Scars

“How’d you get that scar?”

I can’t count the number of times I’ve been asked about the long white scar over my ribs. A few summers ago, I found myself astride a new dirt bike, bouncing along a rutted trail. My dad had explained how the toggle switch on the handlebar worked: three ignition mapping settings – mild, stock, wild – that determined how aggressively the engine responded to a twist of the throttle. Helmet, boots, goggles, and gloves were hastily pulled on.

“No prob, Dad. I got this.” 

“Aren’t you going to put on your chest protector?”

“Nah, I’m just puttering around.”

Riding away, the mild setting was quickly dismissed – too docile, even though it had far more power than I could ever use. The stock setting was a lot more punchy and threatened to buck me off. Awesome! Now let’s see what ‘wild’ can do! Ten minutes later, my front tire caught a rut and I was airborne. Flying forward, my flank scraped the end of the handlebar, gouging parallel lines into my skin before I slammed to earth in a cloud of dust. My thin cotton shirt didn’t offer much protection against such a crash.

Laying on my back in the middle of the trail, I took stock of various sources of pain. Head was okay. Hands were sore, but the gloves minimized the damage. Feet and ankles in tact. But my right flank felt awful. A gentle touch felt like a jolt of electricity; it was oozing blood. Dang, that’s gonna leave a mark.

That afternoon was the start of a whole weekend of riding – three days of gnarly trails, grippy throttles, and throaty engines – which I now had to endure with a nasty scrape on my torso. I gingerly bandaged myself before every ride, but the scrapes were irritated with every bump and breath over the next week. My chest protector perfectly covered the site of my wounds. If only I’d been wearing it as I was “just puttering around.”

The worst of the lacerations left a thin diagonal white line over my ribs that still reminds me: (1) to take it easy on the map switch; (2) all gear must be worn on every ride; and (3) I’m still not a very good dirt biker. 

SCARS

We’re all fascinated by scars. Each one tells a story – some are impressive, most are not – but either way, the past trauma is forever etched on our skin.

My brother-in-law has a prototypical “hockey chin”. In a league where the helmet and visor leaves only the jaw exposed, it tends to get bloodied over the course of a season. Pucks, sticks, and fists all left their mark through his teen years. The thin gaps in his beard now proclaim his dedication to Canada’s favorite sport. 

A woman can be scarred by giving birth. The horizontal line across her lower abdomen tells the story of a long labor that turned into an emergency C-section. Motherhood is written on her body, and her children are constantly reminded of what she went through to give them life. 

Some scars are hidden below the surface. Broken bones heal to produce calcified callouses that last decades. Emotional trauma shapes our character for better or worse: it can strengthen us like heat tempers steel, or it can break us into pieces that never fully recover. Scars don’t hurt once they've healed, but not all injuries are fixable. Some of us are walking wounded. 

However, there can be beauty in brokenness. 

KINTSUGI

The ancient Japanese art form of kintsugi involves repairing broken pottery by sealing the cracks with precious metals. It literally translates to “golden joinery”. Instead of disguising the repair job, the breakage points are enhanced. 

The practice evolved from tea ceremonies. The prized vessels – cups, bowls, teapots – had deep sentimental value to the families that used them generation after generation. When something broke, its owner would go to great lengths to have it repaired instead of simply replaced. The mended shards, although devoid of their aesthetic perfection, had their own flawed beauty. The cracks gave the vessels character. 

Kintsugi goes one step further. Instead of simply fixing the pieces back together, the fracture lines are highlighted with gold dust mixed into the mortar. Lacquer over everything makes the entire piece shine, especially the scars. 

The end result is a striking contrast between carefully crafted porcelain with jagged, radiant defects. So attractive is kintsugi that some vessels are deliberately broken in order to be repaired with golden seams. The fractured-then-repaired version was more valuable than the unbroken original.

THE SCARS OF A SAVIOR

In the Bible, we read of a perfect man who was tortured and crucified. By the time Jesus was laid in the tomb, his body was terribly disfigured.

Many were astonished at you – his appearance was so marred, beyond human semblance, and his form beyond that of the children of mankind. (Is 52:14)

Even after his resurrection,  Jesus’ flesh still bore the effects of his grisly execution. After he appeared to his disciples, “he showed them his hands and his side” (Jn 20:20). Jesus’ pierced hands were the evidence of his crucifixion, and his side still showed the spot where he had been run through with a spear. Furthermore, the Bible makes it seem like these marks weren’t scars at all. 

Thomas, one of the twelve, called the Twin, was not with them when Jesus came… He said to them, “Unless I see in his hands the mark of the nails, and place my finger into the mark of the nails, and place my hand into his side, I will never believe.” Eight days later, his disciples were inside again, and Thomas was with them. Although the doors were locked, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.” Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here, and see my hands; and put out your hand, and place it in my side. Do not disbelieve, but believe.” (Jn 20:24-27)

This description of Jesus’ injuries sound like open wounds. After all, Thomas wouldn't have been able to put his hand “in” a scar, but he certainly could probe within an open wound. 

If this is true, that the resurrected Christ still bore his wounds, it means they still hurt. The fresh handlebar scrape over my ribs felt terrible when I touched it. How much more painful would it be to have a finger poked into a spear-sized gash through my ribs. And yet, this is exactly what Jesus told Thomas to do. It’s like he was saying, “If poking my wounds helps you believe, go right ahead.” 

Jesus was broken on the cross, and remained beautifully broken even after his resurrection, so others could believe and live.

SUMMARY

Every scar tells a story. The white line on my side is a testament to my own stupidity. My brother-in-law earned his hockey chin. Women worldwide bear the scars of childbirth – something they should all be proud of. Although they mar our appearance, wounds shape our character. The Japanese practice of kintsugi illuminates how beauty can increase because of its brokenness. 

There’s no better example of this than Jesus Christ, who “bore our sins in his body on the cross, so that we might die to sins and live for righteousness” (1 Pet 2:24). Like a mother giving birth, his wounded to give us life. He was the divine kintsugi bowl – the flawless vessel that was deliberately shattered and repaired with gold. 

What other religion on earth celebrates the execution of its god? Only Christianity, as the Bible says, “Worthy is the Lamb who was slain” (Rev 5:12). What other divine being has ever been known for his scars? In pop culture, superheroes can super-heal – they may get beat up, but they all come back the next episode unscathed. Jesus, however, is forever scarred. His wounds, however painful they were, now glorify him forever.

Jesus [was] crowned with glory and honor because of the suffering of death. (Heb 2:9)

Scars tell a painful story. Jesus knew that firsthand. However, by God’s grace, wounds can have a happy ending. 

© D. B. Ryen Incorporated, April 2026.

All Scripture quotations are from The English Standard Bible (ESV), Crossway, 2001.