The abortion debate demands more than political posturing, it requires us to confront the messy, heartbreaking reality of human experience. Yes, pregnancy can be a beautiful journey, but let’s not romanticise it at the expense of honesty. For many, it’s a time wracked with anxiety, complex emotions, and sometimes gut-wrenching circumstances.
Picture this: A couple, nursery painted and names chosen, learns at 20 weeks that their baby lacks vital organs and cannot survive. Or a rape survivor, already shattered, discovering she carries her attacker’s child. Consider the woman fleeing domestic violence, only to find herself tethered to her abuser through pregnancy. Then there are medical emergencies like placental abruption, where a family must make an agonising decision: prioritise the mother’s life or the baby’s? Or the woman working two jobs, barely scraping by, who wonders if she can provide for another child, or even the children she already has.
These aren’t hypotheticals. They’re Tuesday afternoons in maternity wards and crisis pregnancy centres across the world. The single mother working double shifts, calculating whether she can feed another mouth. The teenager whose future narrows to a pinpoint. The woman whose partner’s betrayal during pregnancy leaves her questioning everything she thought she knew about her life.
I recently heard about a woman who discovered her husband’s affair while pregnant with their child. Suddenly, every prenatal appointment became a reminder of deception. Suddenly, she was faced with a wrenching decision: does she raise a child with someone she no longer trusts, or does she walk away entirely?
These stories lay bare a simple truth: the decision to end a pregnancy is never just a political abstraction. It is about people, and the impossible situations life can throw them into. Advocating for choice means recognising that women’s lives are complex, that their circumstances matter, and that their autonomy deserves protection. In many ways, being pro-choice is about valuing life: the full, complicated lives of women who must navigate impossible decisions.
But again, it’s still not that simple, is it? Then comes the question that won’t be silenced: What about the other life in the equation? Shouldn’t we extend our empathy to them as well? After all, aren’t they the most innocent party involved? Many women who have abortions speak honestly about profound feelings of guilt or loss. And if abortion is truly nothing more than the removal of “a bunch of cells,” then why is miscarriage so often regarded as the loss of a child? Why do we grieve so deeply for those who experience miscarriage? Clearly, we recognise that something deeply significant has ended. So, what changes when it comes to abortion? When a pregnancy is wanted, the fetus is celebrated as a developing human life, worthy of protection and care. But when a pregnancy is unwanted, that same fetus can be dismissed as a mere “parasite,” with the focus shifting entirely to the mother as a victim of this unwanted responsibility. In this way, the value and very life of the fetus appears to depend solely on the mother’s desire and circumstance.
Imagine, for the sake of argument, that technology existed to remove a fetus without ending its life. Would we still insist it should not survive? Would our views on abortion remain the same? Clearly, this debate is complex, and the right answer is not always obvious. While pregnancy can be incredibly challenging, does that alone justify erasing the voice and right to life?
At its core, this debate asks whose rights we privilege: the mother’s or the child’s? Pro-choice advocates insist that banning abortion is a deep violation of women’s autonomy; pro-life supporters argue that abortion fundamentally denies the unborn their most basic right—to exist. Both sides make emotive points.
In an ideal world, every child would be completely healthy and conceived in a nurturing environment, where both parents are committed to prioritising their child’s well-being, where there’s no tension between what’s best for a mother and what’s best for her child. But real life doesn’t fit neatly into simple rules. It’s messy, complicated, and so is the debate around abortion. Where do we even start? If we want to honestly examine the morality of abortion, I think it’s helpful to begin by asking ourselves two tough questions:
- When does human life begin?
- How do we determine the value of life?
The truth is, as soon as you really start digging into these questions, you realise just how tangled things get. Each one splinters off into a dozen more: What counts as “life”? Is it biology, consciousness, potential? Who gets to decide what’s valuable? What beliefs and assumptions are we already bringing to the table without even realising it?
I’m not claiming these questions will magically resolve the argument or hand us all the answers. But I do think they’re a good place to start, solid stepping stones for anyone who genuinely wants to think seriously about this issue. And with an estimated 70 million abortions happening globally each year (according to the World Health Organisation), these aren’t just abstract ideas or late-night debate topics—they matter right now, to millions of people. That’s why I wrote this essay. This is a conversation we have to take seriously.
Should freedom ever be limited?
Before diving into those two big questions, let’s zoom out and take a look at a cultural shift that’s quietly reshaping our entire conversation about right and wrong. The other day, a friend recounted an exchange that stuck with me: during a talk about morality, his companion remarked, almost proudly, “I’ve never done anything seriously wrong.” Taken aback, my friend pressed, “Not even a white lie?” The answer came quick: “Well, I have lied, but it wasn’t really wrong. It protected my feelings.”
This mindset isn’t uncommon in today’s Western world, where emotions and personal desires are elevated to the ultimate good. Any action is justified if it makes us feel better. Freedom is held up as the ultimate virtue and even trumps tolerance, as society requires us to tolerate everyone and everything unless they impinge on our freedom to do as we please.
But here’s what often goes unsaid: our cultural obsession with freedom tends to drown out any serious discussion of responsibility. Are we prioritising freedom too much? Should there be limits? And who decides what those limits are? Most of us agree that freedom still needs to be morally constrained, but by what standard? If we’re honest, addressing this means asking hard questions about the values and presuppositions that shape our view of the world. And yes, that means talking about worldviews, something people are often quick to dismiss, but is absolutely essential if we’re serious about negotiating the balance between freedom and responsibility.
My atheist friends point out that there are no justifiable, objective moral obligations; morality is whatever we decide it should be, crafted and redefined by individuals or societies. There are no immutable boundaries on freedom; our moral sense is just a set of subjective preferences, underpinned by evolutionary utility or social convenience. Without a higher authority, they say, people are free to make up their own version of right and wrong, as long as it brings them happiness and doesn’t disrupt social cohesion.
By contrast, Christianity (and some other religious outlooks) claim there is a way to live that is objectively right; some choices are actually wrong, no matter how we rationalise them. As Augustine said, “Right is right even if no one is doing it; wrong is wrong even if everyone is doing it.” In this view, you have a purpose anchored in a higher, divine authority. True freedom is about having the strength and courage to do what you ought, not just what you want. It’s about living in line with a standard that outlasts trends or feelings, a standard set by God. Here, freedom and responsibility can’t be pulled apart: the freedom to act rightly presupposes there are objective moral principles, not just preferences, worth honoring.
