No middle ground at the abortion center

Jill and I filled the 8:30 to 10:30 a.m. slot for the “40 Days for Life” campaign at 12th and Lombard streets in Philadelphia last Wednesday, one of the days of the week they do abortions at that block-long Planned Parenthood facility. Three people from another church were already there, one man kneeling on a plastic-covered kneeler, praying the rosary loudly in unison with another man standing at his elbow.

Jill is a regular and I am an irregular at the vigil, so when we first approached I took the four “escorts” in brightly colored vests posted along the wrought iron fence to be the group of pro-lifers we were relieving. The mistake would color the rest of my time there. Once we collectively realized our mutual misunderstanding and aligned ourselves with the two opposing sides, I would not receive eye contact from any of them again, except the French-accented middle-aged woman who responded to me in no uncertain terms that she was a mother too.

The purpose of the “escorts” was to protect Planned Parenthood patrons from the likes of me, which is an alarming epiphany of oneself. They multitasked as angels of the wrought iron gate, warning me when I happened to place my hand idly on the black metal that I was trespassing.

Planned Parenthood received $540.6 million in grants last year, so I would have thought my miniscule compulsory tax contribution should gain me rights to idle leaning. But when one sentry disappeared inside to report me, Jill whispered that my being arrested over that issue would serve no purpose.

When it became apparent that the 20ish young man in the yellow vest would only look straight ahead like the Queen’s Guard at Buckingham Palace, no matter what I said or how long I talked, it rather emboldened me, to be honest. I had the floor. First I told him he looked like my son. I told him I felt a little weird myself and would never have come if it weren’t for the babies. I told him when a baby’s heartbeat can be detected and how modern technology takes the guesswork out of the origin of life question. He just kept staring across the street at a brick wall over the head of the loud kneeler.

What one notices immediately upon taking up one’s role at an abortion facility is that all middle ground disappears. A half hour ago you blended comfortably into the crowd. Now it is only us and them, black and white, heroes and idiots. If you are a person deriving your self-esteem from men, every passerby becomes a verdict, and the verdict is, overall, disheartening. Brisk-gaited pedestrians look through you with your pamphlets and smile knowingly at the Margaret Sanger disciples, saying, “Thanks for what you do,” as if in noble solidarity against the Christian menace.

The time has come of which the Apostle Paul spoke that the hearts of men would grow cold and would not listen to sound doctrine. Some mischievous, unseen hand has switched the labels around, putting good for evil and evil for good. Pat, a second-generation, seasoned pro-life faithful, told me with avuncular calm, “Don’t look for logic. There is no logic here.”

Our replacements arrived and we handed off the literature. The Buckingham Palace kid’s tour of duty was also up and I saw him exit the building sans escort vest and melt into Lombard Street. I had wanted to tell him one more thing but directed it to his young female colleague instead: “I realize you think this is a very good cause you are supporting, but it isn’t. I hope you’ll think about it more.” The vested girl looked straight ahead.