At some point in a relationship, I always end up asking about scars.

I don’t always ask it that directly. And the word “scar” doesn’t always come up. But I ask.

I should say, I ask when I already have a relationship with someone, or when I want to have one.

I have to know about scars.

Not only physical scars, of course. Some scars are emotional. Some are spiritual. Some are so old that the person carrying them has almost forgotten they’re there. Some are so fresh they still hurt when anyone gets too close.

Everybody’s got scars.

And I don’t mean that everybody owes me, or anybody else, the story behind them. Some scars are private. Some people haven’t earned the right to hear about yours.

But if we are going to go deep, at some point somebody has to risk telling the truth about what marked them.

I have a theology of scars that comes from the movie Jaws.

Here’s the clip. Take a couple of minutes and watch it. It is one of the greatest scenes by three great actors.

If you didn’t watch it, here’s what is happening. On the Orca, Quint and Hooper drink, laugh, and compare the scars sharks and hard living have left on their bodies. They are one-upping each other, telling stories, acting like we often do when we’re sizing each other up.

Then Hooper jokes that his deepest scar came from a broken heart.

The teasing turns serious when Quint reveals he survived the sinking of the USS Indianapolis, where hundreds of sailors were left fighting for their lives in shark-filled water.

Even Chief Brody gets into it, we see him examining his utterly unspectacular appendix surgery scar.

It is hilarious. And it is perfect.

That’s how relationships form. At first, we laugh. We tell the manageable story. We show somebody the little scar, the one that does not cost us much to reveal. We watch the other’s reaction.

And then, if there’s trust, somebody tells the real story.

I was with a friend this week. He has been my friend for about three decades. I only get to see him every three or four years now, but we stay connected.

When I hugged him, he felt leaner.

No. Bonier.

I knew something had happened that I didn’t know about. Something had left a mark.

Eventually, I heard the story.

The lump. 

The cancer. 

The surgeries. 

The scar. 

The radiation. 

The recovery. 

The gratitude.

And then we talked about what sat underneath the scar. His need for privacy with it. The reality of these changes to our bodies. The emotion behind the physical changes. How all of it changes us at a spiritual level.

We went deep. On many levels and subjects.

It was a perfect conversation.

I was blessed.

Because of his scar.

Because he talked about it.

Early the next morning, I had a long conversation with God and myself about all of that.

Scars aren’t always survivor trophies. Sometimes they’re evidence. Sometimes they’re grief. Sometimes they’re reminders of a thing we would gladly forget.

But scars can also be invitations.

They’re personal.

They authenticate us.

And when we choose to tell the truth about them to someone safe, they invite the other person closer.

I find it fascinating that Jesus still had his wounds after the resurrection.

We often focus on Thomas, who was not in the upper room the first time Jesus appeared to the disciples. A week later, Thomas is there, and Jesus tells him, “Put your finger here. See my hands. Reach out your hand and put it into my side.”

But Jesus showed the other disciples his hands and side the first time, too.

Why? Why all this wound and scar showing?

He was proving who he was, yes. The wounds authenticated him. This was not a ghost or an idea or a comforting memory or a hallucination. This was Jesus.

He was connecting with his people. Comforting them. Inviting them to come close enough to see the truth.

Personal.

Authentication.

Invitation.

There is an old poem by Amy Carmichael called “Hast Thou No Scar?”

The first lines ask:

Hast thou no scar?
No hidden scar on foot, or side, or hand?

I think Carmichael is writing about Christian discipleship. But I also hear a warning against the perfect image and the polished facade. The person who has no story. No mark. No wound.

You don’t have to show everyone your scars. You really shouldn’t.

But somebody should know.

Because when we risk telling the truth about what marked us, we give another person a way to know us. And a way to know themselves.

And maybe that is what scars can do at their best.

They can become an invitation.

Not an invitation to pity. Not a demand that somebody fix us.

An invitation to come closer.

To go deeper together.

Telling the right person about your scar can take you deeper.

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