"My God, What Have We Done?"

It does not require great leaps of imagination or intellect to draw the parallels between the events of Holy Week and our current struggles against injustice. In fact, if I told you the story of a young, poor man in a minority culture who was falsely accused of trumped-up charges and died at the hands of state-sanctioned violence, you’d likely cycle through a long litany of names-become-hashtags before landing on Jesus of Nazareth.

I can imagine the scene at the foot of the cross: the noise of the preceding days, beginning with shouts of “Hosanna” on Palm Sunday, the dull roar of the city throughout the week as it readied for Passover, escalating finally to cries of “Crucify him!”, and the crowds that made sport and spectacle out of death.

And yet, as Jesus breathed his last and skies grew dark, at some point, the crowd had to disperse. They had to walk away into the darkness of the day that followed.

Is there not something within us that pauses in the face of death? Some part of our human essence that recognizes where the spark of life has left another being? Where the silence of a once-beating heart echoes in our own chests?

Was it from this pause when the Centurion at the foot of the cross exhaled, “Surely this was the Son of God”? Staring death in the eye, his heart cries, “My God, what have we done?”

Last week, our hearts were wrenched at the news of the brutal deaths of 86 human beings at the hands of a violent regime. We heard gruesome stories of bodies littering the street, children foaming at the mouth, a father cradling his lifeless twin toddlers.

Some of us chose not to look at all, though not in an attempt to deny reality. We are painfully aware of the reality. But simply choosing not to, once again, gaze upon death. Because death has a way of seeping into our souls. And the death brought about by injustice and violence leaves behind a residue that is not easily washed away.

Recent months have felt, at times, like an endless parade of images of death: tiny bodies wrapped in sheets, dusty remains being pulled from Palestinian rubble, dashboard videos of traffic stops turned executions, final gasps of “I can’t breathe.”

Nearly daily, we stare unjust and violent death in the face. Our souls are covered in its soot. We respond in many loud and busy ways, in protest and disruption, organizing and “rapid response.” We act because it is good and just. But our action is loud, and the question is quiet.

“My God, what have we done?”

It’s a question that can only be answered in the darkness. Where the rush and bustle of our action and protest gives way to the stillness of our own uncertainty. Where the lines between good and evil that seemed so clear in the light are barely distinguishable in the shadow. Where the pretense of our own righteousness is stripped away.

On this Holy Saturday, let us not waste the darkness. May we honor the pause of our hearts where our souls meet the silent weight of death. May we, just for today, quiet our righteous anger and outrage to allow our hearts to quietly cry, “My God, what have we done?”

The darkness may feel like death, but all new life begins in the dark.

Jacqui Buschor is a justice-obsessed organizer, policy wonk, and proud resident of the Westside of Columbus, OH, who believes in the transformative power of community.