America, This Is Going To Hurt Like Hell

The case of Dr. Kermit Gosnell is one that we all need to recognize and acknowledge.
Why Dr. Kermit Gosnell's Trial Should Be a Front Page Story, Conor Friedersdorf. The Atlantic.

He illegally performed abortions on babies that were past the legal age limit, "four to five times a week." He abused women viciously--destroying their bodies, over dosing them with dangerous drugs, using broken and unsterilized instruments, giving them venereal diseases, keeping them uniformed, and making racist priorities favoring his white customers. He directly caused the death of at least two known women. After any failed abortion, if a baby had taken his or her first breath, he would practice what he called "snipping." In all reality, he practiced the beheading of live born infants. His records, offices, and hospital were haphazard, dangerous, and unfit. Upon many complaints, reports of malpractice, and tip offs, all authorities and forms of accountability had failed. The Department of Health, the Department of State, the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania, Penn Presbyterian Medical Center, and the National Abortion Federation all failed to take action immediately to stop the problems going on with Gosnell's operations. His behavior has been widely permitted, ignored, and dismissed since at least 1979, when the Women's Medical Society was first approved to open an abortion clinic.

The bold-faced lie of the abortion facade cannot continue. The idea that abortion is a saving grace for women is a complete farce, a detrimental facade of so-called women's rights. Indeed, the culture of abortion produces the opposite of freedom for women. How many doctors are out there operating under the same pretense and illusion that they can live above the law? How far will the calloused hearts of our corrupt system go to keep from acknowledging the culture of abortion and its effects? What consequences are we willing to pay to continue ignoring the dirty reality of all our meager justifications as a society?

We may not want to know. I know I don't. But constantly shielding our eyes from the realities spawned from the abortion mentality results in the calloused and crooked thinking of someone like Gosnell. This case asks us to recognize the plight of abortion on society. It asks us to recognize that we were devastatingly wrong to give legal parameters for abortion. It asks countless would-be mothers and fathers to admit that they have willingly sacrificed their babies on an altar of convenience. May the shock and disgust we feel towards this man move America to see that the difference between a child who has taken his or her first breath and a "fetus" is just that--a child who has yet to inhale the air of our broken world. Can we please allow this man to be the last level of "rock bottom" that America hits in order to propel forward and beyond this miserable past into a hope-filled, brighter day? A day where the battle for life is no longer wickedly hushed and silenced in our courts, in our media outlets, and in our communities. It's never easy to say you're wrong, but on this scale it's terrifying. I hope the women who have had abortions will have the courage and bravery necessary to seek the truth, recognize exactly what evils have gone on, and find forgiveness and joy. I hope each woman can release their yoke and pick up the new, lighter yoke that comes with grace. The road to defeating abortion will be long and arduous. But if we can use the evil of this man to help us see the truth, then perhaps we can collectively begin that journey. It's going to hurt like hell, America. And perhaps aptly so. So let's get started.

 

 

 

Why Dr. Kermit Gosnell's Trial Should Be a Front Page Story, Conor Friedersdorf. The Atlantic.

Notable quotes concerning this case from the article above:

"'This case is about a doctor who killed babies and endangered women. What we mean is that he regularly and illegally delivered live, viable babies in the third trimester of pregnancy - and then murdered these newborns by severing their spinal cords with scissors,' it states. 'The medical practice by which he carried out this business was a filthy fraud in which he overdosed his patients with dangerous drugs, spread venereal disease among them with infected instruments, perforated their wombs and bowels - and, on at least two occasions, caused their deaths.'"

"On February 18, 2010, the FBI raided the 'Women's Medical Society,' entering its offices about 8:30 p.m. Agents expected to find evidence that it was illegally selling prescription drugs. On entering, they quickly realized something else was amiss. In the grand jury report's telling, 'There was blood on the floor. A stench of urine filled the air. A flea-infested cat was wandering through the facility, and there were cat feces on the stairs. Semi-conscious women scheduled for abortions were moaning in the waiting room or the recovery room, where they sat on dirty recliners covered with blood-stained blankets. All the women had been sedated by unlicensed staff.' Authorities had also learned about the patient that died at the facility several months prior."

"Upon further inspection, 'the search team discovered fetal remains haphazardly stored throughout the clinic - in bags, milk jugs, orange juice cartons, and even in cat-food containers.'"

