A New Legacy of Healing Can Start with You

What is your deepest pain?

Not the one you casually share in small talk when someone asks how you’re doing. 

Not the surface-level ache you post about online.

I mean the wound that keeps you up at night, the one you bury so deep because it hurts too much to name.

And here’s another question: what is your deepest longing that pain has robbed you of?

Because that’s often what pain does—it steals something sacred. It robs us of connection, belonging, joy.

Maybe it’s the longing to feel safe.

Or the longing to be loved as you are.

Or the longing to be touched without fear, shame, or rejection.

There’s a story in the gospels of a man with leprosy who comes to Jesus. 

He doesn’t ask for forgiveness.

He doesn’t even ask for healing.

He says, “...If you are willing, you can make me clean.” (Mark 1:40, NIV)

In Jewish culture, “clean” wasn’t just about health; it was about belonging. To be unclean meant you were cut off.

You couldn’t live in the city.

You couldn’t worship at the temple.

You couldn’t sit at the family table.

Every time you stepped into public, you had to shout out your identity, “Unclean!

Unclean!” It was shame made audible.

Now, here’s the dark irony of leprosy: it isn’t painful. 

It actually kills your ability to feel pain.

And that’s why it’s so dangerous.

A wound can get infected without you noticing, until it spreads and destroys you from the inside.

Trauma works the same way.

Bessel van der Kolk says, “Trauma is not just an event that took place sometime in the past; it is also the imprint left by that experience on mind, brain, and body.”⁴

Left unchecked, trauma numbs us. 

We stop feeling.

And what we don’t feel eventually destroys us and often spreads to those we love.

Now imagine this man with leprosy.

The text doesn’t say it, but think about it: did he have a wife? Kids?

Could he hold them? Could he hug them goodnight or wrestle on the floor?

Imagine if his love language was physical touch, yet the only touch he knew was rejection.

So when he asks Jesus to make him clean, it’s about more than skin disease. It’s about dignity, belonging, and the longing to be touched again.

Mark writes, “Jesus reached out his hand and touched the man. ‘I am willing,’ he said. ‘Be clean!’...” (Mark 1:41, NIV)

Don’t miss this.

Jesus could have healed him with a word. 

He could have kept a safe distance.

But instead, he touched him.

Why?

Because Jesus doesn’t just heal the body.

He heals the deepest ache of the soul.

He touches the very place pain has numbed us.

Isaiah prophesied it long before, “...by his wounds we are healed.” (Isaiah 53:5, NIV)

Jesus entered our suffering, carried our rejection, absorbed our shame.

Hebrews 5 says that even his suffering became the doorway through which he became the source of salvation.

Henri Nouwen once wrote, “Who can take away suffering without entering into it?”⁵ 

Jesus saves not by avoiding our wounds, but by entering them.

And he does the same with you.

Your pain left untouched will eventually spread into your body, your relationships, and even the next generation.

But your pain surrendered to Jesus becomes the very place he makes you whole.

Think of it this way: the very scar you’re most ashamed of might become the story that helps someone else heal.

Prayer

Jesus, You see the wounds I hide. You see the longings I’ve buried. I invite You to touch the places I’ve called untouchable. Where shame has shouted “unclean,” speak over me, “Be clean.” By Your wounds, heal mine. Amen.

Reflection

The leper’s deepest longing was for touch, and Jesus met him there. What about you? Where do you need the healing touch of Jesus? End today’s study with some time for reflection on these two questions.

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⁴Bessel van der Kolk, The Body Keeps The Score

⁵Henri Nouwen, Wounded Healer