For personal, religious, and

moral reasons, I was the first person in our denomination to become a

member of "CEC for Life," which was patterned after the Roman

Catholic Church's "Priests for Life," a pro-life organization.

In the spring of this year, I was among several priests and deacons who

joined our bishop for a special and unique service in downtown Atlanta

across the street from one of the South's most notorious abortion clinics.

There, on the mean streets

of the abortion capital of the South, a special liturgy was performed

on behalf of the innocent children who would perish that day at the hands

of the doctors, with the permission and participation of their mothers.

Our purpose was to conduct a funeral service for those boys and girls

whose life was snuffed out by the very people who should have cherished

it.

Since aborted children are

denied the legal status of human beings, are disposed of like so much

garbage, and denied the services of the church, we determined that, at

least from a distance, we would commend their souls to God. We weren't

there to protest, demonstrate, or make headlines. We were there to pray

for the children.

A few months ago, Father Terry

Gensemer, the director of CEC for Life, contacted several churches around

the United States to see if they would be interested in taking responsibility

for conducting this service, known as "The Liturgy at the Time of

Death for the Pre-born," one day each week.

Seven anchor churches were

selected, with others being encouraged to celebrate the service on a day

of their choosing. We selected Tuesday as our day to pray for the children

throughout America who would die on that day. It didn't matter how public

the service was or how many were in attendance. It only mattered that

it was done.

Last Tuesday, at 11 a.m., I

went, alone, into our small chapel to celebrate the liturgy. The offices

were closed that day and no one was around. I hadn't even published the

service in our own church's calendar. I put on my vestments, stood before

the altar, and in solitude, began to pray for the 4,000 children that

would die on Tuesday.

I was struck with grief from

the very first prayer, which read, "Almighty God, look on these your

servants, lying in great weakness, and comfort them with the promise of

life everlasting, given in the resurrection of your Son Jesus Christ our

Lord."

Then the liturgical instructions

read, "Since the closest relatives to those about to die have abandoned

them, the Christians who are present come together to join in the Litany."

After those sobering and saddening

words, the prayers continued and, in part, asked that God would free these

children from "all evil, from all sin, from all tribulation,"

that he would, by his "holy incarnation, by your cross and passion,

and by the coming of the Holy Spirit, From all evil, from all sin, from

all tribulation...deliver them."

I prayed, "We sinners

beseech you to hear us, Lord Christ: That it may please you to deliver

the souls of your servants from the power of evil, and from eternal death,

that it may please you mercifully to pardon all their sins" (even

though it was the sins of their parents and medical personnel, as well

as those who crafted the abortion laws that made this liturgy necessary,

I thought sadly), "That it may please you to grant them a place of

refreshment and everlasting blessedness, that it may please you to give

them joy and gladness in your kingdom, with your saints in light."

"Jesus, bearer of our

sins: Have mercy on them. Jesus, redeemer of the world: Give them your

peace. Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy." By

this time, the tears were flowing so hard that I could barely choke the

words out.

The service continued and I

easily imagined that I heard the silent cries and anguish of the 4,000

whose lives were being ended. Much more palpable was the sense of divine

sorrow over the continual atrocity being committed daily in the name of

convenience. A confession of sin was prayed, scriptures read, and more

solitary tears shed.

Finally the closing prayers

were at hand: "Receive, O Lord, your servants, for they return to

you. Wash them in the holy font of everlasting life, and clothe them in

their heavenly wedding garments. May they hear your words of invitation,

'Come, you blessed of my Father.' May they gaze upon you, Lord, face to

face, and taste the blessedness of perfect rest. May angels surround them,

and saints welcome them in peace. Almighty God, our Father in heaven,

before whom live all who die in the Lord: Receive our brothers and sisters

into the courts of your heavenly dwelling place. Let their hearts and

souls now ring out in joy to you, O Lord, the living God, and the God

of those who live. This we ask through Christ our Lord. Amen."

These nameless, faceless, helpless,

homeless children passed from life to death and into eternal life without

ever seeing the sun, without being held, without ever experiencing their

first touch or kiss, without even being loved. "Before you were formed

in the womb I knew you," God said in the Book of Jeremiah. These

innocents are loveless no more. Lord have mercy!

[Father David Epps is rector

of Christ the King Charismatic Episcopal Church in the south Atlanta area.

He may be contacted at [email protected] or at www.ChristTheKingCEC.com.]

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