Bringing your full (wounded) self to ministry

I was very much looking forward to (and was not disappointed by) my interview with Yunuen Trujillo on “The Spiritual Life.” She is one of the rare people in the Catholic Church who, besides her many other talents, works with two groups of marginalized people: first, with migrants and refugees in her work as an immigration attorney; and second, with L.G.B.T.Q. Catholics in her work as a lay minister.

During the conversation, we spoke about how we can bring our full selves, including our challenges and struggles, into our ministries, and how those very challenges and struggles can, paradoxically, help us to minister more effectively. This concept is often referred to as the “wounded healer,” a phrase popularized by (though probably not originating with) the Dutch Catholic priest and writer Henri Nouwen, in his book of the same name. 

Admittedly, the term can be overused. Not every challenge or struggle or, worse, trauma can be magically turned into a tool for ministry. Not every terrible event or personal disappointment makes a person a better minister. Sometimes personal tragedies and misfortunes can embitter people. There is also the reality of the “wounded wounder.”

But if seen in the proper light—that is, in the light of God’s grace—our wounds can humble us, make us more aware of our own humanity, help remove a sense of arrogance and, above all, make us more sensitive to others who struggle. Then there is simply the value of experience. After my mother died a few weeks ago, I found myself paying more attention to the advice of those who had also lost parents.

Jesus is our model in this—as he is in all things. “For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses,” as St. Paul wrote, “but we have one who in every respect has been tested as we are, yet without sin.” As I read that passage from the Letter to the Hebrews, I also hear, “Jesus understands you.” And he understands us not only because of his divine knowledge but because he has been through most of the struggles that his fellow men and women have.

I’ve always loved meditating on the reality that when the risen Christ appears to the disciples after the Resurrection, he does so while bearing the wounds of his crucifixion. “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side,” he says to the Apostle Thomas in John’s Gospel.

We tend to accept this without much reflection. But Jesus could have returned perfectly “healed” of his wounds. Wouldn’t that, you could argue, make the Resurrection even more “miraculous”? That the Risen One not only conquers death but even erases its effects?

But the risen Christ comes to us with his wounds. And in heaven he reigns, still wounded, as if to reveal that this is part of who he is now: the “wounded healer.” And to remind us that this is part of who we are now, too.