“For My Garments They Cast Lots”

A Somatic Meditation Through the Lens of Spiritual Trauma, with Titration and Pendulation

By Ashley E. Schumacher, MS, LAPC

Music Suggestion: “On Holy Ground” and “Kyrie Eleison” by Salt of the Sound

https://youtu.be/r7i8rBUVP-U?si=L3ZcVPB0iE7HoqhW

youtu.be/NJMqWfs0zQ4?si=iUtxoS0uDvNRAGhn 

There is a moment at the foot of the Cross that is easy to overlook, but devastating in its truth.

As Jesus hangs dying—his body exposed, his dignity denied—the soldiers beneath Him gamble for his clothing.

“They divided my garments among them, and for my clothing they cast lots.”

This moment is not just about fabric.

It is about stripping.

It is about objectification.

It is about what happens when those in power see holiness as something to be possessed, not reverenced.

Take a breath.

Feel your feet.

You are safe here.

This is the anatomy of spiritual trauma.

When garments are torn away in Scripture, it is often a sign of mourning or desecration.

In Jesus' case, it is both.

He is the High Priest—clothed in divine love, clothed in the flesh of humanity, clothed in vulnerability.

And yet, even this is taken.

And those who take it do not weep. They cast lots. They joke. They turn sacred intimacy into sport.

Let yourself feel that dissonance.

Now return to your breath. Inhale slowly... exhale longer.

Come back to the earth beneath you.

How many survivors of spiritual abuse have felt this same desecration?

Their innocence—gambled away.

Their call—manipulated.

Their boundaries—ignored.

Their identities—picked over like spoils of war by those who felt entitled to their obedience, their silence, their gifts.

Their clothing—their covering—their sacredness—made public.

Their trauma: unacknowledged.

Their voice: muted.

And yet, you’re here.

You’re reading this.

Which means something inside you still holds sacred ground.

This line—"for my clothing they cast lots"—speaks to every time someone was used for their beauty, their body, their holiness, their availability, their devotion, their submission... and then discarded.

It is the voice of the one who gave everything to the Church, only to find themselves shamed, shunned, or scapegoated when they could no longer comply.

It is the voice of the one who was told they were “chosen,” then left behind.

The one whose story was fragmented, whose personhood was parceled out in whispers, judgment, and denial.

The one who found out their trauma was less important than the institution’s image.

The one who was told to cover up, move on, or “offer it up”—while others gambled with their pain.

Let yourself feel one of these lines that touches you.

Just one. Not all.

Let it land gently.

Now find one thing in the room you’re in that reminds you you’re not in that place anymore.

And still—Jesus speaks from within this very desecration.

He does not bypass it.

He does not reframe it prematurely.

He feels it.

He names it.

And in doing so, He dignifies every survivor who has ever had something sacred taken from them.

He hangs in solidarity with all who have been made spectacles.

He holds vigil within the silence of the scapegoated.

He is stripped—but not shamed.

And in Him, we begin to remember: we are not what was done to us.

This moment on the Cross becomes a mirror and a mercy.

A mirror to the reality of exploitation—even in religious spaces.

A mercy that says: You were not wrong to feel violated. You were not overreacting. You were not too sensitive. They cast lots for what was yours. That was real.

Breathe.

Let your exhale be longer than your inhale.

Place one hand on your body, where it needs comfort.

Say to yourself: It mattered. It matters. I matter.

And also, this: You are not what they took from you. You are what remains. And what remains is not forsaken.

Let yourself sit with this.

Let your body speak.

Where have you been stripped?

Where have others gambled with what was precious to you?

Feel that grief rise, if it needs to.

Then let your awareness pendulate—to something beautiful in your story, something untouched by harm.

It might be small, but it is yours.

Bring it to the foot of the Cross—not to justify the wound, but to find the One who stayed inside it, and transfigured even this.

Alternative Option: “For My Garments They Cast Lots”

There is a moment at the foot of the Cross that is easy to overlook, but devastating in its truth.

As Jesus hangs dying—his body exposed, his dignity denied—the soldiers beneath Him gamble for his clothing.

“They divided my garments among them, and for my clothing they cast lots.”

This moment is not just about fabric.

It is about stripping.

