Somewhere in Washington D.C., probably at about one in the morning, a man closed a door against the noise and sat down on his bed. From the haggard, miserable look he had worn the entire evening, I doubt that he was smiling at the darkness. In fact, as the silence closed around, the heavy and unfamiliar sense of being alone, perhaps he got his first suspicion of what the rest of his life is going to be.
Only hours ago, the man was considered a veritable American hero. He was considered an honest representative of his people and a Defender of Life, rarities for his political party. He is now neither. Instead of being a true “Champion of the Unborn,” Bart Stupak traded his vote and those of the other “Pro-Life Democrats” he led, for a promise from a known liar. He will forever enjoy the dubious distinction of being the man who, in Congressman Mike Pence’s immortal words:
“You traded thirty years of law for a piece of paper from the most pro-Abortion President in History.”
I have a reputation for being a melodramatic writer. I am often unable to escape the double handicap of Irish hyperbole and over-exposure to the verbosity of “la Belle Langue.” But who will accuse me of exaggeration for saying that the man who fooled us all for months in his role as the hounded protector of the Innocent Unborn has accomplished more by his indefensible farce and groundless acceptance of “Presidential Assurances,” the acceptance of which was a criminal dereliction of logic, than all of NARAL and Planned Barrenhood put together? Who else has been able to obtain funding for abortion with taxpayer money?
History has taught us the fate of traitors, that what they expected would be a life of glory quickly becomes a lonely search for the comfort of shadowy oblivion. Those who slapped Benedict Stupak on the back last night have no more use for him and will punish him for having been so much trouble to them in the first place. No one of character will trust him, the Pro-Life friends who pinned their last hopes on him will only hold his memory in disgust and abhorrence.
I do not feel sorry for Bart Stupak, America’s Benedict Arnold. His name will be written, and deserves to be written, at the top of our first page as a Marxist nation. There are villains, the perpetrators, but History is not decided by perpetrators, it is written by bystanders, and it is written by those who know that what they do is wrong, but are too selfish or weak to stand up in the hour of the test, History is written by the traitors.
“And Judas said to them, ‘What will you give me if I betray?’” Stupak’s bag of silver, whatever it is, is not likely to replace the treasures of reputation and honor he sold tonight. None of our epic tales preserves the name of any traitor who found his coins to be a fair exchange for what he lost. A man or woman may be shunned for doing the right thing, but his or her peaceful conscience is good company in the dark, even when the guests leave and the doors are closed.
Of course, this is a human story and the most significant questions of forgiveness and redemption will play out away from the flashing cameras and national scrutiny. This is all his own private business. When we think of the innocent unborn babies whose deaths he will have facilitated instead of saved, and the free country that he turned over to Marxist Revolutionaries instead of defending Her to the death, we will always remember Bart Stupak as the man who sold our most precious treasures in the moment we needed a hero and found instead, a traitor.