It does not matter if a woman’s pregnancy was caused by rape or incest or any mitigating factor. For how could it matter, to the infant in the womb, or to God who is the father of all? Of course, it could not.
Our wives do not argue in these matters. But they listen closely to us, and it is rare for them to disagree.
Edna Mae does not “know” that her husband is a member of the Army of God and has made certain vows. There is no need to speak of this as there is no need to speak of such things aloud, that are never questioned.
Many times in our church our young pastor Reverend Dennis had spoken of Williard Wohlman. It had been Reverend Dennis’s idea that we drive from Muskegee Falls to Huntington, West Virginia, in a little caravan.
There was excitement in this! Reverend Dennis said how like pilgrims we were, in making this journey. I had not felt such a flurry of hope and expectation since years ago when I had first driven to Toledo, to begin studies at the Toledo School of Ministry when I was a young man still.
I had discovered online that Willard Wohlman had studied in a Jesuit seminary in Chicago as a young man but left without taking his vows to become a priest. He had been a “staunch Democrat” for all of his life until the Democrat party threw its support behind abortion on request, at which point he broke from the party to take an independent position as he called it.
“Oh! So many . . .”
Edna Mae gripped my hand tight meaning to murmur So many people but her voice faltered as we entered the church hall in Huntington. It was not common in Edna Mae’s life now to enter any place where faces were unfamiliar, and so many faces!—she did not attend any church services except our services at our church where everyone is known to everyone else and is like a family, where you do not need even to look at another person to register his identity.
It was painful for me to see my dear wife’s face at this time for her youthful features had aged with the ravages of grief, and the spirit of the Lord that had shone so bright in her eyes since she’d been a girl seemed to have vanished like a lighted wick that has been turned so low, the flame has died out.
There was a slackness to her skin, and a puffiness beneath her eyes, that had to do with the medications she was prescribed. I did not like my dear wife to take these medications, but the doctor assured us, they were necessary for Edna Mae at this time.
Edna Mae pulled at me, as a child might tug at an adult’s hand. There was an unusual eagerness about her conjoined with dread, that showed itself in her curious posture, in which her shoulders hunched forward like the shoulders of one bracing herself against a strong wind. It made me uneasy, Edna Mae was wearing a badly rumpled raincoat of a dark purple material thin as vinyl and on her feet flimsy shoes like house slippers that exposed much of her white feet that appeared to be bare as her legs were bare and very white.
I did not want to think what Edna Mae might be wearing beneath the raincoat which hurriedly she had taken from a closet. It was a fear of mine, my dear wife would not be properly dressed beneath the coat, in a public place, yet I had not thought to inspect her, in our hurry at leaving at the prepared time.
“Luther! Hurry. Here.”
I am not so bold, as to wish to sit in the very first row of any gathering. I am a tall man, with a wide frame, and it is very easy for me to become exposed, as the eyes of strangers move upon me without sympathy or recognition; my cheeks grow ruddy with the slightest provocation and especially a birthmark shaped like a spade, of a coarse red sandpaper skin-texture, on my left cheek. And Edna Mae too, until recently, had been a shy person, but no longer, for a wild sort of sorrow gripped her like an invisible creature that had her in its coils causing her sometimes to laugh shrilly for no evident reason.
From our seats at the very front of the hall, but far to one side, Edna Mae craned her neck to stare up at the stage. Her thin white hands she clasped before her at the level of her chest in a prayerful way that would seem show-offy to one who did not know my dear unhappy wife.
It is a new thing for some of us, to be at ease in the presence of Roman Catholics. It has long been known that the Roman Catholic Church considers itself the only true Christian church, which is unacceptable and historically inaccurate, but the Coalition (which was formed in the late 1970s) is based upon opposition to our common enemy and takes precedence over the divisions between us. Protestants and Catholics alike are drawn together in the service of the unborn who are threatened by the abortion providers, for nothing is more important than defending the unborn who cannot defend themselves.
