The Wound Unknown to Others

Not every wound of Christ was recorded.

Some were borne in silence, hidden beneath the wood, unseen by the crowd, unknown even to the  Evangelists. The fact that they were hidden does not mean forgotten. The deepest wounds are often the ones no one names.

Centuries ago, Saint Bernard of Clairvaux, while in prayer, is said to have asked Jesus which of His sufferings was the greatest yet unrecorded— which wound caused Him the most pain on Calvary. According to tradition, Christ answered: “I had on My shoulder, while I bore My Cross on the Way of Sorrows, a grievous wound which was more painful than the others and which is not recorded by men. Honour this wound with thy devotion, and I will grant thee whatsoever thou dost ask through its virtue and merit; and in regard to all those who shall venerate this wound, I will remit to them all their venial sins and will no longer remember their mortal sins.”

In our own time, reflection on the Shroud of Turin has led many to ponder this hidden suffering more deeply. The mysterious image imprinted on the cloth suggests that the crossbeam rested heavily upon one shoulder. Scholars have observed indications of collapse under its weight — a violent forward fall, a crushing impact between neck and shoulder. The trauma appears severe enough to have impaired the muscles of the arm and neck.

If this is so, it sheds light on the Gospel account in which Simon of Cyrene is ordered to carry the cross. What may appear as an incident reveals a moment of necessity. There was no way the body could continue to bear the patibulum. The hidden wound speaks . . . . not loudly, but through the quiet testimony of the suffering endured.  

A striking parallel appears in the life of Padre Pio. According to Stefano Campanella, author of Il Papa e il Frate (The Pope and the Friar), Karol Wojtyła—later Pope John Paul II—once asked Padre Pio which of his wounds caused him the greatest suffering, much as Bernard had asked Christ. Wojtyła expected the answer to be the wound in Pio’s chest. Instead, Padre Pio replied: “It is my shoulder wound, which no one knows about and which has never been cured or treated.”

The primary Latin word for “wound” is vulnus, meaning an injury or blow. It is the root of the English word vulnerable, which literally means “open to being wounded.” At its core, vulnerability shapes our relationships. To be vulnerable is to remove layers of protection and share our innermost thoughts, feelings, and experiences without the constant fear of judgment or rejection.

Vulnerability is not weakness; it is an expression of courage. In a world that shuns weakness, to allow oneself to be wounded is a radical act. Authentic relationships cannot exist without vulnerability. It means acknowledging both strengths and weaknesses, embracing imperfection, and choosing to be real rather than perfect. Like peeling away the layers of an onion, when we remove the masks and defense mechanisms we wear, what remains is vulnerability—the unfiltered self.

When I allow myself to be vulnerable, I invite the other to do the same. In sharing struggles and fears, we create a safe space—a space that touches the very heart and soul of every true relationship.

Many of our deepest wounds remain hidden, even from those closest to us, because they dwell in the interior places of the heart. Today, many wounds are “invisible.” We continue to function, perform, and even succeed while carrying anxiety, loneliness, and exhaustion, pressured to appear “okay.” Pain is hidden rather than healed.

Anxiety, depression, burnout, and trauma are genuine wounds of the mind. Treating them as merely spiritual problems deepens the wound; treating them without spiritual accompaniment can further deepen it. For many today, depression is less about intense sorrow and more about numbness, fatigue, and a loss of direction or purpose.

We are more digitally connected than ever, yet profoundly lonely. Online interaction often replaces, rather than deepens, real presence. The wound here is not a lack of contact, but a lack of being truly known. We have connections, but not relationships.

Do you remember John Powell’s book from the 1970s, Why Am I Afraid to Tell You Who I Am? As teenagers, we struggled with questions of identity and worth. Today’s teenagers face these questions with even greater difficulty. Identity is often built on performance, approval, and comparison. Social media intensifies this culture of comparison, feeding a quiet but persistent wound: I don’t measure up.

Betrayal and abuse of authority—political, ecclesial, or otherwise—leave many people guarded and defensive. Trust is wounded. Many long for closeness but fear vulnerability. The wound often manifests as cynicism or emotional distance.

As Religious, we are not strangers to wounds. We carry our own personal struggles — anger, depression, past trauma, doubts, and even addictions. Within our communities, we can experience loneliness and the pain of being misunderstood, sometimes even by our superiors. In recent years, the wounds caused by scandals have deepened, intensifying public mistrust and, at times, open hostility. We may feel ignored, mocked, or dismissed as outdated, while the original idealism that once inspired us seems to fade.

Yet beneath these psychological struggles lies the question: what do our wounds mean before God? When we are alone, on our own, suffering becomes intimate. It is no longer about peer pressure or social trends; it becomes intimate—my life, my history, my wound. And in that interior space, the sense of abandonment creeps in. However, it is there—in that very place of uncertainty—that the mystery of God’s nearness begins to unravel.

We may have endured a difficult life, or perhaps we are walking through a difficult season now. At times it can feel as though God has abandoned us — or worse, that He is punishing us. If that thought arises, remember this: the very wounds we carry are the places God seeks.

The wound is the site of vulnerability — the place of our greatest weakness and brokenness, the place where the enemy tries to strike most deeply. Yet it is also the place where grace enters. Our wounds become apertures, small cracks through which light can penetrate.

In time, when we look back, we will see that these were the moments that shaped us most. They became the ground of our growth. As healing slowly unfolded, those wounded places formed a deeper compassion in us. They became the very places that allow us to stand in solidarity with others who suffer in the same way.

As the great Persian mystic Rumi wrote:

I said: what about my eyes?

He said: Keep them on the road.

I said: what about my passion?

He said: Keep it burning.

I said: what about my heart?

He said: Tell me what you hold inside it?

I said: pain and sorrow.

He said: stay with it.

The wound is the place where the Light enters you.

Christian faith dares to say something even more radical: suffering united to Christ is not only endured but transformed. Suffering can make us bitter, isolate us, or make us cynical. But when it is placed alongside Christ’s Passion, it becomes participation. The wound does not cease to hurt, but joined to His hidden wound, it becomes mysteriously fruitful.

And again, this brings me to Jesus' hidden wound. He did not suffer only in the wounds that were seen—the pierced hands and feet, the crown of thorns, the open side. The hidden wound of Christ is not merely an object of devotion. It tells us that nothing in our suffering is unnoticed. What remains unseen by other people is not unseen by God. The prophet Isaiah had already spoken of this mystery:

He was oppressed and afflicted,
Yet He did not open His mouth;
Like a lamb that is led to slaughter,
And like a sheep that is silent before its shearers,
So He did not open His mouth. (Is. 53:7)

Christ suffers His own heartaches, and He suffers our heart wounds too. And how blessed are we who believe that Jesus’ hidden wound is redemptive:  

It was our sicknesses that He Himself bore,
And our pains that He carried;
Yet we ourselves assumed that He had been afflicted,
Struck down by God, and humiliated.
But He was pierced for our offences,
He was crushed for our wrongdoings;
The punishment for our well-being was laid upon Him,
And by His wounds we are healed. (Is. 53: 4-5)

Blurbs

Authentic relationships cannot exist without vulnerability. It means acknowledging both strengths and weaknesses, embracing imperfection, and choosing to be real rather than perfect.

We may have endured a difficult life. At times, we may feel as though God has abandoned us. If that thought arises, remember this: the very wounds we carry are the places God seeks.

Suffering can make us bitter, isolate us, or make us cynical. But when it is placed alongside Christ’s Passion, it becomes participation.