It’s important to note the distinction here: we’re not talking about objective moral rules but rather objective moral principles. This difference matters because principles are meant to be applied thoughtfully and contextually, while rules tend to be fixed and specific to certain situations.
This clash of worldviews exposes a core divide: atheism often regards morality as a human invention, something we create to suit our needs, while Christianity sees it as something discovered, a set of principles revealed by God who has our ultimate good in mind. While secular societies usually agree that some freedoms need limits (such as the freedom to harm others), they typically approach these limits pragmatically; morality is little more than an evolutionary tool for social cohesion. In Christianity, though, the basis of human existence is rooted in love, defined by the gospel. Here, God doesn’t stay distant; in a gesture of empathy, he enters fully into our human reality as Jesus. He then self-empties—giving himself for the sake of humanity—an act that calls us into a responsive relationship. Love isn’t just a nice option to have, it’s central to why we exist, and it produces the moral principles we ought to honour. If you ignore it, you miss the point of your life.
That naturally takes us to another debate: What is love, anyway? I’d argue that God is love, though that’s not some formula you can flip around at will. If I make love my “god” and define it however I please, I’ve effectively made myself my god—inventing a deity who rubber-stamps my impulses. But if I define love by pointing to how God laid down His life for us through his crucifixion, I’m talking about a self-sacrificial love that is committed to the well-being of others.
All this leaves us in a tension, a friction that shapes how we understand life, purpose, and morality. For many atheists and secular thinkers, the idea of intrinsic meaning or an ultimate purpose can feel unnecessary, even irrelevant. Why should life need some grand cosmic significance to be worth living? Isn’t it enough to embrace the fleeting beauty of existence, to savour experiences and relationships, and to create meaning in the here and now through the happiness we create for ourselves? It’s a self-centred view, sure, but it resonates with many: finding meaning in the here and now without worrying about cosmic significance. After all, if there’s no higher power dictating morality or purpose, why not take ownership of our lives and live authentically according to our own desires? Remove God from the equation, and traditional notions of right and wrong become less clear-cut. There is no obligation to align one’s desires with a “true” morality. It’s my life.
Now, I agree that relationships and experiences enrich life with a sense of meaning. But I wouldn’t set up a dichotomy between intrinsic meaning and lived experiences as though they compete for significance, like it’s one or the other. Instead, I’d argue they are expressions of an intrinsically meaningful existence. Relationships are fundamental to our humanity, revealing something deeper about who we are. They don’t fabricate meaning but help us discover it.
Christians believe life has an inherent purpose, a call to something greater than oneself. True fulfilment doesn’t come from chasing personal freedom or doing whatever “thy will.” Instead, it’s found in self-giving love, even when it requires sacrifice or involves suffering. This perspective challenges the secular view by suggesting that there is an ultimate meaning to life. Without this deeper purpose, life risks becoming hollow, a canvas onto which we project whatever meaning we can muster. And maybe that’s okay for some. Perhaps you’re content with the idea that life doesn’t need intrinsic meaning, that you can enjoy your brief time here without worrying about cosmic significance. If that’s enough for you, so be it. But if there’s no genuine meaning, no true purpose, then are we kidding ourselves by pretending otherwise? When we invest so much in love, in our ambitions, in the causes that stir our empathy or demand our sacrifice—are these sources of meaning anything more than comforting illusions against a backdrop of cosmic indifference? Is the feeling of meaning just a psychological crutch, comforting but ultimately empty? Is that consistent with how we live and act?
Historically, society leaned heavily on Christian values. Today, it feels like secularism dominates. But have we really stopped to think about what that means? If we’re just random collections of atoms that exist for no purposeful reason, then justice and goodness are difficult categories to justify as subjects of truth. All sense of morality becomes just a useful illusion projected by evolution in a blind, mindless, and self-referring universe. To be clear, I’m not implying that atheists are especially immoral or that they can’t come up with compelling moral arguments, whether by promoting happiness or furthering evolution through survival and social cohesion. The issue is deeper: without a universal, binding moral foundation, these principles are just arbitrary. There are no moral “truths” as such. Morality is about pragmatic necessity and utility, not truth. In this view, the concept of “ought”—the idea that we should or shouldn’t do something, as a matter of purpose and responsibility, loses its grounding. Actions and thoughts are seen as neutral byproducts of natural processes, neither inherently good nor bad, just functional or nonfunctional. And if morality is just a construct, then arguing for or against any moral principle becomes equally valid, or equally meaningless. Without an anchor in objective truth, everything is up for debate.
So, how does this is all relate to abortion? Whether abortion is moral or not depends profoundly on your worldview. Do you believe there’s a transcendent order, a way of living that is ultimately good and right? A set of genuine moral principles that exist independently of our preferences, and to which we are ultimately accountable? Or do you see morality as something we determine for ourselves, with each person acting as their own god?
Just raising the possibility that a woman might cross a moral boundary by ending the life she and her partner have created (intentionally or not) is often met with outrage. Yet the reality is that nearly all abortions, about 99%, stem from consensual sex.
Ultimately, how we judge the morality of abortion is inseparable from the worldview we bring to the table. So, to better navigate this complex moral landscape, I think it will help to start with those two critical questions, which are useful in evaluating whether your worldview aligns with the practice of abortion.
When does human life start?
I remember having a real, no-frills conversation with a friend about abortion once. She admitted she felt uneasy about it, torn in ways she couldn’t quite put her finger on. But then, almost as if flipping a mental switch, she landed on what felt like her escape hatch: “It’s not a baby yet! It’s just a fetus.” There it was, a smooth way to push the discomfort aside.
But isn’t that exactly what makes this whole debate so fraught? We draw hard lines, slap technical labels on what’s happening inside the womb, and hope it puts the issue to bed. Yet there’s more at stake than just words. When does a “fetus” become a child—someone worth worrying about, someone with rights, someone we have a responsibility towards? The lines we draw say as much about our own willingness to face uncomfortable truths as they do about the facts themselves. The quick answers: “just a clump of cells,” “not a baby yet”, feel comforting, but do they really settle what’s at stake? Or are we just talking around what we don’t want to confront? What if that “fetus” is a separate life? Suddenly, we need to take into account the rights of an unborn child. The decision then becomes one of ending a life, often through methods like dismemberment or poisoning.
