Isaiah 61:1-3

The Spirit of the Sovereign Lord is on me,

because the Lord has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor.

He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,

to proclaim freedom for the captives and release from darkness for the prisoners,

to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor and the day of vengeance of our God,

to comfort all who mourn, and provide for those who grieve in Zion —

to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes,

the oil of joy instead of mourning,

and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.

Isaiah anticipated a coming day of the Lord comprised of good news for the poor and liberation for the captives. The heavy burdens of the brokenhearted will be lifted, he says; those who mourn will find comfort. In dramatic fashion, Isaiah piles up images of reversal: God’s people will be adorned with songs of praise rather than despair as the ashes and sackcloth of sorrow are exchanged for a glorious crown. Such promises have funded Messianic expectation for each successive generation of God’s people throughout the ages.

In Luke 4, Jesus claims to be the fulfillment of all that is promised here. Those who heard his words in the synagogue in Nazareth were scandalized, as evidenced by their attempt to kill him for heresy. But the bold claim stands to this day: those who claim Him as Messiah and Lord are anointed in the oil of joy instead of mourning.

This is not to say that we will not mourn. “In this world you will have trouble,” (John 16:33). But the work of Jesus is redefine our understanding of suffering in light of eternal hope. “I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us.” Much of the work of the Holy Spirit is to groan alongside of us — alongside creation itself — as we are confronted with the sorrows and troubles of this world. But in that groaning, fruit is also born, the fruit of love and joy and peace. And this necessarily bears witness.

How can people be loving and joyful and peaceful amid atrocities like murder and apartheid and genocide and torture? One option is to be blissfully ignorant, to “tiptoe through the tulips” with the proverbial rose-colored glasses — which prove to be no glasses at all. This amounts to sticking one’s head in the sand and ignoring the plight of the disenfranchised and the brokenhearted. This type of easy convenience is indicative of a certain level of privilege in the world.

The other option — the approach favored by Jesus and His followers — is to hold space alongside the people mentioned in Isaiah 61: the poor, the grieving, the prisoner, the brokenhearted. These terms are simply shorthand for all who find themselves on the margins. The down and out. The vulnerable. The downtrodden. In Jesus’s words, “the least of these.” Jesus never overlooks the reality of brokenness in us. He sees our pain and does not flinch. In the words of the prophecy, He binds broken hearts. We may bear the scars of our past pain, but every scar tells a story of healing and redemption.

And when this happens, we experience the kind of joy Isaiah anticipated all those centuries ago. And the overflow of this joy is — inevitably — ministry. Glory be to God.

I believe that your greatest ministry as a follower of Christ will come out of your deepest pain. Not that any of us are necessarily looking for a ministry. I would be willing to bet most of us would still consider trading that ministry if it meant we never had to endure the pain. But nevertheless, ministry flows out of this place of pain because it’s the place where we’ve experienced the most redemption. This is the redemption story you can tell with the most credibility. Every scar tells a story.

In Tyler Staton’s excellent book on the Holy Spirit, The Familiar Stranger, he talks about how the Spirit uses our wounds to mold us, making us “wounded healers” (borrowing the phrase from Henri Nouwen). In the words of another ancient Jewish prophecy, God’s Spirit animates these dead places in our lives like dry bones being brought back from the grave (Ezekiel 37). As a pastor, I have heard the stories of people who have endured the most heartbreaking of circumstances: crippling anxiety; years of infertility; sexual abuse; abandonment; slander; domestic violence; the sudden death of a loved one. But there is a glorious transfiguring that the Spirit often works here, bringing something redemptive into the world — if not as a direct result of the tragedies, then by the faithful witness of the ones who have endured them.

Staton quotes from Brennan Manning in Ruthless Trust:

Anyone God uses significantly is always deeply wounded. We are, each and every one of us, insignificant people whom God has called and graced to use in a significant way. On the last day, Jesus will look us over not for medals, diplomas, or honors but for scars.

I like that image: a Savior who looks us over for scars.

With every scar there is a story.

And with Jesus, every scar tells a redemption story.

What’s your story?