Scar Tissue

Scar Tissue

July 19, 2026

Minister: Karen Barstad, guest speaker

Text: John 20:24-29

Download a printable PDF of this sermon here.

24 But Thomas (who was called the Twin), one of the twelve, was not with them when Jesus came. 25 So the other disciples told him, “We have seen the Lord.” But he said to them, “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.”

26 A week later his disciples were again in the house, and Thomas was with them. Although the doors were shut, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.” 27 Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.” 28 Thomas answered him, “My Lord and my God!” 29 Jesus said to him, “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.”

 

These are the words of our ancient tradition.

May the Living Word of God in Scripture be alive within us, among us, and beyond us.

 

Scars are tattoos with better stories.

Now, some of my inked friends may differ on that point, but unplanned marks on our bodies can say a lot about who we are, what we’ve done, and where we’ve been. And those can be some pretty interesting stories.

When I was very little, I was playing in our yard, and I fell down, splitting the palm of my right hand from the wrist to the base of my ring finder. My father rescued me and raced me to the doctor’s office. While I remember almost nothing about that event, the resulting scar was a lifelong reminder of how my father, who was often not able to be there for me, was there for me that day. The scar is a story of his care for me.

About 10 years ago I climbed to the top of a mountain in western Montana, an elevation increase of 3,000 feet. Imagine if you will, walking up a staircase for three miles. That’s what it felt like. I’m amazed I made it. What’s even more amazing is… I made it back down. On the descent, my left knee connected with a granite boulder. The scar is small, but the story of unexpected resilience on my part (with great assistance from my companion) is one I treasure.

Most of us have physical scars—from appendectomies, Caesarean sections, open-heart surgeries, joint replacements, broken bones, sports injuries—each telling a story about significant visits to hospitals or emergency rooms. I once worked with an avid fisherman who called his lung transplant scar his “Leech Lake shark bite.” His scar’s story had chapters.

There are some scars we don’t see but that are just as significant: scars from addiction, physical or emotional abuse, trauma, or heartbreaking losses. The stories of those scars can remain untold, resulting in behaviors that disrupt our lives and the lives of those we love. And the stories behind those scars can manifest as the worst scar of all: shame.

Our planet has been scarred—by oil pipelines that poison fragile wetlands, strip mining that destroys foliage, deforestation that eliminates habitat, and industrial toxins that pollute the air and water. These are scars that point to stories of greed and unbridled capitalism.

Whole cultures bear scars. Our Indigenous neighbors and those descended from enslaved people carry stories of racism and brutal oppression in their bodies and souls in ways that most of us will never comprehend.

I have the sacred privilege of being able to participate in restorative justice conversations with people whose stories and scars have led them to break laws and, often, descend into drug addiction. As I listen to their stories, the scars they carry and the histories they share illuminate their humanity. If they have committed a crime, they have taught me that they are not criminals. If they have been charged with a felony, they have taught me that they are not felons. They are not what they did. Yes, what they did was bad, but they are not bad people. They are the kind of people for whom Jesus showed only kindness. They, like us, are wounded souls beloved of a loving God.

In our scripture story, Thomas gets kind of a bad rap. We call him Doubting Thomas. We’re critical of his disbelief that Jesus had triumphed over his crucifixion, as if coming back from a brutal execution was not unusual. But maybe Thomas was onto something. Maybe he was acknowledging that unless he understood, really understood, the source of Jesus’ scars—that source being the greed, oppression, and racism of the empire—and that Jesus welcomed those most rejected by society, he, Thomas, would never be able to follow the path of justice, love, and peace that Jesus had laid out before him. Perhaps Thomas recognized that he needed to see what hurt God’s people most so that he could authentically respond with compassion.

During Operation Metro Surge in Minnesota this past winter, many in our cities began to truly see their neighbors. They recognized that people who dressed differently, spoke differently, or had a different skin tone were a valuable part of our communities, and community members responded with their hands, their voices, their driving skills, and their dollars. They saw the scars that come with fleeing a foreign country and the wounds inflicted by isolation and anxiety. They valued the stories of these neighbors and honored the scars those stories produced.

In the scripture, Jesus responds to Thomas, “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.” This isn’t necessarily an admonishment. One translation of the Greek word for “blessed” is “fortunate.” Perhaps Jesus is saying it’s fortunate when we can believe our neighbors have painful stories and scars without requiring them to divulge every detail or provide first-hand evidence. Maybe we’re fortunate when we can respond with compassion to the person on the corner with the cardboard sign, the person sleeping in a tent during the winter, the person sitting in a jail cell, the person who has been sexually trafficked, or the person in shackles at the southern border—without them having to prove their pain.

Plymouth Church has created a taskforce, the Taskforce on Reparative Action, or TORA. This taskforce was inspired by a bold aspiration of the Racial Justice Initiative that our church would surrender 15% of our assets for the benefit of our Indigenous neighbors and the descendants of enslaved Americans. It’s a breathtaking goal, especially when we worry about the financial stability of the church and the needs of its physical structure.

But reparative action is possible. It will be possible when we truly see the scars that generations of our Black and Brown neighbors have borne. They have endured decades of trauma, with some stories buried so deeply in their psyches that even they can’t excise them, and which for some have manifested in poverty, ill health, and discrimination in housing and employment.

We have all heard and read the statistics about racial disparities when comparing white Americans to Black and Brown Americans. That’s not new information. But here’s the really hard part that we tend to overlook: Unless we come to grips with our role in these disparities, any surrender of assets will simply be charity. We need to acknowledge our role in the story.

Who lost out by Plymouth Church being located on this block? Who was harmed as we grew to be a predominantly white congregation? Who has suffered because of how we have spent our church’s fortune? How have donors to the church accumulated their wealth, and who has been deprived of wealth along the way? When have we appropriated Black and Indigenous culture without compensation or respect? Answering these questions will not shame or blame us; it will illuminate the reality that the stories of oppressed people are ours as well. We will come to see that their stories are intertwined with ours, their healing will facilitate our own, and reparative action by us will bring us into beloved community with them. We say that Black lives matter and Indigenous lives matter. Let us add that their stories and their scars matter.

And your scars matter. Whatever the story is behind your scars, they are welcome in this place. No story is too painful to be wrapped in the loving embrace of this open-hearted community. Church is at its best when it tenderly holds what feels like our worst.

Several years ago, I realized that the upper portion of the scar on the palm of my hand was disappearing. And that bothered me. The scar ties me to my father. It represents a bond with him that was fragile during the intersection of his life with mine. So, I wrote this poem, titled, simply, “Scar Tissue.”

The scar begins at the southern border of her palm
Meandering northward
Disappearing into the tender flesh
At the base of her ring finger
And the base of her memory
 
It’s a keepsake from that day long ago
When he whisked her sobbing little body
Off to the doctor’s office
For gentle cleansing and repair of the torn flesh
A reminder of how
Later that day
He combed the lawn for the
Offending stick or rock or shard of glass
That wounded his little girl
 
He is long gone now
The scar remains
Along with other scars from the intersection
Of his life with hers
Invisible yet just as enduring
Ugly, painful, shameful scars
 
But today
Today
She focuses on this scar
The one she holds in her hand
The one she never wants to lose

May the scars and stories of all whose lives are linked to this faith community find a loving home here. May they link us together in the enduring love of God.
May this be so.