One scarred pew remains in the St Paul’s Chapel in Manhattan. It sits humbly in the corner of the historic chapel with the word “Love” aptly placed above it.

St Paul’s is located 100 metres from the former World Trade Centre twin towers. And despite all that happened on the day of the 9-11 attack, miraculously the chapel suffered no physical damage. This meant that the chapel could quickly be transformed from worship sanctuary to a place of refuge for rescue and emergency service workers. For nine months thousands of workers would move through the chapel. They gathered, ate, talked, slept, wept, washed, consoled and prayed in this space. Hundreds of volunteers served and supported the rescue and emergency workers. In the darkest of times, the chapel stood as a symbol of hope and light.

The once polished pews became worn, scarred and shaky as weary workers slept and changed their boots and equipment on them, as they eat meals, as they grieved and readied themselves to return to ground zero.

I love the image of scarred pews. I love the image of pews shifted to make space for people in need. I love the image of pews not being used for the comfort of insular, holy huddles but rather being platforms to embrace messiness, brokenness and risk.

That’s what’s happened over recent years in Ukraine and neighbouring countries as churches have cleared their pews to make room for refugees fleeing the conflict and the loss of their homes and possessions. Worship sanctuaries have become sanctuaries of hope, care and healing in beautiful demonstrations of Christ’s love in action.

As I stood by the scarred St Paul’s pew last week, I reflected again on the beauty of scarred love.

The people of St Paul’s moved beyond their comfort zone and humbly loved their community in extraordinary ways in the aftermath of 9-11 because they were committed to modelling the way of their scarred King Jesus – the way of love, servanthood and sacrifice. They continue to model the hospitable, generous, compassionate and welcoming ways of the Servant King in downtown Manhattan.

And as I stood and looked at the humble, worn and torn St Paul’s pew, I took time to consider my own scars. In this case, scars that represent my humanity, frailty, failures and brokenness, as well as telling a story of resilience, renewal, healing and grace. I lit a candle in the chapel in deep gratitude of Christ’s love – seen in his scars, and the light of his ongoing presence in my life.

And as I stepped out of the quietness of St Paul’s I was immediately struck by the sights and sounds of a bustling city. Police sirens, the rattle of the subway beneath, people in a hurry, a man sleeping rough across the street.

And where am I beckoned? In my ordinariness, my incompleteness, my human frailty, with my own scars, as well as burden and imagination. I am invited to other scarred people, to other scarred places and spaces, to a scarred planet with the loving, compassionate and just ways of the Servant King.

This way is not as some portray it. It’s not a road to power and domination. It’s not self-seeking. It’s certainly not exclusionary or vengeful. Rather it’s like the old corner pew at St Paul’s. It’s about getting our hands dirty in the real world, it’s about welcome, hospitality and refuge. It’s about belonging and community. It’s about bringing the love of the scarred Servant King to life right where we are!