Our Complicity In Abortion
“You shall not murder.” - Exodus 20:13
Somewhere, a tiny little heart beats furiously in the dim sanctuary of her mother’s womb —only to be unexpectedly met with the cold bite of surgical forceps. Today, she will have her tiny limbs wrenched apart, her beautiful face caved in, and skull crushed, as a cascade of blood and body parts are flushed away like medical refuse. This is not a description of child sacrifice in ancient fertility cult religions; this is the daily homocides that happen in clinics all across our blood-soaked nation, where the unborn are vivisected by monsters in labcoats, while their muffled shrieks are silenced by life ending suction tubes and scalding chemical saline burns.
We say we hate abortion. We post condemnations. We vote against anyone who champions it. We wince at the word, imagining the gore we dare not name. And yet, when the doors of Planned Parenthood swing open each and every morning, to admit another mother who has come to dismember her own child, we are elsewhere. We are at our desks, we are at our dinner tables, we are about our many distractions. We confess that we are pro-life but live passively in a land of death. We mourn the evil practice and yet do nothing to end it. We despise it and then go on about our lives forgetting that every second children across this land are tortured, brutalized, victimized, and butchered in ways that we cannot even conceive.
Imagine if soldiers stormed nurseries across our cities, counties, and country. And when they arrived, they violently dragged a million toddlers into the various streets outsides those day care centers. And then in an act of demonic savagery they began ripping the little boys and girls arms off their bodies, chopping off their legs from their pelvises, and as they bled out in the street, those soldiers bashed their innocent little brains in with the butt of their rifles. We would be outraged! We would demand justice and overthrow the government if they did not deliver it. or die trying.
Yet, this is precisely what is happening in an abortion and we do nothing. If the state herded the elderly into gas chambers because of overpopulation, if the sick and the infirm were given lethal injections to reduce the national budget, we would all in unison flood the capital with righteous rage. But when it happens in the womb we do nothing. When it happens in a sterilized clinic, we are motionless. When the hidden macabre of saline-scorched eye sockets melts in utero, when tiny spines snap like twigs, and when organs are harvested for homocidal profit, we do nothing.
So we sip our lattes as the vacuums suck down another victim. We drive past the bloodstained sidewalks on our morning runs. We plan our vacations, entertain our guests, eat our steaks, drink our wine, and remember always to be merry, while the earth cries out in unbroken tremors for the babies our country has slaughtered.
And the saddest part of all is that we’ve become so acclimated to infanticide we rarely ever notice that it is happening. Like the familiar whirling of a bedroom fan, we go on as if nothing is out of the ordinary. We’re not the butchers, of course not, but we are the complicit, pining away in our comforts and schedules too busy to notice the stench of hell.
And this, my brothers and sisters, is sin. Not an active sin of commission, but a complicit and collective sin of omission. We didn’t wield the curette, but we did nothing to stop it either. We did not administer the searing chemicals, but we have not lived like millions of people are being killed under our noses every year. We have feigned outrage and then moved on forgetting about it. And Scripture doesn’t let us off on this one.
For instance, God not only judges the hand that does the striking, but also the community that stands idly by. In Deuteronomy 21, when a murdered man was found in a field and no killer could be identified, the elders of the nearest town were all commanded to wash their hands over a sacrificed heifer and publicly confess, “Our hands did not shed this blood.” And why was that? Because the elders were required, by law, to intercede on such matters, because the shedding of innocent blood defiles the land itself. And, that defilement extends to all who live upon it unless atonement is made. The message this passage is communicating is unmistakable: when innocent blood is spilled, silence and inaction are viewed the same as participation. The land is still polluted until active atonement is made.
Look also at Leviticus 18 and 20 that echo this, warning that when a people tolerate rank and vile abominations it will “make the land vomit out its inhabitants.” Jeremiahcondemns those who claim innocence even while “innocent blood stains their skirts,” exposing the hypocrisy of their passive complicity. Isaiah says that God refuses to hear the prayers of His people, declaring that “your hands are full of blood” until they “cease to do evil and learn to do good.” And Jesus, in Matthew 23, gathers all these threads into final judgment: He pronounces ultimate guilt on an entire generation, saying that “all the righteous blood shed on earth” would fall upon them—not because they personally committed every murder, but because they perpetuated and tolerated the same murderous system that did and they would be held responsible. From Moses to the Messiah, Scripture testifies with one voice: the blood of the innocent cries out not only against the killers, but against every community that refuses to do anything to stop it. Murder and complicity are both vile sins that offend the awesome holiness of God.
And in these United States of America, while our 401k’s have gone higher, while we have enjoyed all of the sensations and pangs of human life, we have soaked our soil in the blood of over sixty million infants. This is corporate guilt. This is a travesty we have not yet been willing enough to end. We have not felt the pain profusely enough to do whatever it takes to stop it. The vast majority of us, myself included, do not even devote 5 minutes a day to praying it would end.
This is complicity. This is corporate guilt. Look at whatJames 4:17 says: “To him who knows to do good and does not do it, to him it is sin.” We know the truth. Abortion is the ripping of beating hearts from bodies, the evisceration of God’s image-bearers. We know the where, the when, the who, we know the how, and we even often know the why. But we do nothing.
By clocking in, taxing in, entertaining ourselves amid the carnage, we continue to legitimize it. Every unprayed commute, every thoughtless vacation, every day we live without being haunted by this whispers approval to the machine grinding our nations children into paste. Like Pilate, we rinse our hands thinking we have assuaged our conscience, but in our complicity we bankroll the industry of murder.
