We immediately associate Vivaldi’s Stabat Mater with church because, of course, it’s a contemplation of Mother Mary experiencing the Crucifixion of her son, a defining event of the Western world—in many respects, the defining event. But none of that story took place in a church. It took place in 1st-century Judea, a city that socially, was not really so different from our own.

If we recount the events in plain language, without religious associations, it’s a story that occurs every day in every city around the world: a mother’s child is brutally, senselessly killed with a gun. More often than not, the child is innocent in every way—innocent of any crime, still so young, so innocent. We see images of this repeated on the news without end. A weeping mother cries out in unbearable pain, the “reason” for the killing pathetically meaningless and insignificant compared to the loss.

By our inaction, we allow this to continue. We’re told, “You can’t save people from themselves,” but isn’t that the opposite of what Jesus told us? Isn’t that obviously wrong weighed against the eternal love and devotion of a mother? Their countless cries and prayers through the ages not been answered. Our mannered sympathy and bizarre rationalizations do nothing to end this. We are as brutal as ever. That strikes me as hopelessly tragic. I would be overcome with despair, except for this:

As these images and sounds come from my television, what I see every time is a mother standing as a pillar of strength, begging, demanding that we abandon antiquated ideas and uphold the fundamental ideals of civilization: co-operation, harmony, compassion.

This dance marvels at the towering, inexhaustible strength of mothers—mine and yours—as yet another begs us to change.