Transforming Pain
by Richard Rohr
Wednesday, October 17, 2018
All healthy religion shows you what to do with your pain,
with the absurd, the tragic, the nonsensical, the unjust and the undeserved—all
of which eventually come into every lifetime. If only we could see these
“wounds” as the way through, as Jesus did, then they would
become sacred wounds rather than scars to deny, disguise, or project onto
others. I am sorry to admit that I first see my wounds as an obstacle more than
a gift. Healing is a long journey.
If we cannot find a way to make our wounds into sacred
wounds, we invariably become cynical, negative, or bitter. This is the
storyline of many of the greatest novels, myths, and stories of every
culture. If we do not transform our pain, we will most assuredly
transmit it—usually to those closest to us: our family, our neighbors, our
co-workers, and, invariably, the most vulnerable, our children.
Scapegoating, exporting our unresolved hurt, is the most
common storyline of human history. The Jesus Story is about radically
transforming history and individuals so that we don’t just keep handing on the
pain to the next generation. Unless we can find a meaning for human suffering,
that God is somehow in it and can also use it for good,
humanity is in major trouble. Because we will suffer. Even the
Buddha said that suffering is part of the deal!
We shouldn’t try to get rid of our own pain until we’ve
learned what it has to teach. When we can hold our pain consciously and
trustfully (and not project it elsewhere), we find ourselves in a very special
liminal space. Here we are open to learning and breaking through to a much
deeper level of faith and consciousness. Please trust me on this. We must all carry
the cross of our own reality until God transforms us through it. These
are the wounded healers of the world, and healers who have fully faced their
wounds are the only ones who heal anyone else.
As an example of holding the pain, picture Mary standing at
the foot of the cross or, as in Michelangelo’s Pietà cradling
Jesus’ body. One would expect her to take her role wailing or protesting, but
she doesn’t! We must reflect on this deeply. Mary is in complete
solidarity with the mystery of life and death. It’s as if she is saying,
“There’s something deeper happening here. How can I absorb it just as Jesus is
absorbing it, instead of returning it in kind?” Consider the analogy of energy
circuits: Most of us are relay stations; only a minority are transformers—people
who actually change the electrical charge that passes through us.
Jesus on the cross and Mary standing beneath the cross are
classic images of transformative spirituality. They do not return the
hostility, hatred, accusations, or malice directed at them. They hold the
suffering until it becomes resurrection! That’s the core mystery of
Christianity. It takes our whole life to begin to comprehend this. It tends to
be the wisdom of elders, not youngers.
Unfortunately, our natural instinct is to try to fix pain,
to control it, or even, foolishly, to try to understand it. The ego insists on
understanding. That’s why Jesus praises a certain quality even more than love,
and he calls it faith. It is the ability to stand in liminal
space, to stand on the threshold, to hold the contraries, until we are moved by
grace to a much deeper level and a much larger frame, where our private pain is
not center stage but a mystery shared with every act of bloodshed and every
tear wept since the beginning of time. Our pain is not just our own.
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