There is a disapproval of birth control as well—the ugly word is contraceptives—to support and encourage a promiscuous lifestyle to which teenagers are particularly susceptible, influenced by TV, crude popular music, movies and “sex education” classes in the public schools.
Edna Mae and I had never talked of such things before our loss of Daphne. For the babies born to us had seemed to come from the Lord God with ease, with only His blessing. (At least, Edna Mae did not ever complain of physical discomfort in pregnancy or childbirth or child rearing or being “flooded” in her mind as she did now.) But lately it seemed Edna Mae wished to speak of certain things that were embarrassing to me, having to do not only with Daphne but also with the other children, and with “female troubles,” as she would speak of them within the hearing of the children as well, as if she did not quite comprehend what she was saying; and this was deeply embarrassing to our eleven-year-old Dawn especially, who was becoming disrespectful to her mother. There were some other issues, not known to me, between Edna Mae and her family—her mother, her sisters. And it was becoming obvious, Edna Mae would neglect her housekeeping to watch Christian TV during the day, that left her excited and restless and quick to weep, by the time I returned home.
I would prepare the meal, if needed. The older daughters and me.
Operation Rescue had been much publicized on Christian TV and radio, and in churches and community centers through Ohio. At our church our minister had been speaking of it for months. It was thrilling to see so many people entering the hall and to know that these strangers were our allies. By my estimate—(my mind will add numbers and multiply of its own volition, as in this case twenty-two seats in a row, and thirty rows of seats)—there were 660 persons in the hall by ten minutes after seven o’clock when the program began.
The pastor of St. Joseph’s Church greeted us. Then, the head of the Coalition, who is a minister in the Gallipolis Baptist Church (Ohio), came out onto the platform to introduce Professor Willard Wohlman.
By this time there was much excitement in the hall. There was no mistaking—The spirit of the Lord is with us.
Professor Willard Wohlman was not an imposing man. Very like a professor—or a teacher—he looked, in his fifties, or slightly older, of only medium height, with a slight stoop, thinning gray hair brushed back from his high forehead and a narrow waxy-seeming nose. He wore a dark brown suit that looked to be of good quality, and a white dress shirt and tie. But his eyes!—these were alight with feeling behind rimless glasses that seemed to catch fire as he spoke. And a voice of velvety softness like a radio voice that could turn sharp suddenly.
In this voice that was fascinating to hear, for you had to listen to each word, Professor Wohlman would speak for sixty-five minutes. He did not speak like the preachers to whom we were accustomed but in a quieter voice like one who is addressing you. He spoke of the “moral rot” of the “secular state”—the “barbaric brutality” of Roe v. Wade which he made us smile sadly to hear as “Woe v. Wade.”—“That has sanctioned the State to murder the innocents.”
Then, the Professor began to speak more forcefully of the “need for a Christian army” to counter the “abortion forces.” From his lips I heard a word I had never heard before—“feticide”—that was terrible to comprehend for it meant, as Professor Wohlman explained, the murder of a fetus.
At this point, Edna Mae began to weep. Almost silently my dear wife pressed a tissue
against her eyes with bowed head and her shoulders quivering, as if she might shrink from anyone who tried to comfort her. And so I did not touch her, sitting with my face warm, and my blood beating hard, scarcely hearing the Professor’s words though I did not turn my eyes away from his face as he stood at the podium above me, speaking with the calmness of rectitude.
Much of what the Professor said was difficult to follow. In our church, it is not in the nature of our ministers to reason in such ways. And so it was clear, the difference between the Roman Catholic professor and the others of us lay in such reasoning, that you could follow, to an extent, as the Professor spoke; but you could never recall what he said afterward, still less repeat it to another person. For the Professor took up “natural law” as a way of refuting those who argued for abortion—“It is their error to claim that the fetus, which is formed of the female egg and the male sperm conjoined, and is thus an entirely new entity, is not a human being, in embryonic form; and then, when this claim is answered, they argue that, yes, a fetus is a human being, but it is not yet a person in a legal sense.”
