Picture the elite of old. I knew them—men like Washington, who swapped plow for sword and led with quiet iron; or my humble self, tinkering with stoves to warm the common lot. Flawed we were, but we aimed to do, not merely to be. Our rank sprang from results—a bridge raised, a law crafted, a fire doused. Now gaze at this fevered year, and what do you spy? Politicians who rule by bluster, scribblers who hawk half-truths for cheers, scholars who preach on matters they’ve never touched—these are no elites, but elitists, grasping power like a miser clutches unearned coins.

Take, for instance, the halls of Congress, where once I saw men reason through the republic's knots. Today, they bicker like magpies over scraps—witness this very week, when Representative Jasmine Crockett, that firebrand from Texas, lit a blaze by claiming Trump's supporters, nigh on eighty million souls, suffer a "mental health crisis." President Trump, with his usual thunder, hailed his voters' loyalty, while Crockett, ever the brash orator, doubled down on a podcast, painting half the nation as unhinged for their ballots. By dawn, X was ablaze with cries of a misplaced snobbery—Crockett, they swore, was scheming to vilify voters, perhaps to shine as her party's provocateur or curry favor with its fringes. A tale spun from her words and a congresswoman's swagger, yet it flew faster than my kite in a gale, fanned by headlines and retweets. Where's the proof? Thin as a cobweb, yet the clamor drowns all sense. In my time, a lawmaker was a carpenter of the state, measuring twice and cutting once. Now, she's a mummer, juggling words for the mob's roar, ethics be damned. I'd sooner trust a squirrel with my almanac than these folks with my liberty.

And the press—oh, how my printer's heart bleeds! I labored over ink to enlighten. Today’s scribblers chase phantoms, puffing Crockett's rant into a national feud, proof my craft has fallen to elitist hands. Yet, hope glimmers. In muddy fields and smoky streets, I see soldiers, athletes, and healers—true elites, proven by works, not words. Over four missives, I'll unmask these elitists—first in Congress, then in newsrooms, then in ivory towers and social salons—before hailing those who still serve. Join me, for as my almanac said, "Many lack the originality to lack originality." Next, we’ll stalk the political peacock further, where bluster buries service.

Till then, keep your kite aloft and your wits sharper,
Your humble servant,
B. Franklin

I remember the day Roe v. Wade was announced.  I'll admit that it's a strange thing for someone to remember when they were only 14 years old at the time.  But the reason I remember it is that my father was very upset about the ruling.  My family had dinner together almost every night and politics, economics, culture, and society were frequent topics of conversation.  My father was very animated, and I remember it well.  Being only 14 years old, I said something like "I don't see what the big deal is... I mean, don't you think that women should be able to say whether or not they want to have kids?"  He turned to me—he was sitting at the head of the table, and I was sitting to his right—and in a rather harsh tone, he said simply "You don't know what the hell you're talking about!"  I'll never forget it, because it was a tone he had never used with me before.  And he was right.  I really didn't know what the hell I was talking about.  But a few short years later I got the education I needed.

I started college in 1976, just 3½ years after Roe was decided.  To help earn my way through college I started working in the Admitting Office of a world-renowned hospital.  The main thrust of my job was to escort patients being admitted to the hospital to their rooms.  After about 2 years, when I was about 20 years old and a junior in college, I transferred into a job as a medical technician in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU).  This was when they would train you on the job.  In that job, I drew blood from hundreds of premature babies, and babies born with anything from minor birth defects to conjoined twins.  Babies born with their intestines, or their hearts, or their spines, or even their brains outside their bodies.  Babies born without most of their brains.  Babies born with heart defects, brain defects, limb defects, urinary tract defects, genital defects, Down's Syndrome, and all other manner of chromosomal abnormalities.  I held premature babies that would literally fit into the palm of my hand.  Death was common.  I remember going home to Thanksgiving Day dinner with my family after a shift on which three babies died.  The smallest baby I remember surviving was born weighing only 14 ounces.

There were three large rooms in the NICU with patients in them.  Two of the rooms held 10 babies, each in an "isolette," what are commonly called "incubators."  These two rooms held the critically ill babies.  They were all "babies," even though gestationally they were technically "fetuses."  More on that later.  The third room also held 10 patients.  We affectionately called this room "The Pasture."  It was where the more stable babies went when they had improved enough not to need the critical care provided in the other rooms but were not quite ready to go home.  They were there mostly to feed and grow.

