I like to talk about politics.
Just, mostly, you know, with people who agree with me.
(Aren’t we all this way?)
The truth is that I tend to lean left in a church that tends to lean right.
Except for this.
I am pro-life.
With the tongue we praise our Lord and Father, and with it we curse men, who have been made in God’s likeness… my brothers, this should not be.
Today this hits hard.
Do I see the imago dei, the fingerprints of the Creator, in the unborn?
Yes. No question.
It’s after that that things get murky.
It’s years and decades later when brokenness and drama, addiction and despair, unfortunate circumstances and poor choices twist and bend the image.
It’s generations of poverty and abuse, vicious cycles that promise relief and refuse to be broken.
It’s arrogance and contempt dressed up in suits and high heeled shoes. Hiding behind desks, behind benches, behind stained glass steeples.
This is when I struggle most.
This is when being pro-life is hard.
With my tongue I praise God.
I praise him for the Little Ones who call me mama.
Little Ones whose first parents chose life.
Little Ones whose imago dei shines all over my home, all over my life.
And I want to curse men.
Men who ought to know better.
This should not be.
One look at my own self and I remember again my own desperate need for rescue, for redemption.
Who am I to speak condemnation, to speak death, to men made in the image of a gracious God?
A God who is still, ever, passionately pursuing their hearts in need of rescue.
A God who is for them, who is fighting yet for their freedom.
This is when it gets really real, friends.
This business of being pro-life.
Will we step in to fight with our gracious God for the hearts of men?
Will we speak life and refuse to condemn?
Will we choose to see his image, his fingerprints, in every life?
Including the ones that are already born.