Conviction: Lessons from Nehemiah and the Abortion Clinic

I grew up in the church. Not some highfalutin cathedral with stained glass and hushed reverence—but the kind where the music always sounded like a knockoff. The world had Green Day; we had “Blue Day.” Metallica had already turned it up to eleven, and we were fumbling with the dial trying to catch up, hoping Jesus liked distortion pedals.

Christian culture has often been stuck in a reactive loop. We don’t drive the train; we run behind it asking if anyone brought a tambourine. But the truth is, when your ethic changes with the weather, your faith’s built on sand. And there’s a storm rolling in.

We live in a time where the biggest enemy of conviction is comfort. Not the good kind, like grandma’s biscuits or a screened-in porch on a summer night. No, I’m talking about spiritual opium. The kind that makes a man forget the gates are burning and the city is broken.

We’ve traded battlefields for the couch. We’ve become a nation of men saying, “Just leave me alone.” And that might be the most bipartisan belief in America. Red, blue, libertarian, anarchist, vegan—we all just want to be left alone in peace. But if you’re a man of conviction, you don’t get that luxury. Because conviction doesn’t leave you alone. Conviction kicks in your door, tracks muddy boots across your white carpet, and says, “Boy, get up. The wall is on fire.”

Nehemiah understood this. He wasn’t some mountain-dwelling hermit. He was living the good life, sipping wine next to the king. But when he heard about Jerusalem—about the broken walls and scattered people—he wept. And I mean wept. This wasn’t just some Sunday morning, single-man tear of conviction. It was sackcloth-and-ashes, can’t-eat, fall-on-your-face anguish.

I know what that feels like. Because I saw it.

The Day God Let Me See

I remember the first time I stood outside an abortion clinic. I wasn’t looking for a calling. I was in seminary trying to dodge God’s call like it was the draft. A buddy invited me to the clinic because he was scared to go alone. I said yes.

That morning, I held my newborn daughter—barely two weeks old—and kissed my wife goodbye. Then I went to a place where babies don’t come out crying; they don’t come out at all.

We stood there praying. And then she came. A woman stepped out of a car, heard our pleas, and laughed.

“I’m going to f’ing murder this baby,” she said. “And you can’t do a damn thing to stop it.”

She wasn’t confused. She wasn’t ashamed. She danced—literally—on the threshold of death. And then she went in.

That moment? That’s when I saw. I saw what sin looks like when it isn’t wearing a disguise. When it isn’t wrapped in excuses or policy or political talking points. I was undone. I couldn’t eat the rest of the day. It was like Nehemiah staring at the rubble of God’s city and feeling his soul split wide open.

But God wasn’t done. That same day, another woman came out in tears.

“I can’t do it,” she said.

She chose life. And I knew—right there in the bloody shadow of that clinic—that God had called me not just to feel bad, but to do something. I could no longer reject being a preacher or a pastor.

Now, you can feel convicted all day long. But if it doesn’t drive you to act, then all you’ve got is indigestion. Conviction without movement is just spiritual heartburn.

Nehemiah shows us what a man of conviction does. He prays. He fasts. He repents—not just for other people, but for himself. He says, “I and my father’s house have sinned.” That’s what godly men do. They don’t point fingers—they point thumbs.

I remember sitting in my own shame, realizing I’d never funded an abortion, never encouraged one. But what about my lust? What about pornography? What about the women I sinned with before marriage? Did my actions create the kind of culture where children are disposable and men are silent?

God’s conviction doesn’t leave us on the ground. It picks us up and sends us out.

Nehemiah didn’t storm into the king’s chamber that day yelling, “Let my people go!” He was scared. The Bible says so. And that gives me hope. Because conviction doesn’t mean you don’t feel fear—it means you act anyway.

There’s a John Wayne poster in my office that says, “Courage is being scared to death but saddling up anyway.” That’s the Christian life. That’s fatherhood. That’s pastoring. That’s standing outside a clinic when your knees are shaking and the demons are laughing.

It means you pray and then you speak. You speak and then you build. You build and then you fight. And even when your voice trembles, your feet are planted on the rock.

God Will Provide the Lumber

Nehemiah didn’t just ask the king for time off. He asked for timber, too. For the wall. For the gates. Even for his own house.

And let me tell you: when God calls, He brings the supplies. I’ve seen it again and again. When I went to seminary broke—God sent a check. When I stepped out in faith to plant a church—God sent support. When I dreamed of preaching in Israel—God sent the funds in less than a week.

We didn’t have to manipulate. We didn’t have to beg. God isn’t cheap. He funds His missions.

So What About You?

Are you comfortable? Or are you convicted?

Are you staring at the burning gates with your arms crossed? Or are you saddling up, even if your boots are shaking?

Look—if God is calling you to act, don’t wait until you feel ready. You won’t. Act anyway. Because conviction is not clean or convenient. It’s the kind of thing that tears a man apart, builds him back with scars, and sets his feet toward the fire.

And if you’re scared?

Good. Saddle up anyway.