The Two Thieves: A Reflection through the Body Through the Lens of Spiritual Trauma

By Ashley E. Schumacher, MS, LAPC

Suggest Music Taizé - Jesus, Remember Me

https://youtu.be/r6tVReXsioM?si=XnNyRM_mZ8bvzubI

In the moment of crucifixion, two men hang beside Christ—each carrying not only the weight of their crimes, but the layers of wounding from a world that has failed to love them well. 

Through the lens of spiritual trauma, these two thieves become more than historical figures. 

They become symbols of the divergent ways our bodies and souls respond to betrayal by religious institutions, unmet expectations of God, and the misuse of sacred power.

The unrepentant thief can represent the part of us shaped by disappointment, rage, and survivalism when the divine image has been distorted by those claiming to speak in God’s name. 

His voice echoes the external reality of spiritual betrayal: leaders who manipulated scripture to control, communities that shamed, hierarchies that protected abusers while silencing victims. 

His accusation toward Christ—“Are you not the Christ? Save yourself and us!”—becomes a demand not just for rescue, but for the God he was promised but never received. 

He speaks from the wound of a warped theology: one that offered punishment instead of mercy, performance instead of presence.

The good thief, on the other hand, embodies the sacred resistance of a soul that has encountered profound disillusionment—and still dares to turn toward the Divine. 

His voice holds the humility of one who names injustice without collapsing into bitterness. He does not deny his pain or gloss over the corruption around him. Instead, he steps into a space of holy honesty. “This man has done nothing wrong,” he says—not just of Jesus, but perhaps of every victim wrongly condemned by religious power structures.

His prayer—“Jesus, remember me”—is the ache of every soul who has walked away or distanced themselves from the institutional Church but not from God. It is the whispered plea of those who were silenced, overlooked, or  self- excommunicated for telling the truth. It is the cry of the traumatized body that still longs to be seen—not explained, not fixed, just remembered.

This reflection invites you to feel these two inner voices as they live within you. To honor them not as enemies, but as responses to very real harm. To titrate between despair and hope, distrust and surrender. To notice what your body knows—and to let the presence of Christ reframe the story.

Now...

Take a breath.

Let yourself come back to this moment.

Feel your body again—the pulse beneath your skin, the rise and fall of breath in your chest, the sensation of being held by the surface beneath you...

Now bring your awareness to the hill outside Jerusalem.

Golgotha.

The Place of the Skull.

The sun hangs heavy in the sky.

The crowd has thinned.

The jeers have quieted.

And three crosses stand against the sky.

In the middle—Jesus.

His body already breaking.

His breath shallow.

Yet even now, His gaze holds a fierce compassion.

On either side, two men hang.

Criminals, condemned.

Bound not just by wood and nails, but by lives marked by suffering, by pain, perhaps even betrayal and abandonment.

Notice your body as you imagine this scene.

Do your shoulders tighten?

Does your jaw clench?

Is there a sorrow that rises in your throat?

This is a sacred place.

And your body knows it.

Now, listen to the voice of the first man— the unrepentant thief.

“Are you not the Christ? Save yourself—and us!”

Hear the sharpness in his voice.

It’s not just anger—it’s pain twisted into defiance.

A cry born of fear, betrayal, unmet expectations.

A demand for a Messiah who meets his terms.

Maybe you’ve heard that voice before— in your own head, in moments of deep abandonment.

Maybe you’ve felt that surge of bitterness— when God didn’t show up the way you were told He would.

When the Church spoke of miracles and mercy,

but all you received was silence... or worse.

Titrate here.

This is the part of the soul that can’t make sense of suffering.

The part that demands answers, that clings to control as a way to survive.

The unrepentant thief becomes a mirror— reflecting the spiritual trauma of unmet rescue, the distortion of divine love into performance, into “if You really are who You say You are, then...”

Let your body respond.

Is there heat? Tension? Numbness?

Stay here just long enough to notice.

And then shift—gently—toward the other voice.

The second thief.

His voice is softer, slower.

“Do you not fear God, since you are under the same sentence?

We are punished justly... but this man has done nothing wrong.”

And then, the words that hold the pang of every soul that has been wounded by misrepresentation of God:

“Jesus, remember me...”

Feel that.

Let those words echo in your chest.

Let them settle in your bones.

Jesus, remember me.

Not “fix me.”

Not “explain this.”

Just see me. Know me. Hold me.

This is the pendulation— the sacred movement between sorrow and surrender, between being hardened by pain and being softened by mercy.

The good thief is not good because he has the right words.

He’s good because he dares to be honest.

He names the injustice.

He speaks the truth.

He opens his heart—right there, in the agony.

Right there, when nothing feels redemptive yet.

Notice your body.

Is there a loosening?

A shift in your breath?

A tenderness arising?

Jesus doesn’t delay.

He doesn’t ask for proof of repentance or perfect theology.

He speaks the words that are balm to the wounded:

“Today you will be with Me in paradise.”

This is not a reward.

It is recognition.

It is belonging.

It is the restoration of a soul who was always worthy.

This is what Jesus does with the ones the world, the institutional Church discards— the criminals, the condemned, the traumatized.

The ones who have been crushed by unjust systems,

by corrupt power structures,

by the misuses of His own name.

He doesn’t erase their pain—

He enters it.

He dignifies it.

He offers communion.

Let this truth move through you now:

You are not the sum of what has been done to you.

You are not the failure of your vocation,the collapse of your dreams, the voice of the unrepentant thief in your head.

You are the one Christ sees, and says, “Today, you are with Me.”

You are remembered.

You are not forgotten.

You are not disqualified.

Even in your rawness.

Even in your doubt.

Even in your exhaustion from systems that failed you.

Tread gently here. This is sacred ground.

Breathe into the presence of the good thief in you— the one who still dares to hope.

The one who speaks up, even while suffering.

The one who reaches out toward Jesus, even when the end seems near.

You are seen.

You are held.

And paradise begins now— in this moment of recognition, in this communion of the broken and the beloved.

Place your hand on your heart again.

Feel the beat of life within you.

Feel the presence of the One who hung beside the thieves.

Say to yourself:

“Jesus, remember me.”

Let His answer rest in your body.

“You are with Me.”

Let that be enough for now.