"The unsanitary conditions were just the beginning.
One woman 'was left lying in place for hours after Gosnell tore her cervix and colon while trying, unsuccessfully, to extract the fetus,' the report states. Another patient, 19, 'was held for several hours after Gosnell punctured her uterus. As a result of the delay, she fell into shock from blood loss, and had to undergo a hysterectomy.' A third patient 'went into convulsions during an abortion, fell off the procedure table, and hit her head on the floor. Gosnell wouldn't call an ambulance, and wouldn't let the woman's companion leave the building so that he could call an ambulance.'"

"Said the employee:
'Like if a girl -- the black population was -- African population was big here. So he didn't mind you medicating your African American girls, your Indian girl, but if you had a white girl from the suburbs, oh, you better not medicate her. You better wait until he go in and talk to her first. And one day I said something to him and he was like, that's the way of the world. Huh? And he brushed it off and that was it.'"

"Most employees did as they were told, but one objected:
'Marcella Stanley Choung, who told us that her "training" for anesthesia consisted of a 15-minute description by Gosnell and reading a chart he had posted in a cabinet. She was so uncomfortable medicating patients, she said, that she "didn't sleep at night." She knew that if she made even a small error, "I can kill this lady, and I'm not jail material." One night in 2002, when she found herself alone with 15 patients, she refused Gosnell's directives to medicate them. She made an excuse, went to her car, and drove away, never to return. Choung immediately filed a complaint with the Department of State, but the department never acted on it.'"

"The conclusion drawn at the end of the section is provocative. 'Bureaucratic inertia is not exactly news. We understand that,' it states. 'But we think this was something more. We think the reason no one acted is because the women in question were poor and of color, because the victims were infants without identities, and because the subject was the political football of abortion.'"

 

Additional Reading:

Philadelphia abortion clinic horror: Column, Kirsten Powers. USA Today.

Kermit Gosnell: The Alleged Mass-Murderer and the Bored Media, David Weigel. Slate. 

Beauty from Ashes

I remember how much I loved my baby doll when I was little. Now I wasn't always so careful with her. Sometimes I'd go for months without playing with her. Sometimes I would leave her out for my brother, Spencer, to get a hold of her. But when I was playing pretend with her, she was real to me. She had feelings. I would let her sleep on my pillow, and I'd scoot to the edge of my bed to keep from rolling over on her. I would hold her so carefully in my arms. I named her Ruth after my favorite Bible character. I would tell her I'm sorry for letting Spencer squish her plastic face. I wanted things to be perfect. Yet I knew, even then, that something was wrong. I knew that when I got bored with the game, I'd toss her aside again. I knew that I'd leave her somewhere or that Spencer would draw on her or that she would fall behind the bed, and that I would not be able to stop it all from happening. So I loved her dearly and all-the-more when I played pretend because I knew it was pretend. It wouldn't last.

When I look at life, I feel much of the same bitter sweet ache. I look at my family and my friends. I look at myself and my hopes. It's a crushing thought when you see that everything is broken. It's all broken. None of it is right. Not quite. Sometimes, not at all. I think about the times I'd look at my doll remorsefully, wanting to keep things perfect like how they were in my pretend world--where I'd rock her and imagine silly stories of her playing football when she got older--but knowing that it all just wasn't so.

I want to protect those I love from the evils of this world. Yet I look around and see that not only does it pour in from every electronic screen and speaker, it also comes from the mouths of friends and family. It comes from my very own choices and actions. It comes from our own mothers and fathers. It's devastating. I think, "Oh God, it is not supposed to be like this! It's all gotten so messed up!"
What am I talking about?
The hate that pours in from each association or political group that just cannot allow room for justice or grace.
The people who lie to your face, make you feel some fake version of love, then steal it away right when you chose to believe in it.
The parents who promise their children that forever means forever, then decide like temperamental adolescents to follow paths of destruction.
The children who mock their history and undercut their parents.
The fathers who fail to be fathers, and the mothers who fail to be mothers.
The husbands who fail to be husbands, and the wives who fail to be wives.
The dreams that hover overhead like clouds and, every time you get close, evaporate into a mist.
The sicknesses and diseases that rip through the lives of families and friends like unforeseen natural disasters.
The natural disasters that redefine livelihoods.
The friends that build you up and tear you down.
The people you know best who turn out to be strangers.
The people who kill intentionally with malice at heart.
The people who kill ignorantly with convenience at heart.
The people who let evil live, with both intention and with ignorance!
The lives, all the lives we've lost.
The love that was supposed to be waiting at the other end of hardship.
The stupidity of so-called leaders.
The weakness of so-called followers.
And oh the deceit, frailty, and wickedness that spawns in my own heart.