So, where do we draw the line? What makes us human, after all? There’s no consensus, which is why the issue remains so bitterly divisive. Yet science does offer a point of departure: from the moment of conception, a distinct biological process begins, a miraculous chain of events where a single fertilised cell, carrying a wholly unique genetic blueprint, grows, divides, and orchestrates itself into a living, breathing infant. At conception, a zygote is created, already containing all the information required to make a unique human being. This single cell rapidly divides, transforming into a cluster of cells called a blastocyst that nestles into the nurturing embrace of the uterine wall. Within just weeks, this tiny speck organises itself into an embryo, forming a beating heart, a brain sparking with potential, and the beginnings of limbs that will one day reach out to the world. By nine weeks, it becomes a fetus, a miniature human with fingers, toes, and even tiny hiccups! Organs grow and refine themselves, while the placenta acts as a life-support system, delivering oxygen and nutrients like an otherworldly lifeline. As the months pass, this tiny being grows stronger and more complex: lungs preparing for their first breath of air, senses awakening to light and sound, and the waking of thought and emotion. By the time birth arrives, this once-invisible speck has become a fully formed baby, ready to take its first cry.
The point here is that at that moment of conception, this wondrous process starts, a continuum of growth and development that differs only in degree, size, environment, and dependency as time goes on. The line from non-life to life is blurry at best. If a fetus doesn’t qualify as human because it hasn’t completed its development, then where do we draw the line? Is a toddler, still growing and learning, somehow “less human”, maybe 80%? Or what about someone with a disability or an adult who hasn’t developed properly? How do we determine the precise stage of development at which a being becomes “human enough” to obtain personhood and deserve protection? More crucially, who possesses the authority to make such a decision? These are hard ethical questions, and perhaps true wisdom lies in refraining from playing god altogether.
Another argument is that a fetus isn’t a separate life because it depends entirely on the mother for survival, but dependency is part of the human condition at many stages of life. Newborns rely entirely on parents/guardians. Many elderly people rely entirely on caregivers. People in comas or with severe disabilities depend on others for survival. Yet we don’t question their humanity, we instinctively protect them. In fact, society often agrees that the most vulnerable among us deserve more care and protection, as our instinct tells us as soon as we hold a newborn baby.
Let’s address this from a different angle and consider the developmental journey of a life in the womb:
- Before Week 8: The heart and nervous system begin forming; by Week 6, the heart is already beating.
- Week 8: Facial features emerge; arms and legs are growing.
- Week 10: Major organs are developing; the fetus begins to move (though the mother likely can’t feel it yet).
- Week 12: Rapid brain development occurs; fingers and toes can move.
- Week 20: The fetus becomes active — thumb-sucking and responding to sounds outside the womb begin.
- Week 24: Sleep-wake cycles develop; responses to external stimuli like sound are well-formed.
At what point does what we call a “clump of cells” become a living being entitled to rights and protection? Where, exactly, would we draw that line—at week 12, week 20? Does passing through the birth canal, or simply being wanted, fundamentally alter someone’s value?
I often hear phrases like “just a fetus” or “only a clump of cells,” but this language oversimplifies things. After all, every human being, at every stage of life, is a clump of cells. The word “fetus,” which comes from Latin meaning “little one,” describes size, not value or humanity. So if a fetus and a newborn are essentially the same being at different developmental stages, does terminating a pregnancy equate to ending a life? Changing the language doesn’t change this underlying reality.
There’s also a strand of thought that bases personhood on cognitive ability or self-awareness. Peter Singer, an Australian moral philosopher and Professor of Bioethics at Princeton University, argues that newborn babies, lacking self-awareness and an understanding of their existence over time, are not truly “persons.” They are sub-human. In fact, he argues that a newborn’s life is less valuable than that of a self-aware animal like a pig, dog, or chimpanzee. Along with his colleague Helga Kuhse, Singer has even suggested a 28-day grace period after birth before granting an infant full rights to life, particularly in cases of disability. This view extends the abortion debate into “post-birth abortion.”
If we base someone’s humanity on their level of independence or cognitive ability, then what about those with serious mental impairments or those who are in comas, who might not experience life as others do? Are they, too, sub-human? In reality, grounding human rights in things like cognitive ability or usefulness inevitably leads to excluding and devaluing the most vulnerable among us.
The debate over whether an unborn child constitutes “a human life” also raises important questions about parental responsibility. Of course, there’s no denying that the woman is the one who physically bears the child, enduring the challenges of pregnancy and childbirth. But if society fiercely protects a woman’s right to choose, her right to “opt out” of motherhood before birth, then should men have the ability to say they’re not ready for fatherhood either?
Should equality mean that a father can also opt out of parenthood if he doesn’t want to be a dad, even if his partner decides to continue the pregnancy? If pregnant women can choose not to become mothers by aborting their child, and men are expected to simply accept that decision, is it fair that fathers are still locked into lifelong obligations with no say at all? Should men be able to “opt out” too, no questions asked?
When a man walks away from a pregnant partner, he’s usually seen as irresponsible, selfish, and neglectful, toward the unborn child as well as the woman. Society expects him to step up and provide emotional and financial support, even if he doesn’t feel ready to become a parent. He needs to step up. Isn’t that expectation an implicit recognition of the presence of another life that deserves consideration?
Now, I’ll admit that I don’t know exactly when life begins. After all, what defines “life” in its fullest sense? I’m not sure. Science tells us biological life starts at conception, but there is also a broader meaning of ‘life’: is it just the biological capacity for growth and change, or are there more layers to it? This ambiguity leads me to err on the side of caution. Think of it like this: imagine you’re tasked with demolishing an old building but aren’t 100% sure whether someone is inside. Would you go ahead without being fully sure? Of course not, the risk to life demands certainty. So, by the same logic, if we’re unsure whether a fetus qualifies as human life, can we justify ending it without being certain? Just as demolishing a potentially occupied building would be reckless, terminating a pregnancy amidst doubt feels equally troubling.
Of course, the analogy isn’t perfect. But maybe the general principle stands: If we can’t say with absolute certainty when human life truly begins, then once the biological reality is present, isn’t it wiser to err on the side of caution and treat that life with the utmost respect and care? Isn’t it better to be safe than sorry?
As a Christian, I think we should be cautious about establishing the existence (and value) of life through measures of development or dependency. My worldview implies that we have an inherent quality that transcends the material, and that exists from conception onward. It’s not just about biology; it’s about recognising that every human being has intrinsic worth from their very beginning. The worth of a person isn’t earned or granted; it’s inherent. Life is sacred. All life. Yours. Mine. The person on the street. The person with nothing. The person with everything. If anything, perhaps one of our greatest responsibilities is to protect that worth, especially when it belongs to those who cannot yet speak for themselves.
