“Jesus of the Scars” by Edward Shillito

Everyone suffers. But not everyone responds to their suffering in the same way. Many try to find the answers in religion, and some even in a religion of a god who does not know suffering. But John Stott’s words echo my curiosity on this: “In the real world of pain, how could one worship a God who was immune to it?” Christian, ours is a God who has felt agony like none other and this for our sake and His glory (2 Cor. 5:15). Not only does he know our suffering and thus can empathize with it, but he spends our sorrows well (Rom. 8:28). Stott affirms this powerfully by quoting a playlet entitled “The Long Silence,”

At the end of time, billions of people were scattered on a great plain before God’s throne. Most shrank back from the brilliant light before them. But some groups near the front talked heatedly — not with cringing shame, but with belligerence. 

‘Can God judge us? How can he know about suffering?’ snapped a pert young brunette. She ripped open a sleeve to reveal a tattooed number from a Nazi concentration camp. “We endured terror…beatings…torture…death!” 

In another group a Negro boy lowered his collar. “What about this?” he demanded, showing an ugly rope burn. “Lynched…for no crime but being black!” In another crowed a pregnant schoolgirl with sullen eyed. “Why should I suffer” she murmured, “It wasn’t my fault.” 

Far out across the plain there were hundreds of such groups. Each had a complaint against God for the evil and suffering he permitted in his world. How lucky God was to live in heaven where all was sweetness and light, where there was no weeping or fear, no hunger or hatred. What did God know of all that man had been forced to endure in this world? For God leads a pretty sheltered life, they said. 

So each of these groups sent forth their leader, chosen because he had suffered the most. A Jew, a Negro, a person from Hiroshima, a horribly deformed arthritic, a thalidomide child. In the centre of the plain they consulted with each other. At last they were ready to present their case. It was rather clever. 

Before God could be qualified to be their judge, he must endure what they had endured. Their decision was that God should be sentenced to live on earth — as a man! 

‘Let him be born a Jew. Let the legitimacy of his birth be doubted. Give him a work so difficult that even his family will think him out of his mind when he tries to do it. Let him be betrayed by his closest friends. Let him face false charges, be tried by a prejudiced jury and convicted by a cowardly judge. Let him be tortured.’

‘At last, let him see what it means to be terribly alone. Then let him die. Let him die so that there can be no doubt that he died. Let there be a great host of witnesses to verify it.’ 

As each leader announced his portion of the sentence, loud murmurs of approval went up from the the throng of people assembled. 

And when the last had finished pronouncing sentence, there was a long silence. No-one uttered another word. No-one moved. For suddenly all knew that God had already served his sentence…

Often, we’re like Thomas, not convinced of God’s goodness and care until we see his scars. “Edward Shillito,” Stott writes, “shattered by the carnage of the First World War, found comfort in the fact that Jesus was able to show his disciples the scares of his crucifixion. It inspired him to write his poem, ‘Jesus of the Scars’:”

If we have never sought, we seek thee now;
Thine eyes burn through the dark, our only stars;
We must have sight of thorn-marks on thy brow,
We must have thee, O Jesus of the scars.
The heavens frighten us; they are too calm.
In all the universe we have no place.
Our wounds are hurting us; where is the balm?
Lord Jesus, by thy scars we know thy grace.
If, when the doors are shut, thou drawest near,
Only reveal those hands, that side of thine;
We know today what wounds are, have no fear;
Show us thy scars, we know the countersign.
The other gods were strong; but thou wast weak;
They rode, but thou didst stumble to a throne;
But to our wounds only God’s wounds can speak,
And not a god has wounds, but thou alone.


Stott, John R. W. The Cross of Christ: 20th Anniversary Edition. Downers Grove: InterVarsity Press (quotation found on p. 335-337).

“My Times of Sorrow and of Joy” by Ben­ja­min Bed­dome

If you strip a hymn of its melody, what you often find is a wonderful poem. Such is the case with these verses below, written by Benjamin Beddome upon his son’s death. Perhaps the most powerful lines of the hymn, to me at least, are the first two of the last stanza. How often do we forget that in this world perfect happiness is not available nor promised (Matthew 16:24)? It’s this short bout of spiritual amnesia that fuels so much our finger-wagging, our discontentedness with God and all that He’s graciously given us (spouses, friends, opportunities, oxygen, etc.); it’s this short bout of spiritual amnesia that makes us keen to what we do not have instead of rejoicing in what we do have. Though we have moments, even seasons, of happiness here on earth, perfect happiness can only be found in Christ. And it can only be sustained permanently in the presence of his glory. Until we reach that happy place, we follow our Lord’s path — the crucible — until we receive our reward: perfect fellowship with our Lord. Until then, we are sorrowful yet always rejoicing and sustained by our good, trustworthy God. 

My times of sorrow and of joy,
Great God, are in Thy hand.
My choicest comforts come from Thee,
And go at Thy command.

If Thou shouldst take them all away,
Yet would I not repine;
Before they were possessed by me,
They were entirely Thine.

Nor would I drop a murmuring word,
Though the whole world were gone,
But seek enduring happiness
In Thee, and Thee alone.

What is the world with all its store?
’Tis but a bitter sweet;
When I attempt to pluck the rose
A pricking thorn I meet.

Here perfect bliss can ne’er be found,
The honey’s mixed with gall;
Midst changing scenes and dying friends,
Be Thou my all in all.