Professor Wohlman paused, to allow his audience to register the outrage of such a statement; then he continued, “Such an argument would allow society to dispose of human beings who are not deemed fully ‘persons’—children born with physical and mental disabilities, adults who have suffered strokes and other impairments, the elderly who can no longer fend for themselves but must depend upon others. Once you argue that one class of human beings has the right to pass judgment upon all other human beings, to declare which are, and which are not, ‘persons,’ you have opened the door to the Nazi Holocaust—to genocide—to the power of the State to determine our lives. This must not be allowed to happen. The butchery of each innocent infant must not go unacknowledged—unmourned.”
Trying to follow the Professor was like making your way through a marshy area where suddenly your foot might sink. For it seemed, the Professor quoted Latin—(or so it seemed, these foreign-sounding words had to be Latin); he spoke of a “Church father”—(a name pronounced as “Au-gus-tin”)—and to a Catholic theologian of the medieval era—(“Thomas A-qui-nus”). Both of these were, the Professor said, saints.
Saints! In the New Testament, all Christians are saints.
This is a strange idea to us, that some human beings are claimed to be saints in a way not taken from the New Testament. For in the New Testament it is clear, there is only one way to God, and that is Jesus Christ who is our Savior, but who is not a saint.
It was a new thought to me, that the approach to God might not be so easy as we had been taught. Even in the ministry school in Toledo, you would take your subject from the Bible, that would be the center of your sermon so that you would read these familiar verses to the congregation, and talk about the story in the verses, and even that had been a challenge to me for I did not have any original ideas about any sermons, but could only imitate sermons that I had heard, or that were given to me to study as good examples of sermons, and sometimes even then I would not know what to say, my tongue seemed to swell inside my mouth and my mind would be blank. But Professor Wohlman did not read a single verse from the Bible!
Professor Wohlman did not have a Bible with him at the podium, it appeared. How strange this was, I did not have time to consider at the time.
Across the aisle from Edna Mae and me, in the first row of seats, sat an older woman whom I had reason to believe was Professor Wohlman’s wife. Mrs. Wohlman was a heavyset woman with a white skin that looked glazed, as with tiny wrinkles. She was stern-faced, somber. Her thin lips were pursed tight as she gazed upward at her husband standing at the podium, bathed in light. I wondered—was Mrs. Wohlman proud of the Professor? Could she understand him?
In the Coalition newsletter I’d learned that the Wohlmans had been married for forty-six years. They had had seven children of whom two had died prematurely—one, of childhood leukemia; the other, in a transportation accident involving fellow American soldiers, in Vietnam.
I wondered if the Professor had a way of reasoning, with his special insight, that might better explain the death of a young person, than the ways in which a Protestant might reason.
In the Coalition newsletter I had learned that Willard Wohlman was the “preeminent” Christian conservative philosopher of our time. At an “Ivy League university” (as it was called) the Professor taught courses in moral philosophy, political theory, and jurisprudence—(which I had to suppose dealt with juries and the law). One of his former Jesuit instructors at Loyola of Chicago had said of Willard Wohlman that he was “the most brilliant student” he’d ever encountered.
In an interview, Wohlman was asked why he had left the seminary without becoming a priest. His reply was a humble one—“I was made to realize that God had another plan for my life.”
The Order of Jesus was the most exacting of all Catholic orders, Wohlman had said. Poverty, chastity, obedience—he had wished to pledge himself to these. Yet, he had been given to know, by an intervention of God, that his life outside the Order would be more challenging.
Professor Wohlman shifted tone now to speak of persons well known to us—Michael Griffin. Lionel Greene. Terence Mitchell. Pictures of these men were projected onto a screen behind the Professor and caused much surprise and comment in the audience. For the men were acclaimed soldiers of (the secret organization) Operation Rescue who had shot abortion providers and who had been imprisoned by the government as a consequence.
