part that should stop us cold.
He doesn't scold Thomas. He doesn't say, "How dare you doubt."
He says: "Put your finger here; see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it into my side."
Jesus meets the doubt with an invitation. And the invitation involves touching the wounds.
Now, here's what we need to sit with:
Jesus has a resurrected body. A glorified body. He can walk through walls, appear and disappear. This is a body no longer bound by the limitations of mortality.
And yet—he still has the scars.
He could have erased them. A resurrection powerful enough to conquer death could certainly smooth over some scar tissue.
But he didn't.
The wounds are not a leftover glitch. They're a deliberate choice.
Which means the scars carry meaning. They're not an embarrassment to be hidden. They're an identity to be shown.
In the new creation, the marks of suffering are not erased. They're transformed. They become the very thing that says: It's really me. I was really there. And I'm really alive now.
Where this shows up in real life
Picture this.
You're sitting across from someone who's going through the exact thing you survived five years ago. The diagnosis. The betrayal. The loss that made you wonder if you'd make it to next week.
And you show them your scar.
Not the wound—the scar. The healed-but-still-visible place where the damage happened.
You don't pretend it didn't hurt. You don't offer easy answers. You just say: I know. I've been there. And I'm still here.
That moment—when your wound becomes a bridge instead of a wall—is resurrection in real time.
Your scar becomes proof that survival is possible.
This is the gospel of scar tissue.
Not healing that erases the past, but healing that redeems it. Not a story where the hard chapter gets deleted, but one where it gets woven into something the enemy never intended.
The wound was meant to destroy you.
The scar says it didn't.
Five small practices for this week
1. Name the scar out loud
Do this: Find one trusted person—a friend, a counselor, God in prayer—and say out loud: "This is a wound I still carry." Not to wallow. Just to stop pretending.
Why it matters: Secrets fester. Named wounds begin to heal differently. Speaking it aloud breaks the power of shame.
Breath prayer: Lord, I'm still marked by this. Be with me here.
2. Reframe "triggers" as signals
Do this: The next time something from your past gets activated, instead of judging yourself ("Why am I not over this?"), try: "This is a signal that something sacred is here."
Why it matters: Triggers aren't failures. They're invitations to bring unfinished healing to Jesus. The flinch isn't weakness—it's your soul asking for attention.
Breath prayer: You are near to the brokenhearted. Be near to me now.
3. Let your scar serve someone else
Do this: Look for one opportunity this week to share a piece of your story with someone who's in the middle of theirs. Not advice. Just presence.
Why it matters: Your survival might be the only sermon someone can hear right now. Scars shown in love become invitations to hope.
Breath prayer: Use what was meant for harm for someone's good.
4. Stop apologizing for still feeling it
Do this: Catch yourself when you say things like, "I know I should be over this by now" or "Sorry, I don't know why I'm still affected." Replace it with: "This is part of my story."
Why it matters: Grief has no expiration date. Neither does healing. You're allowed to still be tender. Jesus still has his wounds, and he's the most alive person in history.
Breath prayer: You don't rush me. Help me not rush myself.
5. Touch the scar with gratitude
Do this: At the end of each day this week, place your hand over your heart and say: "I survived. I'm still here. And that means something."
Why it matters: Gratitude doesn't deny the pain. It refuses to let the pain have the last word. You're not grateful for the wound. You're grateful you made it through.
Breath prayer: Thank you that the tomb is empty—and that I'm still standing.
When this feels hard: the 3 pushbacks people feel
"I don't want to carry this forever."
Honestly? That's fair.
Nobody signs up for a lifetime membership to the trauma club. And there's a real grief in realizing that some things don't fully go away.
But here's the reframe: carrying the scar isn't the same as carrying the wound.
A wound is open, bleeding, in need of urgent care. A scar is healed tissue. Still visible. But no longer dangerous.
You're not being asked to stay wounded forever. You're being invited to let the wound close on its own timetable—and to stop being ashamed of what remains.
"This sounds nice, but I still have to function at work on Monday."
Right. Theology doesn't pay the bills or get the kids to school.
But here's the thing—these practices aren't asking you to spend hours in contemplation. A breath prayer takes three seconds. Naming something out loud can happen in the car. Reframing a trigger is a mental shift, not a retreat.
Resurrection didn't pull Jesus out of the world. It sent him back into it—scars and all. You can live your regular life and let your wounds heal. They're not competing goals.
"Doesn't the Bible say God makes all things new? Shouldn't the scars be gone?"
Great question. And yes—Revelation 21:5 says exactly that.
But "new" doesn't mean "erased." It means "redeemed."
God doesn't hit Control-Z on your history. He weaves it into a story that defeats the darkness. The new creation isn't a blank page. It's a restored masterpiece that incorporates every crack.
Jesus' scars in the resurrection body are the ultimate proof: God's "new" includes the wounds. It just refuses to let them win.
Questions you may have
Does healing mean I'll stop hurting?
Not entirely—and that's okay. Healing means the wound no longer controls you. You might still feel aches. You might still flinch. But the scar tissue is stronger than the original skin. Healing is less about the absence of pain and more about the presence of resilience.
How do I know if I'm "healed enough" to share my story?
There's no perfect threshold. A good test: Can you tell the story without spiraling? Can you hold space for someone else's pain without drowning in your own? If so, you might be ready. If not, keep healing. Your scars will still be there when it's time.
What if I'm ashamed of my scars?
That's more common than you think. But shame thrives in hiding. The act of showing—even to one person, even in prayer—starts to break shame's grip. Remember: Jesus didn't hide his wounds. He offered them. That's the model.
Reflection questions
What wound am I still pretending didn't leave a mark?
Where have I been measuring my healing by whether the pain is "gone"?
Who in my life might need to see my scar right now—not my wound, but my survival?
How would it change things if I believed Jesus chose to keep his scars?
What breath prayer do I need for the wound that still aches?
A closing blessing
May you stop apologizing for still being tender.
May you release the impossible standard of pain-free healing and accept the sacred work of scar tissue.
May you discover that the marks you carry are not disqualifications—they are credentials.
And may you know, deeply, that the Risen One still bears his wounds, and stands beside you in yours.
You survived.
That's not nothing. That's everything.
Go in peace. Carry your story with your head up.
Amen.
An Invitation to go Deeper….
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