Slaughtering
the Healers
 |
| Massacre of the Innocents by Peter Paul Rubens Public Domain (PD-US) |
“It is the little ones who heal us,” said Father
Leonard, completely out of the blue. I had been confessing some
now-forgotten sin, and out came this treasure from the store-room of
his heart.
It came to me some days later that the face of God must
have something in it of the face of a child. This would explain
why Jesus said, “In heaven their angels always behold the face of
my Father who is in heaven.” (Matt. 18:10) That is, the faces
of the angels’ appointed little ones, untainted as yet by actual
sin, are so many little faces of God, so much like the face of the
Infant Jesus.
When the Pharisees asked the adult Jesus why He hung
around with the likes of us, He answered, “Those who are well have
no need of a physician, but those who are sick.” (Lk 5:31)
Our spiritual forefathers understood the preciousness of each human
life, and thus the infinite value of healing. How appalled they
would have been to breathe the putrid ambience of our brave new world
where slithery phrases like ‘freedom of choice’ and ‘women’s
reproductive rights’ mean the wholesale murdering of babies in
their mothers’ wombs, and—horror unspeakable—the slaughtering
of babies while they are being born, and even after having emerged
alive into our world: murdered by the very ‘physicians’ who
should be delivering those newborn healers into their mothers’
loving arms.
How infuriated our forebears would have been by
the hissing sound of those three slithery words—‘Freedom of
Choice’—that deny both freedom and choice to the little boys and
girls being butchered by so-called physicians.
And how it must
wrench the guardian angels to see their own tiny, Godlike charges
torn out of the womb with steel pincers piece by piece, limb by limb,
tiny hands and feet and torso, and, most wrenching of all, the tiny
bleeding head with its tortured face of God frozen in eternal agony.
How bitterly the guardians must weep to see us slaughter their
helpless little ones, those tiny healers, as if infanticide really
were the merest expression of ‘women’s reproductive rights’ or, God save us, ‘women’s health.’
If only we could hear the angels gasp, or feel the rain
of tears they shower over every butchered child, but perhaps we are
too far gone, too ‘experienced,' too hardened of heart:
perhaps our calluses are long since grown too thick for us to hear or
feel such holy pain. We are so desperately in need of love, of
innocence, of healing.
How very sick indeed our world will be when we
have finally slaughtered all the little ones.
Luke
O'Hara
Kirishtan.com