What is a human worth?
When it comes to an unborn child, or any human life, what gives it value? Ask yourself: Where does your worth come from? Pause. Think about it for a second. Is your worth based on something intrinsic, or does it depend on how others see you, or perhaps your capabilities and conscious experiences? In many cultures, a person’s value is often tied to their role in society: what they do, how they contribute, or even how they fit into cultural norms. A parent, a teacher, or a leader might be seen as more “valuable” than someone without those roles. Sometimes, we even measure our own worth by how others, our family, friends, or society, perceive us.
This way of thinking treats human worth as subjective. What one society values might be irrelevant, or even frowned upon, in another. These standards also change over time. If human worth is based on societal trends or popular opinion, does that mean our value is just as unstable? This variability leads to another critical question: What legitimate authority do other humans have to determine your worth, especially given that they, too, are subject to the same fluctuations in value? The argument is circular: humans are valuable because society deems them so. Society’s valuation is based on human perspectives, which are themselves subject to change and bias.
If human worth is based on our usefulness, whether through social connections, functional contributions, or even evolutionary advantages, it creates a fragile and ever-changing foundation. One moment, you might be valued highly; the next, that worth could vanish. After all, nothing about us is truly consistent. Illness, old age, or just a change in circumstance—all can influence how others see us, or how we see ourselves.
So, where do we look for something solid? One alternative is the idea of intrinsic worth, a value bestowed by something beyond the whims of society’s fluctuating standards. This worth remains stable precisely because God Himself is immutable, unlike human opinion. Christianity points to the ultimate demonstration of this valuation: God’s voluntary self-sacrifice through Christ’s death. This represents a divine exchange where God, in essence, declares humanity’s worth through what He was willing to pay: His very self. Every person, then, carries sacred value not because of what they contribute, but because of what God has already determined them to be worth. Our worth isn’t something to be earned, and it doesn’t diminish with status or ability.
Without some kind of transcendent source, it gets hard to argue for true, equal absolute value. Everything in the natural world can only have meaning or value in reference to some consciousness. Inert matter doesn’t “intend” or “value”; only minds do. Consider multiple examples that illustrate this principle: A $100 bill is worthless as mere paper; a diamond is just compressed carbon; a wedding ring is simply shaped metal. If all conscious beings vanished tomorrow, none of these objects would retain any trace of their assigned significance. Their worth exists solely because conscious minds collectively assign meaning through agreement, cultural systems, and shared recognition.
This dependency reveals a deeper logical challenge: if all meaning requires a meaning-giver, from where does our own meaning and value ultimately derive? The temptation to declare that we simply create our own meaning feels intellectually satisfying until we recognise it as a logical loop: human consciousness attempting to ground the value of humanity itself. This approach proves problematic because our consciousness is inherently contingent, finite, and culturally conditioned. We are fragile beings whose valuations shift with circumstances, whose civilizations rise and collapse, whose political and moral frameworks evolve and regress dramatically. Any value system anchored solely in contingent consciousness remains perpetually unstable and irreducibly relative. In this way, we find ourselves trapped in an endless regress where each proposed source of meaning requires its own justification that is itself contingent on something else, ultimately leaving us with either circular reasoning or an arbitrary stopping point that provides no more solid ground than what we started with.
For human life to possess factual inherent value, worth that exists independently of circumstances, opinions, or cultural agreements, several logical requirements must be met:
- Independence from contingency: The source cannot be subject to change, destruction, or dependence
- Universality: It must apply equally across all contexts and times
- Necessity: It must exist by its own nature, not derive from something else
- Consciousness requirement: Since only conscious minds can recognise, intend, and assign value, the ultimate source must itself be conscious
These requirements point toward a necessary, unlimited, non-contingent consciousness, what philosophers and theologians have identified as God.
But what if we strip God out of the picture: Can life itself still have an inherent worth to justify equality, or are we just pretending? If we are nothing more than fortunate coincidences of chance and necessity, does that mean we are simply purposeless electrochemical machines—genetic programs optimised for survival in an indifferent cosmos? No inherent purpose. No predetermined destiny. Just atoms in motion, pretending they matter.
Existentialism offers an appealing escape: we create meaning through choice and action. But isn’t this just sophisticated self-delusion? If life holds no ultimate meaning, isn’t it delusional for some collections of atoms to pretend it does?
For human equality to exist, we need some immutable, universal characteristic shared by all. Yet naturalistic frameworks stumble here because our traits—intelligence, health, beauty, wealth, genetic fitness—vary dramatically. These measures of value are both fleeting and unequal. When they fade, what remains?
This logic inevitably creates hierarchies. The brilliant outrank the ordinary. The healthy surpass the sick. The genetically “fit” eclipse those with disadvantages. It’s a troubling calculus that echoes the darkest chapters of human history, when entire societies decided some lives were worth less than others.
Even if through an evolutionary perspective, what ultimate value does genetic superiority hold in a universe destined for entropy? We’re rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic while debating who deserves the better seat.
So, while secular humanism tries to champion equality, it struggles to provide a concrete foundation for the equality of human worth. This returns us to the Judeo-Christian insight: humans bear the image of God, conferring inherent worth on every person. Without this belief in the sacred, we’re left with a sobering reality: human existence doesn’t have intrinsic worth; it’s something we assign artificially. So maybe the question isn’t just about whether God exists, it’s about what it means for us if He doesn’t.
If life doesn’t inherently hold value, deciding whose life matters and whose doesn’t becomes a matter of debate. This way of thinking grants us the troubling power to judge another person’s worth, essentially creating a slippery slope where we justify actions against those we deem “lesser.” Take the era of the black slave trade as an example. In 1662, Virginia passed a law stating, “All children born in this country shall be bond or free only according to the condition of their mother.” In other words, a child’s fate, freedom or slavery, was determined entirely by their mother’s status. Isn’t it alarming that someone’s value could be decided before they even took their first breath, whether by a society, government, or individual?
If humans are the ultimate measure of life’s value, whose measure counts? Is it the individual, a group, or society at large? Which of us, individually or as a group, relatively decide what defines a person’s worth? All value is diluted according to the preferences and biases of this or that person.
Consider this philosophical collision in contemporary abortion debates. We rightly argue that a woman’s dignity means no one should control her body, but does an unborn child possess that same inherent dignity? When we classify the unborn as sub-human, we strip away protective rights, just as slave owners did throughout history by denying personhood to the enslaved. If life’s value is purely subjective, how can anyone claim this is objectively wrong? It becomes a matter of perspective, our word against theirs, with no ultimate standard to arbitrate.
