Jesus Was the OG Trauma Survivor: A Queer Latiné Take on Faith and Healing

Let’s be real: I’ve always vibed more with Jesus' humanity than his divinity. Don’t get me wrong, I know the “fully human, fully divine” combo is part of the theological package deal, but it’s Jesus' struggles—the messy, painful, gut-wrenching stuff—that make me feel seen. Because honestly, life ain’t a cakewalk, and knowing the Son of God was out here navigating the same chaos makes me feel like my struggles are less extra.

As a queer Latinx minister working with folks who’ve experienced religious trauma, looking at Jesus through a trauma-informed lens is like putting on glasses that actually have the right prescription. Suddenly, things come into focus. Jesus isn't just some celestial figure floating above the mess of humanity; he’s in the thick of it, sweating, crying, and probably muttering “¡Ay, Dios mío!” under his breath at the disciples’ antics.

Baby Jesus, Already Dodging Drama

Let’s start at the beginning: Jesus was born into a hot mess. His parents? Poor, young, and living under Roman occupation. The moment Mary said, “Surprise! I’m pregnant, and God’s the baby daddy,” the gossip mill went wild. Then there’s Herod, the insecure man-baby of his time, trying to kill Jesus before he could even crawl. The family had to pack up their meager belongings and flee to Egypt—refugees before Jesus hit his first birthday. Sound familiar? For BIPOC and LGBTQ+ folks, this storyline of danger, displacement, and oppression feels painfully close to home.

The Trauma-Informed Messiah

Fast forward to Jesus' ministry. Everything he did screamed, “I see you, I feel you, I’m here for you.” Healing the sick? Boom. Touching the untouchables? Double boom. Calling out religious hypocrites who weaponized scripture like some kind of ancient Twitter trolls? BOOM. This guy wasn’t just about “thoughts and prayers”; he was about action, transformation, and radical inclusion.

The Beatitudes—those lovely “blessed are” statements—hit different when you see them as a trauma survivor’s rallying cry. Jesus wasn’t out here saying, “Hey, it’s great to be persecuted or grieving.” No, he was saying, “I see your pain, and you’re not alone in it. Healing is possible, even here, even now.” That’s not just hope; that’s fire.

Trauma, But Make It Holy

Seeing Jesus as someone who deeply understood trauma shifts everything for me. It tells me that pain doesn’t make us broken; it makes us human. And if Jesus could hold space for his own suffering and still transform the world, maybe we can, too. Here’s what this perspective has done for my faith and ministry:

1. Pain Is Valid: Jesus’ life tells me that trauma isn’t a moral failing or a lack of faith. It’s just part of being alive. If he felt abandoned on the cross, I’m allowed to have my moments, too.

2. Wounds as Wisdom: Jesus’ scars weren’t erased in the resurrection; they became proof of his survival. Our wounds can be like that—testimonies to our resilience.

3. Inclusivity Is Non-Negotiable: Jesus made space for everybody—sex workers, tax collectors, outcasts. If your ministry doesn’t reflect that, what are you even doing?

4. Healing Takes a Village: Jesus didn’t just preach; he fed people, touched them, and sat with their pain. That’s a reminder that healing isn’t just spiritual—it’s physical, emotional, and communal.

5. Fight the Power, But with Love: Jesus flipped tables and washed feet. He called out injustice but never lost his compassion. That’s the kind of balance I strive for—righteous anger with a side of tenderness.

   
   

Bringing It Home: Wounds to Wisdom

In my ministry, Wounds to Wisdom, this trauma-informed Jesus is everything. He’s my blueprint for creating spaces where queer and BIPOC folks can find healing and connection. For those who’ve endured conversion therapy or been told they’re “less than” by the church, this Jesus—the one who sees their pain and holds it with them—is revolutionary.

When I talk to someone who’s been hurt by religion, I can say, “Hey, Jesus knows what that’s like. He stood up to the same systems that tried to crush you. And he’s not mad at you for questioning it all; he’s sitting with you in it.” That’s not just theology; that’s life-changing.

Faith That Heals

Focusing on Jesus’ humanity doesn’t diminish his divinity; it makes it real. It says that God isn’t some far-off, unrelatable deity but a deeply empathetic presence who’s been through it all. That kind of faith doesn’t ask us to hide our pain; it invites us to bring it to the table, scars and all.

So, yeah, Jesus may have been divine, but he was also that guy walking around first-century Palestine, tired, hungry, and probably side-eyeing Peter for saying something ridiculous. And that makes him my kind of Savior—the one who understands, the one who heals, and the one who shows us how to turn our trauma into something beautiful.