Monday, August 17, 2026

ABORTION: THE BORDER THAT IS ALWAYS MOVING


Massachusetts is once again expanding the legal boundaries of abortion. But behind the weeks, exceptions, and slogans lies a question that comes before all the others: what is it whose life is being ended?

Massachusetts is once again expanding the legal boundaries of abortion.

For those who support these measures, it is a matter of autonomy, access, and medical freedom. For those of us who defend human life from its beginning, it means something very different:

The circumstances under which the law permits the deliberate termination of a human life before birth are being expanded.

But perhaps we have spent too long arguing about weeks, exceptions, and boundaries.

Before asking when an abortion may be performed, we must answer a much more fundamental question.

WHAT IS IT THAT DIES?

Biological reality is the starting point.

What develops inside the mother's womb is a living human organism at a prenatal stage of development.

Zygote, embryo, and fetus are terms that designate different stages of that development, just as newborn, child, adolescent, and adult designate later stages.

None of us suddenly appeared during childbirth.

The adult who reads these words today is the result of a continuous process of development that began long before he or she could speak, think, remember, or survive independently.

Therefore, the fundamental controversy should not be whether it belongs to the human species. The real question is this:

If we are dealing with a living, developing human being, what characteristic would it have to lack in order to lose the most basic right we recognize in other human beings: that no one should deliberately end its life?

Size? Age? Degree of development? Consciousness? The ability to feel? The ability to survive independently? Being wanted?

Every answer requires us to justify why that particular characteristic—and not our human condition—should determine who deserves protection.

Biology tells us what is there.

The moral question is what we owe it because it is there.

MASSACHUSETTS: THE BORDER MOVES AGAIN

Massachusetts has once again expanded the legal window for abortion, including beyond 24 weeks.

The boundary moves again: greater decision-making latitude and fewer specific restrictions.

From a pro-life perspective, this means expanding the circumstances under which the law permits the deliberate killing of human beings before birth.

But it would be a mistake to think that our problem begins at 24 weeks.

It does not begin when the child can survive outside the womb.

It does not begin when the child reaches a certain size.

It does not begin when its appearance makes it easier to recognize it as one of us.

It begins with the existence of the new human organism.

That is why Massachusetts should not lead us merely to ask:

“How long will they allow abortion?”

The truly difficult question is:

Why should there be a stage of human life during which deliberately ending that life is considered a right?

AT 24 WEEKS, THE CONTRADICTION BECOMES VISIBLE

Imagine a child born extremely prematurely.

Doctors and nurses rush to save the child. An incubator maintains the baby's temperature. A ventilator may help the baby breathe. The parents watch every movement.

Every hour matters.

Every gram gained is celebrated.

And medicine is right to fight for that child.

Advances in neonatal medicine allow some babies born at around 24 weeks to survive.

Now imagine another human being of a similar gestational age who remains inside the mother.

What has changed in that human being's nature?

Its location.

Birth changes many things, but it does not create our humanity.

The child who leaves the womb was already human before leaving it.

We may employ extraordinary human and technological resources to save one child while the law permits, under certain circumstances, the deliberate termination of another human life that remains inside the womb.

The legal situation changes.

The location changes.

The individual's human nature does not.

And although late abortions may constitute a small proportion of the total, that does not resolve the problem.

Statistics answer:

How often does it happen?

They do not answer:

What is happening?

The rarity of an action does not determine whether it is just.

But neither should we make the opposite mistake and focus only on late abortions. If the individual we observe at 24 weeks is human, that same individual was also human weeks earlier.

Size does not confer dignity.

Neither does age.

WHAT ABOUT EXTREME CASES?

Rape, incest, abandonment, poverty, illness, and devastating diagnoses.

It is easy to write those words. It is much harder to live through those realities.

A woman who has been raped deserves justice, and her attacker deserves the full weight of the law. A sick mother deserves the best medical care available. An abandoned woman needs material, psychological, and family support. A family facing a terrible diagnosis needs counseling, medical care, and, when appropriate, perinatal palliative care.

There is nothing pro-life about abandoning a woman in such circumstances.

But tragedy changes the circumstances; it does not change the nature of the child.

The father's crime does not make the child guilty.

Poverty does not make the poor person less human.

A disability does not erase dignity.

Neither does illness.

We must also distinguish between deliberately causing an abortion and suffering a spontaneous pregnancy loss.

One thing is being unable to save a life.

Quite another is intending to end it.

“MY BODY, MY CHOICE”

A woman's body belongs to her.

But her child is not an organ of her body.

The child is inside her and depends upon her to an extraordinary degree, but dependence does not mean identity or an absence of dignity.