One baby was with us in the NICU for 15 months.  I still remember her real name, but I will call her Takisha here.  For the first 12 months or so, Takisha was critically ill.  The staff spared no effort to resolve every medical issue that arose.  We grew to love her deeply and to celebrate every success and worry over every setback.  It seemed she always took two steps forward and one step back.  Sometimes three steps back.  Nevertheless, Takisha continued to slowly improve and eventually "graduated" to The Pasture.  I remember celebrating her first birthday, after which, her improvement seemed to accelerate.  She was getting ready to go home.  One Sunday I came into work, and I could immediately tell that something was very wrong.  The air was different.  There was no chatter or "Good mornings."  I had left the unit only 12 hours earlier, and everything was fine.  It wasn't long before someone told me that during the night, out of nowhere, Takisha had gone into cardiac arrest and could not be saved.  The effect on the staff was devastating.  Over forty years later, I'm getting choked up as I write this.

Literally on the same floor, down the hall and around the corner, was Labor and Delivery.  And next to that was the "Fertility Control Clinic."  A euphemism if ever there was one.  It was the abortion clinic.  It wasn't "fertility control" at all.  It was "birth control."  And not in the contraceptive sense of that term.  I realized the irony was that what we commonly refer to as "birth control" is really "fertility control" and what they referred to as "fertility control" was really "birth control."  Birth control in its most brutal form.  Both terms intentionally designed to distract from the truth of their purpose.

It also occurred to me that here we were, in the NICU, doing everything humanly possible to save these babies (fetuses, remember?), even when there was very little hope of success, and even at enormous financial and emotional cost.  At the same time, on the same hospital floor, not 100 paces away, they were killing babies who were gestationally older than many of the babies we were trying so desperately to save in the NICU.  I could not help but realize that the only difference between the babies being saved in the NICU and those being killed in the FCC, is that the mothers in the NICU wanted their babies, and those in the FCC didn't.  And I thought "Well, if that's how we decide who gets to live and who doesn't, that someone wants them, then that leads to a very dark place that I don't want to go."

And that realization was the education I needed to understand why my father was so upset about Roe v. Wade.  Now I knew what I was talking about. 

Over the years I've matured in that realization to understand that some of the mothers do, in fact, choose to abort their babies with great pain, sadness, and reluctance.  Nevertheless, the fact remains that they abort their baby to solve some problem.  They love their baby in the abstract, the baby they have conceived in their imagination.  But the baby they have conceived in their womb, the one who has some abnormality, the one who was created in difficult circumstances, the one who came at the "wrong" time, not so much.  At least not enough to choose to bring them to birth.

After graduation from college, I continued to work in the NICU for several more years and eventually moved to a new job as a Critical Care Technician in Cardiac Anesthesia, working closely with the anesthesiologist on open heart surgeries.  I saw many more deaths, and many more lives saved.  Both children and adults, but mostly adults.  I worked there until I finished a second bachelor's degree.  Eventually I left the hospital to pursue a career as a computer programmer.  After about 5 years working in other industries, I returned to the health care industry, applying computers to the practice of medicine and to medical research.  After 13 years, I returned to the same hospital where I had worked while in college, and I continued to work there for the next 27 years.  During that time, I earned my master's degree in medical informatics from Northwestern University.

Those experiences at the hospital had a profoundly formative effect on both my career, and the rest of my life.  I became unabashedly prolife.  My prolife outlook is not only cast in concrete but is also based on personal experience.  I did not come to it blithely.  It is not naive.  It is not without compassion, nor without a personal, concrete, real understanding of the difficulties people face in life.  It has come from both happy and traumatic experiences.  And what I am left with is this:  "Well, if that's how we decide who gets to live and who doesn't, that someone wants them, then that leads to a very dark place that I don't want to go."

Once we decided that there are problems that can only be solved by killing babies, we crossed a line where The Fatal Solution becomes an acceptable solution to a problem, if the problem is important enough to us.  War becomes easier.  Assassination becomes easier.   Suicide becomes easier.  Killing our masculinity or femininity, even symbolically killing our identities, to re-create ourselves in our preferred image becomes acceptable if we feel we cannot live as we were created.

