Hatred and abortion.

Most of us have a hard time imagining how much hatred there is in the leftist soul. When we see leftist protestors, and witness their storms of stupidity (“I hate Ronald Ray-gun!” was an infallible moron-identifier), profanity, and violence, we see people whose souls are lost.

We are innocent enough to think, “Surely, they can’t believe what they’re saying.” They do. They actually believe what they say. Just loving God and neighbor indicates the love in a soul, hating God and neighbor shows the degree of hate.

Abortion gives us a gruesome way to calculate hate. The most hate-filled souls are those who believe they are justified in killing children in late term abortions. Slightly less filled with hate are those who believe in second-trimester abortions. Believers in early-term abortions seem to have slightly less hate. Those who don’t mind killing embryos with birth-control abortificants are still taking lives, but don’t register as high on the Hate-o-Meter. They hide their hatred with lies of the “It’s not really a baby.” variety. They do not want to kill babies, so they define “baby” in such a way that they are not destroying one.

It takes a miracle to change hate to love, but miracles are the specialties of angels and saints. We must pray for hate-filled souls to reverse their spiritual polarity and love their neighbors. It’s one of the most important things we can do.

When standing outside an abortion clinic, pleading with mothers not to hurt their babies, we deal directly with one group who needs our prayers to save their souls. These are the “deathscorts”. Often related to the “nurses” who work in the clinic, they race the women though the pro-life people quickly, so they don’t have a chance to listen to love or reason.

Often, I had an opportunity to speak with a particular “deathscort”. His wife worked in the “clinic”, and he was expected to show up every Saturday morning. That’s when the pro-life protesters, and the clinic’s customers, were most numerous. Usually, the boyfriend would drop off the pregnant girlfriend, who was quickly escorted to the abortuary by one of the “deathscorts”.

This particular “deathscort” had made himself utterly and completely oblivious to the fact that he was helping murder unborn children. He gave no thought to the fact that he was keeping these mothers from a last chance to think about what they were doing. He thought little of the pliers and chemicals being used inside, or of the tiny babies on which they were being used. He only wanted to make sure that his part of the abortion process, getting pregnant women into the clinic, ran smoothly and efficiently.

His resentment that we were there was palpable; not because we were trying to stop him from doing something bad, but because we were interfering with a process he thought should have been free from interruptions. Those who ran guillotines and gas chambers for earlier generations of hate-filled leftists could not have been any less, or any more, heartless in making sure the lines moved quickly.

Sometimes, we would see the “doctors” entering the abortuary. They drove expensive automobiles, wore expensive suits, and looked very prosperous. Once, I asked, “Doc, do they pay you double for twins?”. He looked puzzled, not because he had been asked a hard question, but because he had obviously not thought to ask for a “bonus”.

Once, the owner of the abortuary was called. As she got out of her car, she loudly announced, “I am Mrs. Litman.” to the waiting policemen. Students from a Catholic college (The University of Steubenville) had somehow gotten a couple of buckets of tar into the building, and poured it in the waiting room. Far more policemen than were usually there immediately appeared.

Not one officer was at all concerned about the babies being brutally pulled apart, but all were very worried about Mrs. Litman’s property being damaged by the tar. The students were quickly arrested, and one or two of the policemen got tar on their clothes, as did several of the students. Fortunately, there was no police brutality. Prior to this incident, several policemen were accused of severely beating and jailing pro-life demonstrators without charges.

A much older newspaper reporter stood near me. “You don’t have to worry,” he explained, “until they take off their badges so no one can see their numbers. That’s when things are going to get really bad.”

One of the students had a video camera. The police took it. I asked the Lieutenant if he was going to get it back, and he assured me that he would.

The episode was over in half an hour. Then, the waiting cars drove up, and the impatient boyfriends dropped off their girlfriends to have their babies killed.

By now, poor Mrs. Litman has probably gone to judgment. One doubts that proclaiming, on arrival, “I am Mrs. Litman!” with the pride with which she used to announce her presence will predispose St. Peter to decide in her favor.

All of us should be concerned about the part the souls of the aborted babies will have in our own judgment. If we, by thoughts, words, and actions cannot show we’ve answered correctly, “Is it nothing, to you who pass by?”, how much better off will we be than poor Mrs. Litman?