A Somatic Meditation on the Condemnation of Jesus and the Release of Barabbas: 

The Unseen Cost of Freedom and the Wounds of Spiritual Trauma

By Ashley E. Schumacher, MS, LAPC

Music Suggestion: ‘Kyrie Eleison’ by Salt of the Sound

youtu.be/NJMqWfs0zQ4?si=Q-SCsmHfSnfIfJzW 

Find a space where you can rest, where the world can fade for a moment.

Sit with your back supported, or lie down—whatever position will help you feel held.

Place your feet flat on the ground. Feel the weight of them, the way they sink into the earth beneath you. Ground yourself in this moment.

Take a slow, deep breath.

Inhale through your nose, filling your lungs with the cool air that enters, noticing how it travels deep into your chest and belly.

Exhale softly, surrendering, as your body releases the tightness it has been holding.

Let your muscles soften. Your face, your shoulders, your jaw. Let the tension melt away.

Feel the weight of your body in this space, knowing that you are safe here.

This is your time to rest. Your time to be held.

Now, close your eyes.

Imagine the courtyard before you. It is a place heavy with dust and grime. The light is dim, bruised with the weight of sorrow.

The air hangs thick—stale with human fear, with the anxiety of many hearts pounding in unison.

Voices raise and clash, but they are a blur, lost in the noise of something much deeper.

There is something about this moment that feels both timeless and suffocating. It is both ancient and deeply present.

You are there.

You stand among the crowd, your feet planted on the uneven stones of the courtyard. You are watching. You are witnessing.

The figure of Jesus—bloodied, bound, His body shaking under the weight of unspoken agony—moves through the crowd. The din is unbearable, but there He is, standing as if the very heavens are watching and waiting.

His eyes—the same eyes that have looked upon you with tenderness—are distant now. His gaze holds a sorrow deeper than you can understand, yet it does not look away from you.

Feel the weight of that sorrow resting on your chest. It is not His sorrow alone. It is yours too.

Feel the ache.

The crowd roars. The accusations ring out, sharp like knives, each word piercing the air, each sound cutting deeper into your heart.

Feel your breath catch in your chest as the weight of it presses in on you.

Barabbas.

A murderer. A rebel. A man whose freedom was bought with the blood of the innocent.

And yet, he is freed.

Can you feel the ground beneath you shift? The earth beneath your feet feels unstable now, like it might give way. The injustice, raw and unrelenting, crashes into your body like a physical blow.

The fullness of it takes your breath away. You want to scream, but you feel mute—your voice caught somewhere between protest and defeat.

Barabbas is set free, and Jesus, the One who has known you, loved you, healed you, is handed over to die.

Now, pause here.

Feel the cognitive dissonance take root in your body.

A ripple of confusion, of deep inner contradiction, starts in your chest.

Your mind is at war with itself. This is not right. How can this be? How can the guilty be set free while the innocent, the One who carried your hopes, your healing, is condemned?

Can you feel the sharpness of that tension? The clashing thoughts that you can’t quite make sense of?

Your head tries to reconcile the unthinkable: how a criminal is spared, how the One who spoke of love, of forgiveness, is handed over for death.

This is supposed to be different.

You should be angry. You should be furious at the injustice, at the wrongness of it.

And yet, you feel the confusion, the paralysis of not knowing what to believe, who to believe.

You feel your body tremble under the weight of this contradiction—where justice feels like violence, and mercy feels like betrayal.

There is a discomfort here. An unsettledness. The weight of spiritual trauma presses in on you, confusing the foundations of your trust. This is not how it was supposed to be.

Now, take a moment to breathe deeply. Feel your pulse quicken.

Where do you feel this in your body? Is there tightness in your stomach? Are your shoulders drawn up to your ears? Does your chest feel as if it is collapsing under the weight of this betrayal?

Stay there for a moment.

Let the visceral ache settle into your bones.

Feel the injustice in your gut, the confusion, the disbelief. The body knows this pain. It knows the ache of being betrayed by systems that were meant to protect you, to hold you.

This is the wound of spiritual trauma.

The system—the very institution meant to carry out justice and healing—has chosen the guilty. It has rejected the innocent. It has condemned the Lamb.

And something in you breaks, shatters.

The world is upside down. The only one who could restore the earth is given over to be sacrificed.

It feels wrong. It feels impossible. It is impossible.

Let it settle into you.

Feel the weight of that truth—so heavy, so suffocating. Let your muscles tighten and then soften again as you breathe.

What does it feel like to see the One who has healed you, who has loved you, abandoned in this way?

How does it feel to be caught in a moment of betrayal, knowing that the freedom of another has come at the expense of the Just One?

Now, shift your awareness slightly.

The figure of Jesus moves through the courtyard. The chains rattle, but His spirit remains unbroken. He knows the cost of the price He is about to pay.

And yet, even here, in this moment of utter rejection, He chooses love. He chooses you. He chooses to suffer so that you might be free.

Feel His gaze on you.

It is not a gaze of anger or condemnation, but one that holds both sorrow and love. It is the gaze of a Lamb who knows what it means to be sacrificed, who knows what it means to be betrayed and rejected.

He sees you, even now. He sees the wounds of your heart, the places where trust has been broken, the places where your spirit has been crushed.

He knows what it is to be sold out, to be abandoned. His heart echoes yours.

And He is still there, standing in the place of your pain, your rejection, your own spiritual wounds.

Pause here.

Let yourself sink into the fullness of His mercy.

Feel your chest open as His love washes over you, flowing into the places of your soul where rejection once resided.

He does not demand you be whole. He does not demand that you prove your worth before He loves you.

He loves you, here. Even in this place of spiritual trauma. Even in the betrayal.

This is the way through.

Feel His love meeting you in the fragments of your own brokenness.

Feel how His sacrifice unearths the lies that you are unworthy.

His love is the key that opens the door to healing. Not the healing that denies the wound, but the one that enters into it, that holds you and makes you whole.

Let it settle into your body.

The rise. The fall of your breath. The shifting of your muscles as you let go of the tension you have held for so long.

Jesus has borne the cost of your freedom. He has borne the cost of your trauma, your rejection, your wounds.

You are not abandoned. You are not forgotten.

Even now, even in the courtyard of suffering, you are free—because He chose you.

And when you're ready...

Let your body gently return to its place in space.

Feel the weight of the ground beneath you, solid once again.

Know this: You are held. You are loved.

You are free, even here. Even now.