Imagine two hospital rooms: In the first, a high-risk pregnancy is being managed, with doctors striving to save the unborn child. Here, the medical approach is about preserving life, and if a dire situation arises where only one life can be saved (either the mother or the baby), the focus shifts to saving that life. I believe that motherhood (and fatherhood) is a self-sacrificial calling and not a self-serving one. The greatest act of love is to lay down our lives for others (John 15:13). The Christian ethos emphasises our duty to protect and aid those who are most vulnerable.
Now imagine that in the neighbouring room a woman arrives for an abortion. The doctor calmly explains the procedure, and soon after, her unborn child is gone. Both situations involve loss of life, tragic in their own ways, yet fundamentally different in nature.
In the first room, the mission is to save, to fight for both mother and child, to exhaust every option for the sake of the vulnerable. Loss, if it comes, is never the intention. Here, love is selfless and sacrificial. In the second room, however, the loss is not accidental, but deliberate. The unborn child’s life is ended not out of tragic necessity, but for preference.
This dichotomy raises a confronting question about our societal values: Are we comfortable with the idea that life can be deemed expendable if it proves inconvenient? I recognise that behind every abortion decision stands a real person facing uncertainty, fear, and often impossible circumstances. These women’s stories matter profoundly, and their worth isn’t diminished by pregnancy. But if life possesses inherent value, then one person’s worth should not supersede another’s. Both lives are sacred. In the vast majority of cases, women don’t die bringing forth children, while abortion always results in a loss of life. Ronald Reagan’s poignant observation comes to mind: “I’ve noticed that everyone who is for abortion has already been born.”
Is abortion moral? The answer
I believe life has intrinsic value, a perspective rooted in the Judeo-Christian tradition. I also find it hard to dismiss the idea that an unborn child is a living being. So, generally speaking, I do believe that abortion is morally wrong.
Let me be clear about what I’m not talking about. Medical procedures addressing pregnancies where the fetus has already died, or addressing non-viable situations like an ectopic pregnancy (where a fertilised egg implants outside the uterus and cannot result in a live birth), are fundamentally different from abortion. These situations do not end a viable life.
I also wrestle with edge cases where the unborn child was not just severely mentally disabled, but truly lacked all cognitive function and awareness, essentially, a fetus whose only basic bodily functions like breathing and heartbeat persisted due to an intact brain stem. I’m not sure such a “vegetative” situation even exists. If it did, I’m not fully convinced that a soul would be present at all.
I’m under no illusions about how this position will be received. I know the labels that await me, the accusations of wanting to control women’s bodies, the dismissal of my perspective as outdated or oppressive. I understand I’m in the minority. But moral truth isn’t determined by popular opinion, and the fundamental humanity of the unborn child, inconvenient as it may be, remains undeniable to me.
This isn’t about judgment or condemnation of those who’ve made different choices. It’s about acknowledging what I see as an uncomfortable moral reality that our culture has largely decided to ignore. As Robert Emmet Barron, founder of Word on Fire, put it:
“Opposition to abortion is not a matter of doctrine in the strict sense of the term, but rather a conclusion drawn from moral reasoning and from the findings of objective science. It is an indisputable fact that human life — which is to say, a living human being with a distinctive genetic structure and identity — comes into existence at the moment of conception. It is furthermore a fundamental axiom of ethics that innocent human life ought never to be attacked.”
This resonates with me. Our society often reveals contradictions when it comes to accountability for unborn life. When someone assaults a pregnant woman and her baby dies, we rightly prosecute for homicide. Yet under the guise of “healthcare,” a similar outcome can legally occur through abortion as an exercise of maternal rights. That feels strange.
Consider this analogy: imagine a violent storm sinks a ship, leaving only five survivors from 100 passengers. Let’s just say it was an act of God. Faced with such tragedy, we might question God’s justice: “Why not save all of them? How is this moral?” We scrutinise divine decisions about life and death, calling them unjust. Yet we claim the moral authority to make identical choices ourselves. When you have the choice whether someone lives or dies within you, explain to me how that’s your moral right? When God holds life and death in His hands, we call it questionable; when we do, we call it autonomy. We question God’s morality while assuming His prerogatives.
When facing the choice between life and death, there’s an intuitive answer: choose life. Even when someone feels unprepared for parenthood, adoption offers an alternative, difficult in the moment, but granting another person an entire lifetime of possibility.
Our culture celebrates freedom but often sidesteps the responsibility that comes with it. In this context, Pro-choice advocacy is really about escaping the consequence of our choices by taking all choices away from another human being. In elevating ourselves as gods without the benefit of divine wisdom, we have decided that another life’s value depends on our own autonomy, and in doing so, we have become something far darker. The danger in this mindset is clear: once one moral boundary is crossed, the next becomes easier to breach. The push by some bioethicists for “after-birth abortions,” especially for children with disabilities, is a chilling extension of abortion logic. It reflects a belief that life’s worth is tied to utility or capacity for pleasure, a view that strips the sense of sacredness.
I don’t want to oversimplify this complex issue. There are valid objections to the belief that abortion is generally wrong, particularly in cases involving rape. We will address these situations. It’s also crucial to emphasise that men have responsibilities here too. They must step up and support their partners during these difficult times. This isn’t just about women, it’s about shared accountability and care during life’s most fragile circumstances.
Objection 1: No one has the right to use another person’s body without consent
I know that as we talk about abortion, a natural concern arises: what about the woman in all of this? Where is her autonomy, her value, her rights? After all, she’s the one whose body is intimately involved, whose life changes most dramatically. Does anyone’s “right to life” override her right to make decisions about her own body?
I hear this argument all the time: “No one should be forced to use their body to keep someone else alive.” No one has the right to access another person’s body without clear, continuing consent, and that it’s simply unfair to expect a woman to carry a pregnancy she doesn’t want. In this paradigm, the fetus is cast as a sort of intruder, feeding off the mother, something like an uninvited guest, or even a “parasite”.
This strikes me as an odd way to frame the situation. The majority of pregnancies occur as the result of consensual sex, an act both people participate in, knowing—because no contraceptive is perfect—that creating new life is a possible outcome. Sexual intimacy always carries the potential for procreation. When that happens, to turn around and view the resulting life, one with your image and genetic legacy, as an “unconsented parasite” feels like a strange and misleading way to understand the situation.