I look at this broken, starving world aching for truth and love and hope and I cry, "Oh God! It's broken! We've messed it up, God! It's just not supposed to be like this!"

It hurts. And I weep, not just for the burden I carry, but for the burdens I cannot take away from others.

But then, redemption.

His grace covers all. It washes the dirtied hands of criminals. It cleanses the residue upon our tear-stained cheeks. It lifts our heads. It sounds triumphantly in a newborn's laugh. It shakes the earth when a faithful man kisses his wife on her head. It echoes proudly when one man takes care of another man's meal before serving himself. So resplendent is His grace when someone looks to their friend and asks for forgiveness. It rattles the gates of hell when truth is fought for, despite the cost. How good is our God who sustains us?

Weakness taunts us. But God redeems the weak, so that He may be praised. Stupidity trips us up. But God heals the broken after they fall, so they can be better prepared to lead. Loved ones lie to us. But God offers discernment to lead us to the truth, so that we may better know that the truth has been tested and not found wanting. Things fall apart. But God rebuilds you in the ashes of disaster. He strengthens you. He adds new armor to your suit after every weak spot is discovered. He builds you up so that His kingdom can be built up. He builds you up so that true beauty can be brought forth. We are the beauty from the ashes. Always. His grace is sufficient.

Now it's true. Nothing is right. That bitter sweet ache I would get when playing pretend with my baby doll remains with me as I imagine the futures of my youngest siblings or the lot of generations even further down the line. Yet His grace is sufficient. And while we may just be doing what we can to create our own versions of home here on earth, there will be a day when perfection comes and the imperfect will disappear. His grace was poured out, and justice is not far behind. So let us continue to seek truth, both in word and deed. Let us fight for justice, no matter the cost. Let us accept the waves of His mercy, for His grace is enough.

Sincerely

Maria Sue Chapman,

2003-2008

I am always astounded by the amount of hurt we as humanity are able to bare. So many times we face down the hurts of countless generations and the hurts never cease. Nor the hope for that matter. Yet when hope is painfully quiet and hurt screams in our ears, we forget the truths that we hold dear. How can anyone get back up after they've fallen? How does someone pick themselves up, not just when they trip, but when they seem to have fallen from a ten story building? That hurt is hard to get back up from. But we do. We rise out of the ashes of anguish and we teach ourselves to remember hope. We teach ourselves to breath again. We teach ourselves to listen for truth and to hush the lies that tried to creep in when we were down. But while still down, it is scary. It hurts. The sadness shakes us. Sorrow brings a sort of cold grief to the core of your stomach and you shiver. You feel the wash of weariness break you down. And you reel from terror to terror of questions and aches. In A Grief Observed, Lewis explains:
"No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness, the yawning. I keep on swallowing.
At other times it feels like being mildly drunk, or concussed. There is a sort of invisible blanket between the world and me. I find it hard to take in what anyone says. Or perhaps, hard to want to take it in. It is so uninteresting. Yet I want others to be about me. I dread the moments when the house is empty. If only they would talk to one another and not to me."
What seems most scary is that once facing some deep hurt we realize that the potential for greater pains is not out of reach. And we shudder at the notion of more hurt, more anger, more failure, more devastation. Our weakness is immense. Our frailty is vast. Then we grasp our capacity for suffering and hurting and our fears are both lessened and strengthened. God tells us that He will never give us more than we are able to handle. And He knows better than we what we can handle. But our heart would like to say, "no. No God, I cannot handle this." Our eyes are dazzled by the fears and pains around us. Jesus asked Peter to step out onto the crashing waves of angry waters and Peter follows. He follows in faith and trust. He follows with the desire to discover that, yes, he can in fact handle the challenge God puts before him. Jesus gives him the challenge knowing fully what Peter can bare. Then Peter sees the crashing waves. He sees the overwhelming environment he has walked into and his heart breaks under the heavy weight of fear and doubt. The sight of the ordeal overtakes him and he falls through the water. Yet he is pulled back up by his Master.
In life, we walk into the ordeals placed before us in the hope that, yes, we can handle. We can deal. Then when the battle becomes great and the fears and hurts of life overtake us, we fall. We slip, and the waves crash over us. This is life. Cycles of either waiting in the boat to be called, stepping out in bright faith, falling into the depths as we reach the failure of our faith, and being rescued to continue on again. This pattern will not change. And it does not need to because we find that after having stretched our capacity for faith, we can go farther in the next venture. That reality is a huge responsibility for Christians because this means that we desire to achieve our maximum potential and therefore must prepare to face trials of increasingly greater pressure. All the while, we must never forget that the Great Designer has a plan and a purpose. He sees what we may become. So when we are hurting and all we can see are the crashing waves, we must know that God, as well as we can and better, sees those crashing waves. He also sees perfectly who we will be after we pass through them.
All this, just words. All this, just talk. All this, just the repeated phrases and cliches of countless humans who faced down trial after trial just to discover that their friend living a generation before them said the same things and came to the same conclusions. So why repeat these discussions and seemingly trivialize the greatest and most overpowering hurts of our lives? Why should we allow this discussion of hope and whatnot into the heart? Why do we care? Or do we even? Why should we care?
Because. Words are things. Talk is not cheap. Cliches are cliches for a reason. And the lessons that thousands of people have had to learn before us must never be forgotten lest we forget to pass these lessons down to the thousands of people coming after us. Truth is truth is truth no matter how immune we have grown to it. And if we can grasp the fullness of truth in the notion of hope twixt hurt, then the effects would resound throughout all time and space. This is no lightweight matter. This is nothing to be taken for-granted. This is the beauty and grace of life. And if we could live by these things we call truths, what a different place and people we might be.
May the falls you take, although deep and dark, be rich with hope. May your pains be washed in the balm of grace. May your hurts and fears be forerunners of peace and fortitude. May your greatest tears be the onset of your greatest outcomes.

