Somatic Meditation: Jesus and the Weeping Women of Jerusalem

A Meditation Through the Lens of Spiritual Trauma

By Ashley E. Schumacher, MS, LAPC

Music Suggestion “On Holy Ground”  and “Take Me Broken" by Salt of the Sound

https://youtu.be/3hUCpglfADw?si=LS0fTQYnn2FUd9LK

https://youtu.be/i7KdI6Pfe1M?si=0O1MVN9J5cjRlxFn

Let yourself begin where you are.

You don’t have to be ready.

You don’t have to be whole.

You don’t even have to be calm.

You simply have to be here..

Just breathe.

Feel the pulse of your breath—

the rise, the fall.

The subtle shifting of your body with each exhale, each inhale.

Notice what you feel.

Let the sensations speak to you, without judgment.

You are not alone in this.

Let that presence in your body be enough.

Take a breath.

Now, bring your awareness to the space you are in.

What is the quality of the air around you?

What is the weight of your body pressing down into the surface beneath you?

Let yourself settle into these simple, grounding sensations.

Let your body teach you where to rest, where to soften.

Now, as we move into this reflection,

keep your awareness soft.

There’s no need to try too hard to understand, to control the experience.

Just allow your body to respond as it needs to.

Imagine now, the road outside Jerusalem.

The dust clings to your skin;

the air is thick, weighted with unspeakable sorrow.

The crowd is pressing in.

A procession unfolds in front of you.

Jesus is walking, His body already ravaged—

bloodied, bent beneath a weight that is not His own.

You see His face—

swollen, covered in bruises,

eyes half-closed but still searching.

Notice your body now.

How do you feel as you take Him in?

Is there a tightness in your chest, a flutter or perhaps a knot in your stomach,

a weight in your limbs, a pulse quickening?

Stay with it.

Allow your body to notice how it reacts to His suffering.

It is safe to feel.

You are safe to feel.

This is the beginning of spiritual trauma—the body’s way of holding the weight of suffering too heavy to bear.

The violence of the crowd, the injustice in the air,

the agony that seeps deep into the bones of those who are forced to witness such cruelty.

And here, in the midst of the procession,

you see the women of Jerusalem.

They weep, their faces full of sorrow.

They do not speak, but their bodies tremble with grief.

You hear their sobs—so raw, so real.

You feel it in your chest.

Notice now, the response in your own body.

Is there a tenderness that arises,

perhaps even a heaviness in your heart?

Does your throat tighten with the sensation of their sorrow- your sorrow?

Let yourself soften into this grief.

You don’t have to rush past it.

Stay with it, however it presents itself.

This is the tender part of you—the part that knows suffering, that knows what it is like to feel unseen, unheard, crushed under the weight of others’ self-righteousness.

The grief that comes when sacred spaces become places of betrayal.

When you have been made to suffer, not because of your choices,

but because someone else chose to wield God’s name and will for you and against you.

Now, Jesus speaks to the women—

His words, gentle yet full of sorrow:

“Daughters of Jerusalem, do not weep for me; weep for yourselves and for your children."

Feel the weight of His words.

Let them land in your body.

Notice how your body responds— perhaps your breath slows, your muscles soften, or your heart tightens once more.

Feel His compassion meet your pain.

In this moment, Jesus is acknowledging the pain that you carry— the spiritual harm that has been done to you, the wounds you bear from those who should have protected you, the wounds of rejection, of abuse, of being overlooked by the very ones who claim to be His eyes, His hands and His feet.

You feel it in your bones— the deep ache of abandonment by those meant to nurture, the silence that echoed where mercy should have spoken, the distortion of truth where clarity was promised, the desecration of what was meant to be holy.

Tread gently here.

Let your nervous system decide how close you come.

This is sacred ground.

Notice the grief, then breathe in the presence of Jesus’ compassion.

Let yourself feel the space between sorrow and tenderness, back and forth, like the pull of the tide.

You don’t need to force healing.

Just let the waves of grief and compassion move through you.

Where is the grief now?

Where is the tenderness now?

Feel these sensations moving through your body.

You are safe to let them exist in you,

without needing to fix, without needing to push them away.

Now, bring your attention to the women again.

They stand in their grief, weeping,

but in their mourning, something beautiful happens.

Jesus meets them, not to resolve their pain,

but to sit with it, to witness it.

Solidarity becomes sacrament.

The ministry of presence—the holy act of simply being with— is more powerful than any liturgy performed without love.

Notice how your body responds to this.

A softening in your chest, an opening in your throat.

Perhaps there’s a feeling of being seen in this moment, of knowing that the suffering you carry does not go unnoticed.

You are not alone.

The weight of spiritual trauma, the suffering inflicted by the hands of those who claim to serve God, does not go unnoticed by Jesus.

He witnesses it. He feels it. He sees you. He lives it in you.

As you sit in this moment, notice if there are parts of you still holding onto expectations of success, or 'prosperity,' in the context of your vocation or state in life.

Perhaps you’ve been taught that the signs of a ‘successful’ life are outward—stability, recognition, accomplishments, or the ideal that your vocation will someday feel fulfilling and complete.

These beliefs can weigh heavily on your heart, creating expectations that never seem to be met.

There’s a quiet, hidden grief in carrying the pressure to ‘succeed’ in your state of life—whether it’s marriage, religious life, consecrated life or the work you do.

Feel that weight, as it has become a burden for you.

Let it fall away now, gently. Allow yourself to surrender the notion that your value is tied to what the institutional Church considers success.

Let go of the false belief that your vocation must be perfect, without struggle, without deep, painful moments of doubt or even failure.

Your value and worth do not depend on outward prosperity.

In this moment, surrender any measure of success that has been imposed on you—whether it came from others or from your own inner critic.

Release that burden.

You are loved—right here, in your rawness, in your unraveling.

Not in spite of it.

But through it.

Allow yourself to breathe into this surrender, into the relief of releasing the need to fit into a mold of vocational 'prosperity.'

Jesus’ love is enough. Let your vocation, your state in life, be a place of surrender and peace—not a measure of achievement or vowed status, but a sacred calling.

You are enough in your journey, in the process, in the rawness of your vulnerability.

Even Jesus’ own vocation—His mission—was marked not by acclaim, but by rejection, misunderstanding, and ultimately, the cross.

The fruitfulness of your life is not measured by visibility or certainty, but by your fidelity to love in the hidden and the hard.

You are a member of His Body.

And just as His wounds became glorified, so too can your wounds—when surrendered—become places of communion, not shame.

The Eucharist reminds us: brokenness can be sacred.

So let the tension, the longing, even the confusion, be held in Him.

Let this be the pendulation now— between the heaviness of sorrow, and the softness of solidarity.

The moments of grief, and the moments of healing.

Let these two experiences weave together,

like the movement of breath in your body.

Now, gently bring your hands to your chest.

Feel the pulse of your heart.

Feel the weight of your own story, the stories you’ve been carrying, the ones that have been left unspoken, unseen.

Say softly to yourself:

"I see you. I honor you. I will not turn away."

The compassion of Jesus is with you.

His gaze does not leave you.

And this moment of tenderness is yours to hold.

Breathe into it,

and when you're ready, let the words, the presence, the love settle into your heart.

You are not alone.

You have always been seen.

Let that be enough for now.