A newborn is completely dependent on others. A person with profound disabilities may depend on others throughout his or her entire life. An elderly person with dementia may require assistance even to eat.

We do not conclude that the greater the person's dependence, the lesser his or her right to live.

We should uphold precisely the opposite principle:

The more vulnerable a human being is, the greater our obligation should be to protect that person.

Why should that principle be reversed before birth?

WHAT ABOUT THE WOMAN?

This is a necessary question.

There are women terrified by a pregnancy. Poor women. Abandoned women. Women who fear losing their education, their jobs, or the future they had imagined. Women facing illness and terrible diagnoses.

They matter.

A society that calls itself pro-life and then abandons the mother has understood only half of its obligation.

We must accompany her, provide material assistance, hold the father accountable, facilitate real alternatives, improve adoption processes, and provide medical and psychological care.

And that responsibility does not end with birth.

But the question “What about the woman?” has another dimension that we almost never hear:

What about the girls who never had the chance to be born?

Among aborted human beings there are also female human beings.

Where do they stand when we speak about women's rights?

A little girl who dies before birth will never march for her rights. She will never vote. She will never attend university. She will never discover what her vocation might have been.

We will never know whether she might have become a doctor, lawyer, teacher, scientist, religious sister, entrepreneur, mother, or simply an ordinary woman who would have loved and been loved.

But she did not need to become any of those things to have value.

Her dignity did not depend on what she might one day have been able to do.

It depended on who she was.

The mother matters.

The daughter matters too.

The human response should not be to pit one against the other, but to say:

“Your life matters. And your child's life matters too. We will abandon neither of you.”

NEITHER WANTED NOR UNWANTED: HUMAN

One child may have been awaited for years. Another may arrive unexpectedly.

One may be conceived in a stable home. Another may be conceived under terrible circumstances.

One may be given a name from the moment of the first ultrasound. Another may be regarded as a problem from the very beginning.

But the wanted child and the unwanted child do not belong to different species.

Another person's wishes may change the child's circumstances.

They cannot change the child's human nature.

If our dignity depends on someone wanting us, considering us convenient, or authorizing our existence, then we do not possess genuine rights.

We have permissions.

And whoever grants permission can also withdraw it.

That is precisely why human rights exist: so that the dignity of the weak does not depend exclusively on the will of the strong.

“ABORTION IS HEALTH CARE”

It is a common slogan in our time.

But no slogan can replace a question:

Health care—for whom?

The mother is a patient. Her health matters. Her life matters. Her suffering matters.

But within her there is also another living, developing human being.

We can change laws and alter the words with which we describe a reality.

What we cannot do is alter that reality through language.

A law can declare an action lawful.

That does not automatically prove that it is just.

Legality and morality have never been synonyms.

If they were, there would never have been an unjust law that needed to be changed.

THE QUESTION THAT REMAINS

That is what makes Massachusetts relevant.

We do not need to imagine conspiracies or attribute hidden motives to everyone who thinks differently.

It is enough to observe the result:

The legal boundary is expanding again.

And when a boundary moves, we must ask who is left on the other side.

At six weeks, the human being is tiny. At twelve weeks, more developed. At 24 weeks, its capabilities are different. After birth, the child will depend completely on others.

Size, abilities, appearance, and degree of dependence change.

What remains is the continuity of the same developing human organism.

That is why the question does not end in Massachusetts.

Nor at 24 weeks.

Nor at 12.

Nor at six.

It ends with a question our generation must answer:

If we know that it is alive and we know that it is human, what circumstance can make it just to deliberately end its life simply because it has not yet been born?

The woman deserves our help.

The mother deserves our protection.

The victim of violence deserves justice.

The sick woman deserves the best medicine possible.

The mother facing a devastating diagnosis deserves support and compassion.

And the human being who depends completely upon her also deserves protection.

Even if that human being is small.

Even if sick.

Even if conceived under terrible circumstances.

Even if no one expected that child.

Even if that child cannot yet speak.

Because human rights acquire their deepest meaning precisely in the face of the human being who lacks the power to demand them.

The mother matters.

The child matters.

A truly humane society should be large enough to defend both.

We should not require a human being to first become large, strong, independent, or wanted before recognizing that this human being is already one of us.

RMO

Saturday, August 15, 2026

WE CANNOT DOUBT WHAT CHRIST REVEALED

 

"Hell exists, gentlemen. Christ has said so. It matters little that the incredulous deny it. Despite that denial, its existence is a terrible reality. But it is fitting that we go a little further and try to discover what lies within it. The catechism—that little book containing a wonderful summary of Catholic doctrine—tells us that hell is 'the sum of all evils, without any admixture of good.' A wonderful definition. Yet there is an even more profound way: the one left to us in the Gospel by Our Lord Jesus Christ Himself. It is the very phrase He will utter on the day of the Last Judgment: 'Depart from Me, you cursed, into the eternal fire.' This terrible formula contains a wonderful summary of the entire theology of hell."