http://chapmanchannel.typepad.com/inmemoryofmaria/

The Season

Oftentimes we forget hope. We forget that every bad moment has its point and purpose in time. We are mesmerized by facts and uncertainties. The result is a wash of disappointment and empty wishes. To me, it looks a bit like this:



I love this video, sincerely I do. Radiohead produces some of the best music that you could ever plug into your ears. But they only show half the picture. They do an excellent job of displaying that half picture, but it is still only half the picture. What good is it to grasp the pain and suppression of reality if you are going to dismiss the hope? Hope is not defined by the ephemeral things of simple happiness. Hope supercedes happiness, for it is the forerunner of joy. Life is a balancing act between pain and joy, longing and relief. And if we ever give over to either one extreme or the other, our days will be measured by dissatisfaction and grief. For if you place all your wages on the side of joy and relief, you'll never quench your longing as long as you live this side of heaven. Then of course the other hand follows that you cannot depend on everlasting sadness, catering to the expectations of all that is and can be bad. Recognizing hope does not alleviate pain, but it does give strength to endure. By default, we must learn to cope with reality by embracing the notion of love. Love operates as grounds for hope and pain to coexist. Now, unfortunately it cannot go without saying that this love is not the "yucky-mushy" kind of love that we sometimes expect it to be. This love is not even necessarily romantic. It is real love. Love as defined by perfection. Obtained in glimmers and flashes of time, but altogether withstanding throughout all of existence. "It bears all things, hopes all things, believes all things, endures all things" (I Cor. 13:7). Although films like "Moulin Rouge" push to create a love as beautiful and powerful as this love, the love that they prescribe to is unsubstantial in reality. True love equates with grace. And with some hope this Christmas season, may grace be the lesson we remember. May we remember the relationship of sacrifice and celebration. Why is it that the holidays have become a time of stress and anxiety and depression and loneliness and hurt feelings? Why is it that families and friends go bounding and leaping from one extreme to the other, during this time of year even more than usual? Why is it that we either forget hope and grip pain or clutch happiness and bypass sacrifice? We need balance and truth. We need Christ.


For this reason, I will continue to enjoy and appreciate Radiohead (and a large palette of other music as well) with an ever-discerning ear; but I will do so in line with a love for truth. Below are the lyrics to my increasingly favorite song, "Oh Holy Night." This Christmas carol came from the composer Adolphe Adam in 1847. The French poet, Placide Cappeau, wrote the poem "Minuit, chrétiens" which inspired the song. The music is beautiful. Its smooth, provoking verses and climactic, powerful choruses makes the song definitively enthralling. The minor chords are so touching that when the song carries into each new chorus, you feel utterly attached to the words and depictions of the piece. It’s emotional, yet without loosing its grounding. This Christmas carol captures both hope and grief, both grace and sacrifice. In this carol, we get a glimpse of truth, the whole picture. It is but a glimpse of the whole picture, for that is all we seem to be able to handle for now. But better a glimpse of the whole truth than an obsession with halve truths. Here is “Oh Holy Night”:

Oh holy night! The stars are brightly shining,

It is the night of our dear Savior’s birth.