The unborn baby is not an aggressor or adversary; it isn’t a scenario with a villain and a victim. At its heart, it’s a relationship, the natural result of choices made together, whether planned or not. If we start from the premise that pregnancy is a kind of hostile takeover, that the woman’s autonomy is under attack by her own child, it obscures what is truly at stake: whether convenience can justifiably outweigh the inherent value of another human life.
Perhaps an analogy will help: Imagine willingly sowing seeds in fertile soil, knowing full well that rain and sunlight might cause them to sprout. Even if you used the best weed killer (like contraception) to prevent growth, there’s always a chance that life will take root. To then view the resulting plants as an uninvited invasion of your garden, or to see yourself as a victim of their growth, is simply odd. The plants didn’t choose to grow there; they are the natural outcome of your decision to plant seeds in the first place.
Of course, this analogy is riddled with issues, but the point remains: the baby is not an attack on the mother’s autonomy. Calling a pregnancy a parasite or an “uninvited invasion” misses the basic cause-and-effect at play: the child-to-be didn’t force its way in; it’s simply there because of two people’s actions. It is a being bearing the image and genetic legacy of its parents, conceived in an act we all know can lead to new life. Engaging in that act, we accept its possible outcomes. Rather than viewing pregnancy as an imposition, I think it is far more meaningful to recognise it as a profound responsibility tied to those choices, a responsibility to protect and nurture the life we have created and that has been entrusted to our care.
Now, I get it: facing an unplanned pregnancy can upend your life. It can feel inconvenient, overwhelming, even like it’s coming at the “wrong” moment. But does that justify taking the life you’ve helped to create? In the vast majority of cases, a woman’s health is not fatally compromised by pregnancy, whereas abortion always ends the life of the baby. Having a child is not, in most cases, a threat to a woman’s life, though it may bring hardship. In truth, children are the greatest treasure a family can have. Women have the right to life: both their own and the lives of their children. In abortion, a human life is killed. That’s the scientific reality. And doctors who perform abortions (permit me to be blunt) are acting as hitmen.
A woman’s rights absolutely matter, and so do the rights of her unborn child. In nearly every abortion, we are talking not about an act of self-defense, but about ending the life of the most vulnerable tie to our shared humanity. I believe there’s a deeper kind of empowerment for women, a recognition that with the capacity to create life comes the profound responsibility to nurture and protect it. That responsibility isn’t a limitation; it can be the very thing that calls forth our greatest strength and character. Motherhood (and fatherhood) is tough. It demands sacrifice. But far from diminishing us, it’s that very sacrifice that so often transforms us, that builds reservoirs of maturity, empathy, and courage.
That’s the empowerment worth striving for: embracing the challenge, accepting the burden, and finding deeper meaning in sacrifice and care for others. Sometimes I worry that our culture has lost sight of this, confusing genuine growth with the avoidance of responsibility. Choosing to end a life to sidestep parenthood isn’t a step forward for women’s rights; it’s a refusal to engage with the most profound aspects of what it is to create and nurture new life—a process that, difficult as it is, can make us more courageous, loving, and, ultimately, more fulfilled.
Objection 2: What about rape?
Talking about abortion is always difficult, but it only gets harder when the conversation shifts to cases involving rape. I think about it, and I just feel heavy. It’s gut-wrenching to even imagine: a woman, already shattered by sexual violence, suddenly facing a pregnancy that, in a sense, ties her to her attacker. The sheer weight and pain of that situation can feel impossible to put into words. Sometimes we look at statistics, and I know pregnancies from rape account for less than 1% of abortions, and we lose sight of the fact that, behind every number, even the 1%, there’s a complex, deeply personal story. There’s a person. A life forever altered.
I’ll admit, this is one of the hardest situations for me to reconcile with my opposition to abortion. I can’t pretend this is simple or that I have it all worked out. I wrestle with this. Hard. This is where philosophy and conviction collide painfully with compassion. On one hand, my belief in the sanctity of life. On the other, the suffering and autonomy of a woman who’s already endured the worst. There’s no easy answer, and anyone who pretends otherwise probably isn’t listening closely enough.
Let’s start where we all agree: we all know rape is wrong. It’s a moral outrage and a gross violation of another person’s body and dignity. Its wrongness transcends cultural and historical contexts. In Deuteronomy 22:25, for instance, rape was considered so egregious that the punishment in certain cases was death, a reflection of the severity of the crime and its devastating impact on the victim.
But where do we get that conviction, that rape isn’t just “unpleasant” or inconvenient, but fundamentally, unequivocally wrong? For me, and for many people (whether they realise it or not), it comes from the belief that every human life holds inherent value and dignity. Your worth isn’t parceled out by society, nor is it based on being useful to others or providing some evolutionary advantage. It’s built into our very nature. Full stop. We’re beings imprinted with something sacred, the thumbprint of God Himself. And, in the most extraordinary act of love, God laid down His own life, showing just how much ours is worth, the infinite and transcendent One offering Himself for our sake. That’s truly radical. This isn’t just theology, it’s a profound declaration about who we are.
To violate someone by rape is to desecrate that, in the most literal sense. You can call it whatever you want, but if you peel back what’s really being attacked, it’s the sacredness and inviolability of that person’s humanity, a fact that can’t be explained away by biology or reduced to evolutionary utility. The wrongness of rape is grounded in the recognition that every person possesses inherent worth, worth that ought to be respected and protected from harm.
But here’s the issue: if we step back and look at the world through a purely secular lens, it gets muddy. Famous atheist thinkers like Richard Dawkins describe the universe as a place of “blind, pitiless indifference.” In that world, what standard do we really have for saying some things are evil, flat-out wrong, always and everywhere, no matter what? Empathy and social cooperation are good, sure. Secular humanism talks about moral responsibility and care. But when push comes to shove, those values don’t anchor themselves in anything deeper than consensus or utility. If we’re just clever animals arranging social contracts for mutual benefit, what makes rape, or any violation, objectively evil and not just socially disapproved? Secular humanism may advocate for ethics rooted in empathy and social cooperation, often arriving at values similar to theistic moral systems (which also elevates empathy), but it ultimately lacks an objective basis to define wellbeing as an absolute good.
