Hope That Bears Scars

By @abrokenpastor.

We may have reached 40 of 40 of Hope Scrolling posts, but as today is Easter, here’s a bonus about the Hope that Bears Scars.

Easter morning doesn’t come with a tidied-up world.

The bombs in Ukraine, Sudan, or Yemen haven’t stopped overnight. The climate hasn’t healed. The cost-of-living crisis hasn’t reversed. The risks and uncertainties of a global trade war haven’t evaporated. Austerity policies continue to grind down the most vulnerable. And some days, even the Church feels more like a tomb than a place of resurrection.

But still—we gather. We speak of life. We sing alleluias, sometimes with trembling voices.

Resurrection, it turns out, doesn’t require everything to be fine. It simply insists that death doesn’t get the final word.

We often speak of Easter as though it’s a clean slate—as though resurrection wipes away the darkness of Good Friday. But the Gospel stories don’t give us that kind of ending. Jesus doesn’t rise untouched—he walks out wounded. He bears scars. The victory doesn’t erase the suffering. It transforms it.

And when Thomas can’t bring himself to believe, Jesus doesn’t shame him. He shows him his wounds. “Put your finger here; see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it into my side. Stop doubting and believe” (John 20:27). Resurrection, in this story, is not a triumph that silences doubt—it’s a presence that holds it.

That feels like good news. Because I don’t wake up every Easter morning feeling triumphant. I wake up with questions, with griefs I haven’t buried, with doubts I’ve learned to carry like a second skin. I wake up to a world still full of pain.

And yet, there’s this persistent whisper: “He is risen.”

Not: “You should feel better now.”

Not: “Stop grieving.”

But simply: “He is risen”

It’s the quiet declaration that something real has shifted—not the world’s pain disappearing, but its power to define us loosening. Hope doesn’t mean pretending things aren’t broken. It means trusting that even in the breaking, something deeper is being born.

The Church, if we’re honest, has often wanted to rush past the pain. We’ve built Easter on top of Holy Saturday without really dwelling in it. We’ve offered resurrection as a product—victory, certainty, “God’s plan”—without acknowledging how many of us are still waiting in the shadows, unsure if we even believe the tomb is empty.

We proclaim “He is risen” in sanctuaries that have sometimes failed to protect, failed to listen, failed to love.

But what if resurrection isn’t a performance for the already-convinced?

What if it’s a lifeline for the ones barely holding on?

A Palestinian child in Gaza doesn’t need a shiny Easter sermon. She needs the world to rise up and say: “This death is not acceptable.” A disabled person facing another round of cuts doesn’t need hollow hope. They need solidarity. And love. And the tangible resurrection of justice.

Jesus rising didn’t fix Rome. He didn’t replace the Empire with a utopia. But he began a rebellion of grace—of bread broken, tables widened, wounds honoured. He began a movement where resurrection isn’t the end of the story. It’s the beginning of a new kind of living.

The story of Easter isn’t just for the strong or the certain. It’s for the weary. The broken. The doubting. The grieving. It’s for those sitting in hospital rooms, or empty kitchens, or lonely hearts. It’s for those who can’t feel the joy today, but still showed up. It’s for those who need someone else to believe for them, to hope for them, to carry them forward when they cannot walk.

And that’s the beauty of resurrection—it isn’t something we achieve. It’s something that happens to us, for us, with us. Sometimes through the love of a friend. Through the kindness of a stranger. Through the simple grace of surviving one more day.

Easter is a call to live like it matters. To bring hope and healing, to be resurrection people in a Good Friday world. But that doesn’t mean pushing ourselves or others to “feel better” or “look on the bright side.” It means showing up. Holding someone’s hand. Making a meal. Listening well. Being a safe place.

To live like resurrection is real is to embody the truth that we are not alone—that none of us rises by ourselves.

So I don’t have easy hope this Easter. I have persistent hope.

Hope that dares to rise again in the face of grief.

Hope that walks with a limp.

Hope that doesn’t erase the scars, but says: “These, too, are holy.”

Maybe you’re like Thomas this Easter, unsure if any of it is real. That’s okay. You’re not outside the story. You’re exactly where resurrection shows up—with its wounds still visible and its love still outstretched.

The tomb is empty. But the world is still groaning. And somehow—mysteriously, mercifully—both of those things can be true.

Christ is risen. And still, we hope.