Fr. Royo Marín



Monday, August 10, 2026

GOD LOVES YOU



"He calls you by name; whoever you are, God regards you individually. He calls you by name.

He sees and understands you just as He made you. He knows what is within you; He knows all your thoughts
and feelings, all your inclinations and tastes, your strengths and your weaknesses.

He sees you in your days of joy and in your days of sorrow. He shares in your hopes and your temptations. He cares about all your anxieties and memories, and all the ups and downs of your spirit.

He has counted the hairs on your head and measured your stature. He surrounds you with His care and carries you in His arms; He lifts you up and sets you down.

He sees your true face, whether it is smiling
or bathed in tears, healthy or sick. He watches over your hands and feet with tenderness; He hears your voice, the beating of your heart, and even your breathing.

You do not love yourself more than He loves you."

John Henry Cardinal Newman



Friday, August 7, 2026

THE CANTICLE OF THE UNBORN CHILD (The Blood That Cried Out Before It Ever Knew the Light)


 Óscar Méndez Oceguera 

I — THE HEARTBEAT THAT HAD NOT YET RECEIVED A NAME

Before my eyes
learned the color of your face,

before my hands
reached for the shape of yours,

before my voice
uttered a single syllable,

I was alive.

Not as an empty promise.

Not as an uncertain possibility.

Not as a suspended dream.

True life.

A soul received.

A person loved from all eternity.

“I was not a memory.
I was not a project.
I was someone.”

I had never known the wind.

I had never known the rain.

I had never seen the dawn.

Yet I already knew your blood.

For within it
my story
had begun.


II — THE WOUNDED SANCTUARY

There is no sanctuary more hidden
than the one
where a human life begins.

Not of stone.

Not of cedar.

Not raised by human hands.

Flesh sheltering flesh.

Life giving shelter to life.

“The whole universe—
with its mountains,
its seas,
and its stars—
has never fashioned
a dwelling
more worthy
than a mother’s womb.”

There,

blood
was meant to nourish.

The heart
was meant to keep watch.

The body
was meant to protect.

Yet the refuge
learned
the language of rejection.

“The house
came to fear
its own guest.”

“The nest
forgot
why wings
had been made.”

And where nature
had written hospitality,

man
wrote expulsion.


III — THE REVERSAL OF THE ORDER OF THINGS

The tree
does not devour its seed.

The spring
does not drink
its own waters.

The river
does not climb
back toward the mountain.

The earth
does not refuse the rain.

Everything that exists
protects
that
from which life springs.

Only man
has learned
to raise his hand
against
his own beginning.

“What was meant to nourish
wounded.”

“What was meant to shelter
laid bare.”

“What was meant to say:
Live,
declared instead:
Disappear.”

It was not nature.

It was its denial.

It was not instinct.

It was its corruption.

It was not the necessity of being.

It was the rupture of love.


IV — THE SILENCE OF THOSE WHO NEVER WEPT

When a soldier falls,

bells answer.

When a king dies,

history
lays down its pen.

When a city disappears,

generations
keep its memory alive.

But when a child
is torn away
from the place
where his existence had begun,

the world
learned
to remain silent.

“There was no mourning.”

“There was no name.”

“There was no grave.”

Only an absence,

administered
as though
it were progress.

Only a statistic,

taking the place
of a face.

Only a language

capable of hiding
what hands
were doing.

“Words
covered the blood.”

“Arguments
concealed the cry.”

“Technique
silenced conscience.”

And silence,
at last,
came to resemble peace.


V — THE MOTHER WHO WEEPS AS WELL

No heart
was ever created
to forget
its own child.

It may persuade itself.

It may justify itself.

It may harden itself.

But it can never cease
to have been
a mother.

“There are tears
that never reach the eyes.”

“There are griefs
hidden
within the breast
for an entire lifetime.”

Memory
remains

where reason
believes
it has prevailed.

For love
is older
than every ideology.

And blood
remembers
what words
tried to erase.


VI — THE ABSENT FATHER

There was also
a man.

Not always violent.

Not always cruel.

Very often,

simply absent.

The one
who should have remained,

fled.

The one
who should have protected,

fell silent.

The one
who should have answered,

surrendered
his authority
to fear.

“Many children
died
because first
the father
had died.”

Not his body.

His responsibility.

Not his strength.