I’m not saying secular folks can’t be moral or don’t care about justice. Of course they can, and many are deeply compassionate. But if we’re honest about atheistic frameworks, they really struggle to give us something like the “brute fact” of human value. There’s no scientific experiment that pinpoints intrinsic human dignity, no evolutionary mechanism that decrees, “Every person is sacred.” Rape may be what is happening, and we may find it repugnant, but no scientific method can derive a moral ought from the brute facts of what is. Within this atheistic framework, the concept of intrinsic human value emerges as an illusion, a product of delusional religious tradition and evolutionary utility, rather than objective truth.
Our outrage at things like rape isn’t grounded in objective facts about atoms and molecules, it’s grounded in something deeper, something that, frankly, sounds a lot like the Christian idea that humans carry the stamp of the divine, inherently valuable, no strings attached. We see this moral intuition everywhere. Why does rape disgust us across times and cultures? Why does it feel so much deeper than a breach of etiquette or a violation of a contract? I think, whether we realise it or not, our society still borrows from the theistic notion that all human beings possess inherent worth. The same logic, by the way, sits at the core of opposition to abortion: if every person, regardless of how small or how they came into existence, possesses inherent dignity, then that value can’t be nullified by the circumstance of origin.
The Biblical prophet Ezekiel wrote, “A child should not suffer for the sins of the father.” No one’s worth is determined by the ugliness or injustice that led to their arrival in this world. I hope I am not misunderstood. Let me state unequivocally: survivors of rape must never bear blame or shame for the violence inflicted upon them. Justice demands that perpetrators alone face full accountability for their crimes, and victims deserve unflinching compassion, support, and protection. Yet does the tragedy of a child’s conception, through no choice of their own, justify ending their life? Should a child, innocent of any wrongdoing, face death through abortion because of the circumstances surrounding their conception?
Whether conceived through rape, through incest, or born into poverty, or to the “wrong” ethnicity or family. The circumstances of your birth don’t define the value of your life. Every child, whether conceived through rape, incest, or within marriage, shares equal worth with all others.
To try to justify abortion on the grounds of rape is, whether we admit it or not, to say that a child conceived in such horror has less value, maybe even no value. And that, I think, is a proposition we should all pause over. Because at its core, the principle that every human life is sacred can’t be partial or situational without unravelling completely.
Objection 3: Doesn’t God Command Abortion in the Bible?
Let’s address a controversial rebuttal to all of this: does God order abortion?
Some biblical passages have sparked debate, particularly Numbers 5:11-31, it’s an Old Testament passage that describes “The Test for an Unfaithful Wife.” Here’s the gist: if a husband suspects his wife of cheating, he takes her to a priest for a ritual. If guilty, God curses her, causing her abdomen to swell and her womb to miscarry, a divine punishment for infidelity. If innocent, she’s unaffected and can continue having children. While some argue this implies a God-induced miscarriage, others stretch it further, claiming it’s an endorsement of abortion.
I think that’s a bit of a stretch. The primary purpose of the ritual described in this passage was to determine the guilt or innocence of a woman accused of adultery, not to terminate a pregnancy. The passage does not actually mention pregnancy or any concern about offspring; its focus is solely on the woman’s fidelity and the consequences of her potential guilt. And indeed, traditional interpretations of this ritual, even within Jewish law, restricted its application to non-pregnant women. As women had few rights in the ancient world, this ritual was seen as a way to protect women from unjust accusations and potential harm by jealous husbands. It was an allowance to human nature and cultural context, aiming to reduce the damage done to women by providing a formal process rather than endorsing abortion.
Another example comes from Exodus during the Israelites’ enslavement in Egypt. After Pharaoh repeatedly refuses to free them, God sends ten plagues to force his hand. The final and most devastating plague is the death of every firstborn in Egypt — humans and livestock alike. This event is pivotal in the Israelites’ liberation but raises uncomfortable questions about the value of life in religious texts, particularly when children are involved.
“At midnight the LORD struck down all the firstborn in Egypt, from the firstborn of Pharaoh, who sat on the throne, to the firstborn of the prisoner, who was in the dungeon, and the firstborn of all the livestock as well. Pharaoh and all his officials and all the Egyptians got up during the night, and there was loud wailing in Egypt, for there was not a house without someone dead.” (Exodus 12:29-30)
These are hard passages to stomach. But does this story offer any theological insight into modern issues like abortion? No. The narrative primarily addresses the liberation of an enslaved nation, and last time I checked, people aren’t having abortions to free slaves. It’s entirely unrelated. Another point is that the events in Exodus, including the death of the firstborn, must be understood within their historical and cultural context. These actions of God, set within the Israelites’ story, were preceded by multiple warnings to Pharaoh. The death of the Egyptian firstborn could have been averted had Pharaoh heeded these warnings and released the Israelites, who were being enslaved and systematically murdered. That being said, I still think this understanding can be difficult to reconcile with the notion of a God who elsewhere commands the preservation and protection of life.
Here’s one way I approach this: human worth is objectively rooted in God. As the author and Creator of life, God has sovereign authority over it. Just because God may kill doesn’t mean we can. The ethical prohibition against taking human life is grounded in the belief that individuals bear the divine image of God, making the act of murder a transgression against God through His representative. On the flip side, God, being sovereign, operates on a different level than we do. As the Creator, He has the right to give and take life as part of His divine authority. Life is a gift from Him, and decisions about life and death ultimately belong to Him. When God ends a life, it’s not inherently evil, it’s a decision not to continue the good of that life, which is something only He fully understands. That doesn’t mean I feel comfortable with every biblical passage on this topic, I don’t. But since God knows and sees infinitely more than I ever could, I trust that His judgments are right. After all, He’s God.
What is clear to me is that these biblical stories about God’s actions don’t give us permission to make our own rules about life and death, especially when it comes to things like abortion. Human worth and the sanctity of life aren’t subjective or situational to human opinion, they’re grounded in something transcendent: God Himself, who can give and can take life according to His purpose.
What if I have had an abortion?
I know the words in this essay may read as blunt, but this isn’t about shaming anyone who’s had an abortion. No one needs another lecture, and I’m not here to pretend I’ve got it all figured out. Every one of us has made choices we regret, crossed lines we said we never would, failed in moments that really counted. I’m no exception. So what sense does it make to heap more guilt on people who have already carried enough?
But we need to be honest: abortion is not just a private issue. It’s the consequence of the culture we all participate in—a culture that often splits sex from commitment, normalises abandonment, treats pregnancy as a problem, and offers little real support to women facing impossible situations. This isn’t simply about “their” choices. It’s about the world we’ve all helped build.