Jesus once told a parable about a man left half-dead on the road to Jericho—a traveler beaten, stripped, and gasping through bloodied lips for a rescuer’s touch. Yet when the priest approached, he averted his eyes, robes pristine, stepping wide of the mangled flesh and pooling agony. The Levite came next, glanced, then quickened his pace, deaf to the fading whimpers. That, Jesus said, is what loveless religion looks like. And that is us. We are the priest and the Levite—our hearts hardened by habit—striding past the unborn child’s silent crucifixion. Tiny fingers curl in futile grasp, a heart stutters to a halt amid the scrape of steel on bone, and a life—God’s delicate masterpiece—is reduced to shredded remnants swirling down a drain.
Or think of the slave block in 1850s Virginia: chains biting into tender wrists, lashes carving crimson furrows across backs too young for such savagery, families shattered to the crack of whips and the calls of auctioneers. Yet we shuffle by, throats dry, mouths sealed, while mothers wail for children branded and bred like beasts. That, too, is us—the witnesses who do not intervene, the beneficiaries of comfort built upon the bodies of the condemned.
We dwell in today’s Sodom, lingering like Lot at the gates, inhaling the sulfur of our own streets where clinics hum with hidden executions. Within those walls, the muffled sobs of the dismembered rise to heaven, their blood mingling with our indifference. Ignorance is no refuge; we cannot claim we did not know. We are drenched in knowledge of the horror. We are the people of a nation that feasts on its own babes—devouring its future in sterile chambers, leaving behind only echoes of what might have been: empty playgrounds, unlived laughter, generations ghosted before breath.
Our palms may not grip the instruments of death, but they glisten still with the scorching rain of divine reckoning we have called down upon ourselves—each drop a tear from heaven for the little ones we refused to save.
And it is here we must remember that God did not command us merely to believe in justice—He required us to embody it, to defend it, and to preserve it. Scripture says, “You shall not stand idly by the blood of your neighbor.” That is not advice for the righteous—it is a divine summons to act. Cain’s evasive question, “Am I my brother’s keeper?” still echoes across the ages, and God’s answer remains the same: the blood cries from the ground, and it cries against us. We kneel in sanctuaries praying for mercy while sustaining the very state that slays. We build pews for praise even as wombs become abattoirs. We bless our meals in a nation that devours its own heirs.
If we truly grasped each abortion as murder—if we saw, not in abstraction but in detail, the crush of fragile ribs, the gurgle of drowned lungs, the twitching limbs stilled beneath a surgeon’s steel—we would not yawn through the genocide; we would war like zealots against Hades itself. Where are the men whose courage has not been domesticated—men standing at clinic doors, not with rage but with tears, praying till their voices crack, interceding till heaven breaks through, pleading for the slaughter to cease? Where are the women, radiant with grace, who cradle frightened mothers on their couches, who trade despair for diapers, shame for songs, midnight panic for morning peace? Where are the pastors, thundering from pulpits unafraid of offense, calling sin by its name, stirring the church from its stupor, igniting repentance that moves from the sanctuary to the streets? Where are the rulers and lawmakers willing to hazard careers, reputations, and seats of power to halt the hemorrhage of blood that cries from the ground? Where are the believers flooding the public squares—hands lifted, signs raised, truth slicing through the death-drunk haze of this nation’s conscience—proclaiming that the image of God cannot be butchered without consequence?
Do not speak to me of a “silent majority.” Silence is not restraint—it is rot. There are millions who claim to hate abortion, who wince at its mention, who shake their heads at its evil, and yet do nothing. They do not march. They do not weep. They do not speak. They do not give. They are the lukewarm legions of Laodicea, content to feel conviction without ever confronting the crime. Their passivity is not virtue; it is violence by omission. When the majority remains silent, their numbers amplify the wicked, lending consent to the slaughter through stillness. God does not distinguish between the executioner and the onlooker who lets him work; both bear the bloodguilt. Scripture calls them one and the same—the hand that holds the knife and the people who refuse to stop it. This so-called “silent majority” is not the hope of our nation—it is its curse, the great congregation of Cain pretending innocence while the ground drinks its brothers’ blood.
Repentance is not slothful sentimentality—it is blood, sweat, and tear-soaked obedience. It fasts for the forsaken, adopts the spared, disciples men to guard their seed, and drives righteousness into law. The polite era is over; actionless fury has expired. Christ did not bleed, die, and rise to make us respectable—He bled to make us righteous. He died for the aborting mother and the idle bystander alike, His cross-blood drowning Abel’s cry and washing the guilt from every trembling soul who turns to Him in faith. In His mercy, the Judge became the Justifier, the condemned became the commissioned. And through His Spirit—the same Spirit who raised Him from the grave—He empowers His forgiven people to rise, to act, to love, to rebuild. Yet the beauty of repentance is this: the same God whose justice demands our action is the One whose mercy empowers it. He does not shame us for our silence; He awakens us from it—teaching our trembling hearts to stand, to speak, and to love as He first loved us. Grace does not sedate; it sets a man ablaze. It turns pardoned sinners into holy insurgents. The redeemed do not yawn at evil; they march against it, filled with the fire of the Living God.
If we will not speak, the stones will shout. If we will not weep, the heavens will. If we will not move, God will raise up another generation who will. The blood of millions still cries from the ground—and the crucified, risen, reigning Christ still calls His church to answer that cry with justice. Will your reply be silence, or surrender? Will you retreat to comfort, or rise to do something about it in His power? The time for half-measures is over. It is time for us to stand up. Speak out. Love loudly, and let the world know that we will not allow children to be murdered here any longer. It cannot be one or two of us. It must be all of us.
