Kissing Scars

I have very visible scars on my face, the kind that are noticeable even to a passerby. They are there. I know they are there. And so does everybody else.

We forget, when examining the scars of others, that there is always a story there. And to make a scar, there is always a story of brokenness.

There is something fascinating I have learned about scars—how most people's description of them differ drastically from that of the person who is scarred (the scar-bearer). For example, if you were asked to describe my scars, your observation would center upon how they look, their color and shape, how they feel to the touch. But that's not what I would say if you asked me to describe them.

When I look at my scars, I remember their stories. And I feel every last one of them. I remember sitting up all night in a hospital bed throwing up pints of blood, my head swollen to the size of a basketball, and my face throbbing.

Fast forward. I remember the empty feeling in my stomach every time I asked a girl out and was kindly rejected. My only rationale for the rejection was that my face simply was not attractive to her.

We forget, when examining the scars of others, that there is always a story there. And to make a scar, there is always a story of brokenness. Always.

The love of scars

I'm engaged now. My fiancée, Anna, transcends all descriptors of beauty and compassion and kindness and courage. She humbles me.

When we were dating, I remember one night, while kissing, she began to affectionately embrace the left side of my face—the scarred side. Unwittingly (until she called me out, that is), I attempted to redirect her lips back onto mine. As I did, her eyes flashed, and she pulled away. "Stop!" she said. "Do you know you always do that? Every time I try to kiss your scars, you won't let me. Either you try to bring my lips back to yours or you start going on and on about how beautiful I am or how much you love me. Do you not think I see all of you? Do you not think I see your scars?"

I was stunned. I had no idea I was doing this. I had told the story of my scars to Anna. She knew all my soul's painful curvatures wrought by these marks. And yet, even so, I would not allow her to kiss them.

Why? It's obvious. Scars are not worthy of a kiss. Kisses are for what is lovely and beautiful. Kisses are the physical outpourings of the heart's delight in another. Kisses are unprovoked responses to the good. And scars are none of those things! Perhaps scars should receive the touch of a hand in compassion, but certainly not a kiss.

Through his life and death he delivered the Father's message: "I see your scars. All of them. And I love you."

Subconsciously, I held the belief that Anna loved me—that is, my personality, my virtue, my character—and therefore was overlooking my scars. But my scars are me. And though I am not reduced to my scars, I certainly am not whole apart from their stories either. Anna delighted in me, her beloved one. She found me beautiful. And the "me" she found beautiful, the "me" she fell in love with, was a "me" that was only possible because of the presence of these scars and the stories they told. Thus, in a strange turn, my scars were beautiful to her.

Scars, I had thought, could be objects of pity. But an intimate source of desire and goodness? Impossible.

Any grief she experienced because of my scars was not a selfish grief. It was not her lamenting having to overlook a grotesque feature of her beloved so that she might continue to love the "good" parts of him. Rather, Anna grieved my scars because she loved me. She grieved because she knew the stories they told, and the stories that came from them—stories of shame and hurt and loneliness. She grieved my scars because my scars had caused me grief. She did not grieve for herself. She grieved with me. Solidarity.

The scarred lover

Anna's not the only one who kisses scars. God our Father loved (and, therefore, grieved for) this world so much that God made his dwelling among us in the muck and brokenness of the world. And he did so for one reason—so that he might kiss every last one of the world's grotesque, despairing places of shame. Jesus came to kiss scars.

Through his life and death he delivered the Father's message: "I see your scars. All of them. And I love you."

Jesus proved the Father's love for us, his scarred creation. He consented to be killed. But then he was resurrected—and this Jesus, God-made-broken flesh, was resurrected with scars. Solidarity.

Our Father grieves, not because he must overlook the brokenness upon our bodies and souls. No, in this Good News story, our God has scars, too.

Our God isn't ashamed of our scars. He took on his own to prove this—so that we wouldn't feel embarrassed in his presence. Jesus took on scars that he might gain the world's trust and so be allowed into the darkest, messiest places of the world's shame. In order to redeem it, to kiss it. Because God doesn't pity the world. He loves the world.

Jesus—the ultimate scar-bearer—is roaming to and fro, longing to kiss the world's scars. Every last one of them. And there's no scar too ugly for the lips of Christ—not one.

What if the church exudes this kind of love? What if we told the world what God has always been telling the world—that it is inexpressibly beautiful to him, and always has been. That there's never been a moment when it's ceased to be God's beloved.

All scars tell stories of brokenness. But there is one story of scars which, though it begins in woe does not end in despair.

What if we told the world that the Creator grieves not because of disappointment, but because of love? Because he so badly wants to kiss their hurt and bring healing, but they won't let him—perhaps because they don't believe their scars are worthy of a kiss. What if we told them that he says they are?

It's a tough sell. The reality is that even we don't believe the gospel entirely. Jesus is still trying to kiss the deepest, darkest scars in our own lives; scars which, subconsciously, we imagine to be only objects of pity to God, never places worthy of a kiss.

But what if, when we or the world doubted God's promise—it's just too good to be true—what if, right then, we invited the world to join us in casting our eyes upward toward the figure of the resurrected Jesus? What if we gazed upon the scars of the Scar-bearer, remembering the story that those scars tell?

All scars tell stories of brokenness. But there is one story of scars which, though it begins in woe does not end in despair. In fact, miraculously, the story of these scars is a story of joy and of hope that dizzies you from its sheer potency. This story is the new story, the final story. And in this story, scars are the places of healing, pools of light, and marks of love. It's the story of Jesus, the scar-bearer.

Russell Joyce is a masters student at Duke Divinity School in Durham, NC. He has spent the last two summers working at Theophilus Church in Portland, OR.