And let’s talk about men for a second, because their role is almost always skipped over in these conversations. Too often, men disappear when responsibility comes calling, pressure their partners into abortion, or act like bystanders to their own choices. That isn’t just weak, it’s unfair. If men want the privilege of sex, they should accept the responsibilities, too. It’s about time men were called to account, not left off the hook while women carry the consequences solo.
If feminism is going to mean anything worth fighting for, it has to stand up to this culture of abandonment. I dream of a more radical feminism, one that champions women as mothers and challenges men who shirk their responsibilities. Women shouldn’t be forced into making life-altering decisions in isolation because someone else decided it wasn’t their problem anymore. True equality means shared responsibility.
For anyone who’s been involved in abortion, in whatever way, I’d just say: take time to reflect and acknowledge the wrong done. Reflection is hard, but it’s where healing starts. I believe in a God who doesn’t write people off: a God whose mercy is deeper than our worst failures, and whose justice doesn’t cancel out love. Through Jesus, I’ve experienced real forgiveness, one that goes beyond slogans or self-help. If you’re carrying regret, I’d encourage you to seek Him; grace isn’t a fairy tale, it’s a real gift. This isn’t about condemnation. It’s about facing up to what’s broken, turning toward hope, and walking in a newness of life.
Voices for the Voiceless: Confronting the Abortion Debate
I wrote this essay because it’s a hard subject to think through—it’s tangled, contentious, and deeply uncomfortable. But precisely because the issue is so messy, we can’t shy away from it. If anything, we owe it to ourselves and each other to wade into that discomfort, to stumble through it, and—if we’re lucky—find some patch of solid ground.
I realise that for some readers, my perspective might seem instantly disqualified, after all, I’m not a woman. I know the retort: “You’re not a woman, so you don’t get a say.” I hear you. It’s not my intention to prescribe how anyone should live. In fact, that’s central to why I am troubled by abortion, not to control, but to advocate for those whose voices will never be heard. Abortion, at its core, ends a life that cannot defend itself. To me, that’s a tragedy. Unborn children haven’t done anything to deserve death, yet their lives are often ended in gruesome procedures, sacrificed at the altar of convenience.
There’s a particular irony in dismissing certain voices based on gender. It’s an intellectually lazy sort of gatekeeping. The landmark Roe v. Wade decision, the case that shifted the landscape of abortion rights, was rendered by an all-male Supreme Court. If the gender of the speaker is grounds for dismissal, then what of their ruling? That fact alone challenges the idea that gender should always dictate who gets to weigh in on moral and legal issues. Understanding right from wrong doesn’t require personal experience, though that may be helpful. You don’t have to be a victim of rape to say rape is wrong, or be in a relationship to understand that domestic violence is unacceptable. Similarly, you don’t need the ability to bear children to recognise that killing an unborn life is wrong. This isn’t just about personal experiences or gender, it’s about broader principles that affect society as a whole.
Steven Pinker, the psychologist, has argued that the world is less violent than ever—that things are getting better. Really? Is it? It’s a tough claim to evaluate. The standard dictionary definition of violence focuses on physical force to harm or kill, but that feels too narrow. It fails to capture the broader spectrum of violence expressed through attitudes, institutions, laws, and judgments. Violence isn’t limited to physical acts; even the threat of violence can be as coercive as its execution. Sometimes it’s visible; sometimes it’s embedded, silent, and deadly. It can be blunt or invisible, deliberate or careless, physical or psychological—a reality far broader and darker than statistics can easily capture. Ultimately, whether violence is truly on the decline depends on how we choose to define it.
The 20th century was a blood-soaked chapter in human history, marked by an unimaginable brutality that defies the idea that humanity is becoming less violent. More than 231 million lives were lost to horrors such as executions, gas chambers, death camps, bombings, invasions, and engineered famines. The horrors of the Holocaust and the Gulag are chilling reminders. Moreover, history reminds us that when a particular atrocity occurs, it often resurfaces, perpetuated by the subtle influence of the copycat effect.
While today’s violence may seem less theatrical, that does not make it any less pervasive or insidious. Violence has slipped, almost undetected, into places society once identified as sacred: the womb. The normalisation of abortion as a right, a symbol of progress, is framed as freedom… but that framing, for me, doesn’t disguise the chilling disconnection from the value of life. Over 1.5 billion abortions have occurred globally, which is more than the death counts from all the genocides, all the wars we swear never to repeat. The justification? Convenience. Freedom. But let’s not bluff ourselves: just as the Nazis justified atrocity by labelling Jews “less than human,” we sanction “invisible” deaths by assuming the authority to determine that unborn children are unworthy of protection. The difference is packaging, not principle. When society says that ending millions of unborn lives is “progress,” so long as the right words are used, it is moral confusion masquerading as virtue.
Then there’s the cold argument that abortion is not that bad because it’s a solution to overpopulation (though it’s questionable with declining birth rates whether that really is an issue). How is that any different from the reasoning behind history’s bleakest genocides: removing “undesirables” for the “greater good?” What line do we think we’re drawing here? Killing as policy is wrong, no matter what practical benefits we think it delivers. Even if abortion could address certain social issues, systematically reducing populations is inhumane. Some actions remain wrong, no matter how practical they seem.
I stand firm in the belief that abortion is generally wrong. If you take anything away from this essay, let it be this question that lies at the heart of everything I’ve said: What is it about a human being that is equally true of every other human being, something that can never be lost, and therefore forms the basis for our equal value and the universal, unalienable nature of human rights?
I believe the answer is this: the love of God, and the fact that we are made in His image.
God created us to love us. He created us with a purpose: to be His image-bearers in the world, expressing this same love to others. This is what makes human life undeniably precious and worthy of protection. The measure of human value is personal, measured by the value-conferring love of a personal God. As the biblical writer John put it, “for God so loved the world, he gave his one and only Son, so that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.” God is not indifferent or alien; rather, He is engaged with creation, vulnerable precisely because of His willingness to enter into relationship. He stooped down to our level, suffered alongside us, and offered Himself to lift us up.
Your worth goes far beyond biology, abilities, achievements, or circumstances. It does not fluctuate with passing trends, the shifting moods of society, or in relation to anyone else’s situation. Instead, our worth is rooted in the unchanging truth of a God who gave Himself, through Jesus Christ, to bridge the divide between our flaws and His unconditional love, making us His own beloved children.
If you have experienced abortion, know this: when you come to God with a sincere and genuine heart, He will never reject you. The God who calls us His children does not cast us aside, no matter our past. He is like the father who runs to embrace his lost child, and He does not “abort” his own.