His courage.

And whenever
the father
abandons
his place,

the whole world
becomes
a little more
orphaned.


VII — THE HEAVEN THAT DOES NOT FORGET

No name
is ever lost
before God.

What the world
recorded
as a procedure,

Heaven
called
by its true name.

What men
reduced
to a decision,

Eternal Love
knew
as a person.

“No life
vanishes into nothingness.”

“No soul
is forgotten
by the One
who called it into being.”

The earth
may deny
a grave.

History
may deny
a page.

Men
may deny
a face.

But God
never forgets
what He
has loved
from all eternity.


VIII — THE APPEAL

Who
will restore
the first embrace?

Who
will teach
those lips
their mother’s name?

Who
will place
into those hands
the bread
they never touched?

Who
will restore
the birthdays
that never dawned?

Who
will answer
the silence
of millions
of children
without memory?

“They do not ask in hatred.”

“They do not accuse in vengeance.”

They wait only

for man
to remember
who he was

before he learned
to call
a right

what destroys
justice.


For no civilization
endures

once it turns
the sanctuary
into a slaughterhouse.

No freedom
endures

once it breaks
the first covenant
of love.

No progress
deserves
that name

if it begins
by erasing
the smallest among us.


“Every mother
was created
to say:
Live.”

“Every father
was created
to answer:
I will keep you safe.”

“Every child
was created
to hear,
one day,
the first word
that no law
can ever replace:

Welcome.”


And so long as
even one child
is denied
the dawn,

the earth
will continue
to wait

for man
to learn again
the meaning
of a word

older
than every constitution,

higher
than every empire,

stronger
than every will to power:

Father.

And another,

the word
that has upheld
the whole world
from the beginning:

Mother.

Wednesday, August 5, 2026

OUR LADY OF THE BASEMENT


By Óscar Méndez Casanueva

"Truly, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven" (Mt 18:3-4).

There are images that vanish from altars but never from the heart. They are cast aside by an iconoclastic modernism that strips the faithful and their churches of their sacred images—seeking to make them resemble Lutheran sanctuaries—and drains the House of God of its sacred character, transforming it into something akin to a bare Protestant hall. Unnoticed by anyone, these images end up relegated to a corner, gathering dust amidst broken pews, old candelabras, and forgotten boxes. It is an iconoclastic attempt to alter a people's faith and devotion, transforming their very identity and memory by severing the bond with what had nourished their faith for years.

Yet, sacred images possess a mysterious capacity to wait. They do not wait for applause or accolades; they wait for the return of the one who once learned to pray in their presence.

I think of that old statue of the Virgin I used to gaze upon every Sunday as a child. Before her, I learned the Hail Mary, confided my earliest fears, and gave thanks for my first joys. Years passed. Then came the rush of life, changes, moves, and inevitable absences. When I returned to my childhood church as an adult, the image was gone from the altar. When I asked about her, someone replied indifferently: "She’s downstairs, in the basement."

Descending those stairs felt almost like a parable. There, among objects that seemed to have lost all utility, I found the sweet Virgin of my childhood. Dust covered her mantle; the paint was worn; a star was missing.  Yet her face remained the same: serene, maternal, welcoming. There was not the slightest trace of reproach for so many years of abandonment. It seemed to say what it had always said: "Here I am—I am your mother."

I fell to my knees before Her, my eyes clouded with tears, and relived the feelings of my childhood: that steadfast faith, that infinite trust in the Mother, that immense tenderness she awakened in me. And I remembered that I must become like a child again to one day enter the Kingdom.

That iconoclastic onslaught of modernist heresy speaks not only of a religious image; it speaks of us, too. We often relegate to an inner "basement" the very things that once gave meaning to our existence: the simple prayers of childhood, trust in God, the peace of a silent church, the devotion learned from our parents or grandparents. We do not destroy these things; we simply let them get buried under our worries, successes, and disappointments.

But the Virgin possesses a patience that only a mother can have. She does not abandon the child who drifts away. She waits. And when that child, many years later, decides to seek her out, he discovers that She has not changed. The whole world may have changed; modernism may have tainted the faith of many without them even realizing it; the heart may be wearier; life may have left its scars. Yet She remains with the same smile, the same gaze, and the same readiness to welcome the one who returns, reminding us that the deposit of faith is immutable—it does not change or transform according to the times or prevailing tastes. The faith remains the same, just as She remains the same.

There are churches that hold great artistic treasures. Sometimes they are found hidden in a corner or a basement, where an ancient image continues to remind us that true love does not depend on the spotlight. The Virgin will always remain our Mother. Always the same. Always unchanged.

