Scars

Today is Easter Day, 2020. How do we feel? Bruised and battered? Sad and lonely? Or hopeful? With the loss of so many, of so much, it seems unlikely we will come through this crisis  feeling unscathed. We too will be scarred. Perhaps that isn't always a bad thing.

This is the last tale in a series, all based loosely on the story of Lazarus.

I saw him, several times, afterwards. Not alone, but close enough to look into his eyes, to catch his smile. To see his scars.

They surprised me, those scars. I had nothing to show for my brief journey to the other side of death. The weight I had quickly regained, and my pallor had changed back to my usual ruddy appearance. I looked exactly the same. But he was different, in so many ways. His body was clearly not the same – his appearances were not just unexpected but plain impossible! Locked doors and walls were no obstacle. His face could flicker and become unfamiliar, whilst retaining everything we knew and loved about him best. So why had the scars not been healed, with the same power that had raised him from the dead?

Thomas was the fall guy, as he had been so many times with his love of asking the obvious questions. It wasn’t as if his other followers hadn’t wanted to ask, too – just that Thomas wasn’t afraid to admit his difficulty in coming to the conclusion that Jesus had been dead, but was now alive. They’d had some problems with me, too – but somehow that was easier to come to terms with, perhaps because Jesus was doing the reacting for them. Anyway, I was healed of a sickness, which they had seen before – albeit with a rather more final outcome. But to come back from torture, and crucifixion – well, that was a step beyond ordinary faith. So perhaps the scars were there to demonstrate that this was really him, it had really happened, and now he was really alive. He may have had something in common with the angels; but his body also bore very fleshy, very human scars.

Or perhaps these were the marks of love…so that when he walked towards us we could see his feet, the wounds clear and permanent; or when he broke bread with us, his hands also broken and bullied. We did not comment, and he did not try to hide them. They served as a clear reminder of the necessary act of love that had taken place, and brought us to this moment.

I don’t need scars of my own. I do need his.