It is about objectification.

It is about what happens when those in power see holiness as something to be possessed, not reverenced.

☩ This is a moment of titration: just notice what is stirred in you. No need to take it all in. 

Just let one phrase or image speak.

Take a breath.

Feel your feet.

You are safe here.

This is the anatomy of spiritual trauma.

When garments are torn away in Scripture, it is often a sign of mourning or desecration.

In Jesus' case, it is both.

He is the High Priest—clothed in divine love, clothed in the flesh of humanity, clothed in

vulnerability.

And yet, even this is taken.

And those who take it do not weep. They cast lots. They joke. They turn sacred intimacy into sport.

☩ This is another titration moment: if you feel something rising, pause. You don’t have to keep reading. Let your body set the pace.

Let yourself feel that dissonance.

Now return to your breath. Inhale slowly... exhale longer.

Come back to the earth beneath you.

☩ This is a pendulation invitation: we step away briefly from the overwhelm and orient to the here-and-now.

How many survivors of spiritual abuse have felt this same desecration?

Their innocence—gambled away.

Their call—manipulated.

Their boundaries—ignored.

Their identities—picked over like spoils of war by those who felt entitled to their obedience, their silence, their gifts.

Their clothing—their covering—their sacredness—made public.

Their trauma: unacknowledged.

Their voice: muted.

And yet, you’re here.

You’re reading this.

Which means something inside you still holds sacred ground.

☩ Pendulation: Can you notice this flicker of resilience? Let it be a thread to hold. 

You don’t have to explain it—just notice it’s there.

This line—"for my clothing they cast lots"—speaks to every time someone was used for their beauty, their body, their holiness, their availability, their devotion, their submission... and then discarded.

It is the voice of the one who gave everything to the Church or to another person, only to find themselves shamed, shunned, or scapegoated when they could no longer comply.

It is the voice of the one who was told they were “chosen,” then left behind.

The one whose story was fragmented, whose personhood was parceled out in whispers, judgment, and denial.

The one who found out their trauma was less important than the institution’s image.

The one who was told to cover up, move on, or “offer it up”—while others gambled with their pain.

☩ Titration again: just one of these lines may carry weight for you. Stay with the one that speaks. Let the others fall away.

Let yourself feel one of these lines that touches you.

Just one. Not all.

Let it land gently.

Now find one thing in the room you’re in that reminds you you’re not in that place anymore.

☩ Pendulation: let your senses anchor you. A sound, a color, a texture. This is you re-claiming your present.

And still—Jesus speaks from within this very desecration.

He does not bypass it.

He does not reframe it prematurely.

He feels it.

He names it.

And in doing so, He dignifies every survivor who has ever had something sacred taken from them.

He hangs in solidarity with all who have been made spectacles.

He holds vigil within the silence of the scapegoated.

He is stripped—but not shamed.

And in Him, we begin to remember: we are not what was done to us.

This moment on the Cross becomes a mirror and a mercy.

A mirror to the reality of exploitation—even in religious spaces.

A mercy that says: You were not wrong to feel violated. 

You were not overreacting. You were not too sensitive. They cast lots for what was yours. That was real.

☩ Titration: Let your breath respond here. If it wants to deepen, let it. If you need to shift, do it.

Breathe.

Let your exhale be longer than your inhale.

Place one hand on your body, where it needs comfort.

Say to yourself: It mattered. It matters. I matter.

☩ Pendulation: Let this be a moment of care for your nervous system. 

Your body is worthy of compassion.

And also, this: You are not what they took from you. You are what remains. And what remains is not forsaken.

Let yourself sit with this.

Let your body speak.

Where have you been stripped?

Where have others gambled with what was precious to you?

☩ Titration: If emotions rise, honor them. If numbness shows up, that too is part of the

landscape. All parts of you are welcome here.

Feel that grief rise, if it needs to.

Then let your awareness pendulate—to something beautiful in your story, something untouched by harm.

It might be small, but it is yours.

☩ Pendulation: Let this beauty co-exist with the sorrow. This is how we heal—by honoring both the wound and what survives it.

Bring it to the foot of the Cross—not to justify the wound, but to find the One who stayed inside it, and transfigured even this.