Perhaps we should all, at some point, descend into the "basement" of our memory.  There, amidst memories we thought long forgotten, that first gaze of Mary still awaits us. And perhaps we shall discover, with deep emotion, that it was never She who lost sight of us; it was we who ceased seeking her.

Lady, conqueror of heresies, vanquish the modernist heresy and pray for us, that we may fully regain that vivid faith, that love, and that trust we once placed in you during our childhood. May our Catholic faith remain steadfast despite the world's attempts to undermine it, so that we may remain faithful to Christ until the end of this life.


Friday, July 31, 2026

WHERE IS CHRIST KING?


‘My kingdom is not of this world.’

Jesus Christ told Pilate that his kingdom was not of this world: ‘Regnum meum non est de hoc mundo’ (Jn. 18:36). A liberal reads these words as if he had said that Christ’s kingdom is exclusively supernatural, heavenly, never with natural and/or earthly dimensions. The argument is as repetitive as it is old. The tragedy lies in the fact that Catholics repeat it as their own.

What Christ said is not that his kingdom is not ‘here’; in several passages of the Gospels, it is said that he announced that the Kingdom of God had arrived, that it was among us. ‘World’ does not designate a place opposed to ‘heaven’ but rather the origin and root of his royal power. His words mean that his Kingdom does not originate in the world; that its beginning is not worldly nor founded on earthly powers, that it is not surrounded by worldly honors; but that it is divine and, being so, exercises power over all creation, even over the world.”  and on human life in its fullness.

Christ—it was said in the times of Christendom—affirmed that his kingdom was not of this world to refute Pilate, who believed him to be merely a man. Therefore, his words state that he is not king by human hand, and yet he is the king of the world. Such is the teaching of Conrad of Megenberg. This counterargument is classic: that it is not of this world means that it is not constituted in a human manner, because in this world (adds Augustine Trionfo) we have the vice of sin.

Nor did Our Lord say that, being heavenly, his Kingdom does not unfold on earth, in the world. Christ is not consecrating the "autonomy of the temporal," as is often said, for he immediately replies to Pilate that he would not have that power over him if it had not been given to him from on high. We can hardly say that Christ separated the supernatural from the natural and abandoned the human world to its own fate. In truth, Christ the King is an earthly monarch with a view to the homeland.  “The kingdom where Christ will reign eternally with his own,” Calderón Bouchet affirms, “is not of this world, but is incorporated into it. One of the essential conditions for the existence of the Christian city is that Christ rule and reign in it as ‘priest and king.’”

Juan Fernando Segovia, The Dogma of the Kingship of Christ. Quas primas, of Pius XI.

WHERE IS CHRIST KING?

“‘My kingdom is not of this world.’

Jesus Christ told Pilate that his kingdom was not of this world: ‘Regnum meum non est de hoc mundo’ (Jn. 18:36). A liberal reads these words as if he had said that Christ’s kingdom is exclusively supernatural, heavenly, never with natural and/or earthly dimensions. The argument is as repetitive as it is old. The tragedy lies in the fact that Catholics repeat it as their own.

What Christ said is not that his kingdom is not ‘here’; in several passages of the Gospels, it is said that he announced that the Kingdom of God had arrived, that it was among us. ‘World’ does not designate a place opposed to ‘heaven’ but rather the origin and root of his royal power. His words mean that his Kingdom does not originate in the world; that its beginning is not worldly nor founded on earthly powers, that it is not surrounded by worldly honors; but that it is divine and, being so, exercises power over all creation, even over the world.”  and on human life in its fullness.

Christ—it was said in the times of Christendom—affirmed that his kingdom was not of this world to refute Pilate, who believed him to be merely a man. Therefore, his words state that he is not king by human hand, and yet he is the king of the world. Such is the teaching of Conrad of Megenberg. This counterargument is classic: that it is not of this world means that it is not constituted in a human manner, because in this world (adds Augustine Trionfo) we have the vice of sin.

Nor did Our Lord say that, being heavenly, his Kingdom does not unfold on earth, in the world. Christ is not consecrating the "autonomy of the temporal," as is often said, for he immediately replies to Pilate that he would not have that power over him if it had not been given to him from on high. We can hardly say that Christ separated the supernatural from the natural and abandoned the human world to its own fate. In truth, Christ the King is an earthly monarch with a view to the homeland.  “The kingdom where Christ will reign eternally with his own,” Calderón Bouchet affirms, “is not of this world, but is incorporated into it. One of the essential conditions for the existence of the Christian city is that Christ rule and reign in it as ‘priest and king'.”

Juan Fernando Segovia, The Dogma of the Kingship of Christ. Quas primas, of Pius XI.