Ecce Homo: A Somatic Meditation Through the Lens of Spiritual Trauma

By Ashley E. Schumacher, MS, LAPC

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

youtu.be/NJMqWfs0zQ4?si=Q-SCsmHfSnfIfJzW 

Begin by finding a position that feels grounded and safe. Let your body relax into the support beneath you. Take a deep breath in, slow and steady, filling your lungs, and exhale with ease, releasing any tension you may be holding.

Feel the weight of your body pressing down into the ground, held firmly by the earth. Let your body know it is safe to be here, just as you are. There is nothing to fix or change right now. 

Just breathe. Just be present.

You are entering sacred space, a place where even the most broken parts of you are welcome.

The air here is thick with the mystery of suffering and the miracle of compassion. There is no shame in the wound, no rejection in the hurt. You are not alone.

Now, imagine yourself standing in the praetorium, the courtyard where Jesus is about to be condemned. It is early morning. The ground beneath you is cold and hard, and the air is heavy with the scent of sweat and iron.

Jesus is before you, bound, exposed, and utterly vulnerable. He is a man—yes—but more than that, He is the Messiah. The one who came to heal, to redeem, and to restore. But here, in this moment, He is torn apart, both physically and spiritually. He is humiliated, mocked, ridiculed.

The soldiers bring Him a robe—one that was taken from someone else, torn, soaked with blood.

The robe is thrown over His torn body, sticking to His open wounds as it settles against His skin.

Each movement, each shift, pulls the fabric against the fresh lacerations, reopening the wounds as though they were never allowed to heal. The robe—once meant to shield, to cover—now becomes an instrument of suffering. It clings to Him, to the pain, to the violation, as though it, too, has become part of the mocking ritual. The very veil that once could have concealed His suffering is now complicit in its deepening.

The pressure of the robe against His open wounds—a visceral experience—presses into Him with every step He is made to take. This is not just a garment. It is a reminder of the system that seeks to crush, humiliate, and erase. It is a veil of shame, a covering that exposes all.

Now, hear the taunts. The laughter. The sneers. The soldiers mock Him, they strip Him of His dignity in front of all who will watch. His very identity is torn to shreds—each taunt, each jeer a spiritual wound.

And in this moment, He is not just condemned by the world—He is condemned by those who should have loved Him most. His own people. The ones He came to save. They rip away His dignity, they rip away His right to be seen as sacred.

Feel it now—this violation. This desecration. The robe, the shame, the ridicule—they are not just actions done to Jesus. They are echoes of the wounds we carry, too. The ones inflicted by those who should have known better. The ones that happen in the name of love, of faith, of the sacred, but end up doing the most harm. This is spiritual trauma—when what was meant to cover, to shield, to protect, instead becomes a source of suffering, of exposure.

And still—He does not run. He does not hide. He stays, even in the face of such agony. His heart remains open, even though it is being torn apart.

Let yourself feel this. The pain of being exposed, the agony of being mocked, the grief of being violated by what was supposed to be sacred. This is not just physical pain. This is the pain of spiritual betrayal—the wounding that goes deep into the soul.

Now, feel His presence with you. He who knows the depth of your pain. He who has felt the weight of the robe, the sting of the mockery, the violence of the rejection. He understands the wounds that go deeper than the skin, the ones that reach the heart, the ones that make you feel as though you are not seen, not understood, not loved.

You are not alone. He is with you. Even when the world condemns, even when you feel exposed and ashamed, He is there, holding you in the depths of your pain through His.

Let His presence surround you now, wrapping you in the love that refuses to abandon. Let His heart be your refuge. Let His grief be your healing. He knows. He stays.

You are beloved. You are sacred. You are crowned with dignity, veiled not in shame, but in the sovereign scepter of freedom as a child of God. And the One who was mocked, who was exposed, who bore the robe of suffering—He understands.

Gently, slowly look up and behold the Son of Man who loves you. He is looking at you in love.

Gently, slowly look up.

Behold the Son of Man—broken, bruised, and crowned in agony—who loves you.

He is looking at you in love. His eyes, full of mercy, see you—every wound, every fear, every longing.

He gazes at you with compassion, as though you were the only one standing before Him.

In this moment, there is no distance. There is no separation.

You are held in His gaze. You are seen, understood, and loved—fully and completely.

You, beloved child, are the reason He endures this pain.

This is the heart of the Sacred. This is the heart of your Savior.

Feel His love, overwhelming and unshakable. Feel His presence, tender and profound.

Let this gaze transform you. Let it heal what is broken. Let it reveal the Son of Man in you.