Long lay the world in sin and error pining,

Till He appear'd and the soul felt its worth.

A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices,

For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.

Fall on your knees! Oh, hear the angels' voices!

Oh night divine, Oh night when Christ was born;

Oh night divine, Oh night, Oh night Divine.

"Led by the light of Faith serenely beaming,

With glowing hearts by His cradle we stand."

So led by light of a star sweetly gleaming,

Here come the wise men from Orient land.

The King of Kings lay thus in lowly manger;

In all our trials born to be our friend.

He knows our need, to our weakness is no stranger,

Behold your King! Before Him lowly bend!

Behold your King, Behold your King.

Truly He taught us to love one another;

His law is love and His gospel is peace.

Chains shall He break for the slave is our brother;

And in His name all oppression shall cease.

Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus raise we,

Let all within us praise His holy name.

Christ is the Lord! O praise His Name forever,

His power and glory evermore proclaim.

His power and glory evermore proclaim.

Kipling and Jeremiah, Today

Looking in on Palmer's Rudyard Kipling

The task of the Anglo-Indian administrator is, indeed, the finest opportunity for that heroic life to the celebration of which Mr Kipling has devoted so many of his tales. This hero has a task which taxes all his ability, which promises little riches and little fame, and is known to be tolerably hopeless. It offers to him a supreme test of his virtue--a test in which the hero is accountable only to his personal will; whose best work is its own reward and comfort.

"Gentlemen come from England," writes Mr Kipling in one of his famous Indian tales, "spend a few weeks in India, walk round this great sphinx of the Plains, and write books upon its ways and its work, denouncing or praising it as their ignorance prompts. Consequently all the world knows how the Supreme Government conducts itself. But no one, not even the Supreme Government, knows everything about the administration of the Empire. Year by year England sends fresh drafts for the fighting-line, which is officially called the Indian Civil Service. These die, or kill themselves by overwork, or are worried to death, or broken in health and hope, in order that the land may be protected from death and sickness, famine and war, and may eventually become capable of standing alone; but the idea is a pretty scary one, and men are willing to die for it, and yearly the work of pushing and coaxing and scolding and petting the country into good living goes forward. If an advance be made, all credit is given to the native, while the Englishmen stand back and wipe their foreheads. If a failure occurs, the Englishmen step forward and accept the blame. (Palmer 38, 39)

Although I hear the tinge of an anti-war yet effectually anti-peace mindset (which exists only in extremes of acceptance), I feel Kipling, and in effect Palmer as well, was in many ways prophetic, if not in actuality then at least in application. And while he recognized that the country of his focus could never stand alone, we must also understand that, of course, no country may stand alone. The foundation of success cannot be due to any man. In addition, the faults and failures of men and mice must be due to us all. We must adopt responsibility for all the flaws of mankind, yet still never live in guilt. We must take on the mentality of Jeremiah as seen in Lamentations 5:16-17,

"The crown has fallen from our head;
Woe to us, for we have sinned!
Because of this our heart is faint;
Because of these things our eyes are dim"

Although Jeremiah was one of God's chosen, he was accountable for the sins of his people. We must be always accountable yet remain living in constant grace. As in all things, there is a precious balance. It is grace in an antithetical reality. Black and white, no grey; yet forever grace for those who accept that gift. This is what it means to be balanced AND antithetical. No extremes, yet still a duality of light vs dark. It is not yin and yang. It is right vs wrong plus grace and mercy. Our people have sinned, and we diminish the efforts of our modern heroes. We have forgotten our history and are therefore condemned to failure. But there is hope yet. We have needs to be wise and discerning. Our choices in these upcoming days, and all days to come, must be balanced and antithetical. We must take on the charge. We must progress, not digress. Our eyes are still dim, but through the recognition of our calling and an understanding of our past, we can clean our worldview eyeglasses and correct our vision. Perhaps this is obvious. Perhaps this is unlikely. Perhaps this is difficult. But just maybe, this is truth. And truth is worth the struggle.