Michael Griffin and Lionel Greene had been tried, convicted, and sentenced to life in prison in Pensacola, Florida, and in Waynesboro, Indiana, in 1994 and 1995 respectively. Terence Mitchell had been arrested in March 1998 for slaying an abortion provider in Traverse City, Michigan, and was awaiting trial at this time.
Professor Wohlman spoke of how these men had “dared to step forward” to “take extreme action”; in defense of the unborn, they had committed “justifiable homicide.”
Terence Mitchell, who was twenty-nine, a former U.S. Marine and a member of the Catholic right-to-life organization The Lambs of Christ, had spent many hours in prayer before driving to the abortion clinic in Traverse City with a double-barreled shotgun; after the shooting of the abortion doctor he made no attempt to escape from police but surrendered his weapon and made a full confession to authorities. “And what did Terence Mitchell say?—‘I had no choice. If I had not stopped the abortion doctor, he would have killed more babies that day.’”
Professor Wohlman gazed up at the projected pictures of Griffin, Greene, Mitchell. These faces were familiar to us for we had seen them many times online. Yet, they were powerful to behold at this time.
I felt a clutch in my heart, Terence Mitchell looked very young. Even with his beard he was young enough to be my son it almost seemed.
The young ex-Marine’s troubled eyes, fixed upon us. We were made to feel shame for our safe and selfish lives, that Jesus would look upon with scorn if he were not our Savior who loves us and does not judge harshly.
In a grave voice Professor Wohlman continued: “In some quarters these courageous men are considered ‘criminals’—‘murderers.’ But we know better. I have argued that such acts are ‘morally justifiable homicide.’ There is no ‘homicide’ in a war, for instance—a soldier is not a criminal or a murderer for engaging with the enemy. It is the same situation here. Any act of civil disobedience, in opposition to state-sanctioned murder, is ‘justified.’ For consider, would you have any choice except to interfere, if a child were being assaulted and murdered before your eyes? If, here, on this platform, at this very moment, a young child were being violently stabbed to death, hacked to death with a butcher knife, screaming in terror and in pain . . . If you could stop the pervert-murderer from killing the child, of course you would. If such a horrible sight happened before your eyes, not one of you could stand by helplessly and do nothing. You could not.”
The Professor spoke quietly but his voice quavered with feeling. His fingers cle
nched and unclenched. Light flashed in his eyeglasses. I saw that he wore black-polished shoes, leather dress shoes, with flat thin soles, that would not grip a surface at a slant, and would be dangerous on any slippery surface.
There was quiet in the hall—the hush of indrawn breaths. Only beside me Edna Mae continued to sob.
I was blinking back tears of rage, not sorrow. My hands, that were bigger than the Professor’s, were also clenching and unclenching. Like one who steps backward carelessly at the edge of a roof I felt the danger of a sudden plunge.
That sickening sensation of losing balance.
For some seconds as if in prayer the Professor stood in silence, his head bowed, as we in the audience gazed at him, in the shared horror of an innocent child murdered before our eyes.
I was not unfamiliar with photographs of aborted babies. These piteous and gruesome pictures on picket signs we are supplied by the Coalition, to bear aloft in front of the abortion clinic and sometimes in the roadway, to force individuals to see what it is, they are not wishing to see. And there is the Little Hand, you will see everywhere. Such pictures always tear at my insides, as they are meant to do. But Professor Wohlman was able to make us “see” a living child on the platform, murdered before our eyes.
“And always, and forever, unless we stop them, the abortion murderers will be destroying and dismembering babies in their mothers’ wombs, with the consent of the godless government. Unless we stop them.”
Through the hall there were murmurs of assent. My hands were clenched in fists now, pressing on my knees.
Next, Professor Wohlman told us that he was drawing up a “revolutionary” petition that would be available to us from our church leaders, or from the Coalition newsletter, and he hoped we would take it into our hearts, and tell others about it. He hoped that we would sign this petition and mail copies to a list of individuals which would be posted online and which included our elected officials, our congressmen, and the President of the United States.
A Book of American Martyrs Page 3