I do not want to live in a world where a homeless person's life is considered expendable because they have no one who wants them, or where an old woman is pressured to take her own life because her children can't be burdened with her, or where a baby can be left to die after surviving an abortion because his mother doesn't want him, or where a disabled child is denied care because some doctor decides the child's life isn't worth living, or where an adult child can decide that his father's life should end because he has dementia.

In such a world, politicians will more easily decide that my son's life is expendable in a war.  They will decide that old people are too much of a burden on the Social Security system.  People will decide that death is a solution to more and more problems.

If killing a baby is ever an acceptable solution to a problem, then there can be no reason to say that destroying another person's life for political purposes is not acceptable, if the political purpose is important enough to us.

If we decide that killing a baby is ever a reasonable thing to do, then there is nothing we won't do if the problem to be solved is important enough to us.

I realize that what I have said here will offend many people.  But I must say it.  In his spiritual classic The Way, St. Josemaría writes "Listen to a man of God, an old campaigner, as he argues: 'So I won't yield an inch? And why should I, if I am convinced of the truth of my ideals? You, on the other hand, are very ready to compromise… Would you agree that two and two are three and a half? You wouldn't? Surely for friendship's sake you will yield in such a little thing?'  And why won't you? Simply because, for the first time, you feel convinced that you possess the truth, and you have come over to my way of thinking!" ³

One of the great temptations we all face is the temptation to do something we know is wrong so that good may come of it.  But giving in to that temptation always causes more harm than good, even if that harm is not readily visible, or easily identified.  The broken hearts suffered by women who have had abortions attest to this.  The good that the babies who were aborted could not grow up to do will never be known or quantified, but what is known is that they will never be able to do it.  By giving in to this temptation, we say that we know better than God.  Even if the baby being aborted was conceived in an evil way, deciding that it is better to kill the baby than to nurture her, is denying that God is capable of drawing good even out of evil, and that he has a plan for that baby that will make the world a better place and enrich the life of the mother, if only she will let God take charge and do the good he has in mind.

This essay would be incomplete if I failed to put this truth into the context of God's mercy and forgiveness.  We are all sinners.  And while I have never participated in abortion in any way, I have sinned greatly, sometimes in ways that are just as grievous as abortion.  But our heavenly father is eager to forgive.  He stands on the top of the hill, peering out to the horizon, anticipating the first sign of our return.  The instant he sees us coming, he runs to us to throw his arms around us and clothe us with his mercy, and restore us to his household. (cf. Luke 15:11-32)  We do not have to earn his mercy, or prove to him that we are worthy of it.  It is on permanent offer.  We only need to say "yes" to it, with sincere sorrow in our hearts.

Read and meditate on the Parable of the Prodigal Son.

In this essay, I am not expressing any opinion on the role of civil law with regard to abortion or any other "life issue," although I may address that in the future.  My opinions on that have changed over the years and will surprise some, but that's for another time.  Rather, I am only trying to accomplish three things:  1) to convey my thoughts about why abortion is always a moral evil that should be avoided by all people and in all circumstances; 2) to encourage those who do not agree with me to reconsider their position; and 3) to encourage all those who have had an abortion, or encouraged or assisted someone to have an abortion, to acknowledge the gravity of their failure and to seek the guaranteed mercy and forgiveness of God.

If anyone is offended by the things that I say in this essay, I do not apologize.  I have tried my best to be true to the maxim that "charity without truth is not charity, and truth without charity is not truth."  I apologize only to the extent that I have failed in that.  If you choose to terminate our friendship, I will mourn that loss and will always remain ready to resume it in the future.

¹  Evangelium Vitae.  Paragraph 12.  1995.  Pope St. John Paul II.  www.vatican.va.

²  Roe v. Wade, 410 U.S. 113 (1973).

³  The Way.  Number 395.  1934. Josemaría Escrivá.

⁴  Luke 15:11-32.

The Three Big Lies™ are:

There is no God.

God doesn't love you.

You are God.

On the surface these three lies seem to be mutually exclusive. But on a deeper level, we see that they are like the three primary colors an artist mixes in various proportions to make the exact color he's looking for. A little bit of this lie, a whole lot of that one, and a smidgen of the third, all mixed together create a new lie of a particular "color," often just the right color we need to convince us that the evil to which we are attracted is really a good.