Day 110

Easter Sunday, 2025

John 20:24–29 | Isaiah 53 | Revelation 5

This Easter feels different.

Not because of the songs or the service or the lilies draped over the cross. Not because of family brunch or pastel dresses or chocolate bunny-filled baskets.

This Easter feels different because, this year, I understand His scars in a new way.

I’ve looked down at my hand—misshapen, stiff, and still numb in places—and I’ve wept. Not because of pain. Not even because of what I lost. But because those scars have become a kind of mirror.

They remind me that I am not invincible.

They remind me that I am not sovereign.

They remind me that I am not God.

And they remind me—He is.

Jesus didn’t erase His scars.

He didn’t cover them up with divine skin or erase them with resurrection power. He kept them. Intentionally. Eternally.

“Put your finger here,” He told Thomas. “See my hands… Do not disbelieve, but believe.” (John 20:27)

The risen Christ still bears the marks of crucifixion.

Let that sink in.

He is not embarrassed by the reminders of suffering. He is not ashamed of what it cost. The eternal Son of God—the Alpha and Omega, the radiance of the Father’s glory—chose to keep the scars.

Because they are proof.

Proof of a love that didn’t stay distant.

Proof of a body that broke so mine could be made whole.

Proof of a Lamb who was slaughtered—and now stands. (Revelation 5:6)

Mine were an accident—I never saw them coming.

His were on purpose—He planned them before the foundations of the earth.

And that plan? It included me—though I bring nothing to Him and am nothing without Him.

If not for Him, my fingers would still be lying on the ground—and my soul would still be sprinting toward hell.

But Jesus.

The matchless and holy name of Jesus.

He stepped in when I had nothing to offer.

He absorbed the wrath I deserved.

He died the death I owed.

And He walked out of the tomb—alive, sovereign, and bearing scars from the wounds that would heal mine.

“He was pierced for our transgressions… crushed for our iniquities… and by His wounds we are healed.” (Isaiah 53:5)

This isn’t sentiment. This isn’t springtime renewal or vague hope or spiritual metaphor.

This is substitution. This is sacrifice. This is blood-bought reality.

There was a day—an actual day 2,000 years ago—when death lost its grip.

When sin was crushed.

When the stone rolled back.

When the crucified Son walked out, alive.

Not just alive—but victorious. And still scarred.

He didn’t need to keep them.

But He did.

Because they speak.

They speak of justice satisfied.

Of mercy embodied.

Of suffering transformed.

Of a Savior who didn’t stay distant.

So this Easter, I don’t avert my eyes from the scars.

I look straight at them. And I see a love that knows no relent.

And I whisper—through tears and awe and gratitude beyond words—thank You.

For not staying in the grave.

For not sparing Yourself.

For not healing over the holes in Your hands.

You kept the scars.

So I could be healed.