Sacred Bloody Soil

On the grounds of the Dachau Concentration Camp lies the Mortal Agony of Christ Chapel and the Carmelite Convent of the Precious Blood. Kneeling to pray the rosary, I realized this is the most sacred site I have ever visited.

Erected upon the soil where tens of thousands were murdered. Constructed using the materials that killed them (metal from the train tracks and barbered wires and stones that the prisoners were forced to break),¹ exists a sacred resurrection of faith—death, no murder, reconciliation, and new life.

Flanked by the Protestant Church of Reconciliation and the Jewish Memorial, these Abrahamic places of worship seem at first to be a stark contrast to the atrocities that occurred on these broken grounds, but rather these shrines shatter the sacred shroud that modern times have woven. Faith is not clean, polished, and pressed. Faith is messy, tattered, torn, and broken. Its origins are birthed from doubt, distress, and despair. To have faith is to believe in an unbelieving reality. A providence that love and hope shine light even in the darkest places. 

In the still silence of the nearby gas chambers and crematorium, echoes of the past whisper painful prayers, pleading for a more hopeful tomorrow. I imagine the smoke from those chambers billowing up like a thurible offering ashen prayers to the heavens. The grounds that were once littered with the discards of those whose lives were cut short now bear a lush forested garden enriched by their nutrient-rich remains. It is a growing reminder from the past that hatred, violence, persecution, and prejudice have not gone away. 

Carved in stone are the anti-religious, anti-women, anti-LGBTQ, and anti-freedom laws of the Gestapo. Fortunately, these laws of history no longer remain. Regretfully, sirens still sing lies, luring us to repeat the rhymes and lyrics of the past. Who’s will will be entrusted? The will of one man lording over nations? The will of the mighty over the lesser? Or the will of the Lord reminding the “powerful, oppressive nations” that they are but men toiling pointlessly over lesser people?²

As the bell tolls at 3 PM to (re)call the dead, I am startled back from my adoring trance. On this blessed and broken land we all share, beneath the oppressive blazing sun I am reminded of of my humanness. I am but a man, who will someday die, and I only beg to be a small facet that reconciles the sins of the past.

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1. I imagine the Prophet Isiah is shouting with joy to see his visions fulfilled. Methods of distribution beaten into methods of production (Isiah 2:4).

2. Above the Jewish Memorial is a reference to Psalm 9. A hymn of praise often attributed to David’s victory over Goliath.