From February 22 to 27, 2026, as Bishop Erik Varden—the Trappist monk and Bishop of Trondheim, Norway—leads Pope Leo’s Lenten retreat, he invites us to gaze upon a startling paradox: the “new wings” that sprout from our very wounds. We instinctively flinch at the word “wound,” don’t we? We treat it as a mark of failure, a fall from grace, or a defect to be scrubbed away. Modern humanity is caught in a restless pilgrimage toward a “physical well-being” that mimics an earthly paradise—a life where bodies are unblemished and history is sanitized. But if perfection is the goal, why did the Risen Jesus return with His scars intact? Why did a victorious, resurrected body choose to carry the jagged marks of humiliation and agony into eternity?
“Since God displays himself to us wounded, we dare to come before him with our wounds” writes Bishop Varden in Healing Wounds: The 2025 Lent Book, guiding readers more deeply into Christ’s wounds while also helping us to see our own more clearly and not fear bringing them to our Lord. The book is structured around three themes: the affliction of wounds, the transformation of wounds in Christ, and the flourishing that may be enabled by understanding the relationship of our wounds to Christ’s.
The Risen Lord did not retreat into His old, unscarred body; He embraced a new existence that integrated the trauma of the Cross into the glory of the Resurrection. For Christ, these were not stains to be bleached, but the sacred archives of His love—the indelible memory of what it cost to love humanity to the end. It was by touching these raw openings that the first witnesses of the faith were born. A Christ who refuses to hide His scars is a revolution; He proves that our history is not something to be deleted, but redeemed.
Consider the Japanese art of Kintsugi, where shattered pottery is mended with lacquer laced with powdered gold. The craftsman does not disguise the fracture; he illuminates it. The cracks become a shimmering testament to the vessel’s survival, rendering the mended piece far more precious than one that was never broken. Does the Risen Lord not do the same? He reminds us that our wounds are not failures to be masked, but the very gold that joins our broken pieces into a masterpiece of survival. True healing, then, is never a “reset” to a pre-wounded state; it is the emergence of a deeper, more empathetic human being who carries their history as a badge of grace.
Varden boldly suggests that our vulnerabilities are, in fact, our greatest spiritual assets. To be “flawless” is to be spiritually impoverished. For is it not through the fissures of a broken heart that the light of Divine Grace finally finds an entry point into our clay-like nature? Our wounds are the open doors through which God gains access to the soul. Yet, we live in a desert of diverse pains—the isolation of illness, the finality of death, and the bitter polarization of our age. The world offers us an endless supply of “anaesthesia”—the flicker of the screen, the hollow high of consumerism, or a numbing, feel-good spirituality. But Varden challenges us: Learn to remember your wounds. A wound we refuse to acknowledge is a wound that can never heal. By honouring our pain, we are led back to the wounds of Christ, where restoration truly begins.
In this light, healing is redefined. It is not merely the absence of discomfort or the restoration of mental ease. Rather, healing is that profound state where, despite the scars, we find the strength to praise God. If you can offer praise from the midst of your history, you are healed. Our pains are not annihilated; they are transformed. This is the hope that emerges from the crisis—a hope that no longer fears the dark because it has already walked through the night to meet the dawn.
Pain will make you wise; the wound will make you deep. Let your scars become your story.
