When Conviction Becomes a Captivity

I’ve been carrying a weight in my heart lately. Between headlines and personal wounds, I feel the tension in our world pressing in. And more than ever, it seems we’re confronted by a chilling truth: some people are so sure they’re right—so convinced their version of reality is the only one—that they’ll destroy anyone they see as an obstacle.

“Doubt is not a pleasant condition, but certainty is absurd.” — Voltaire
Voltaire’s words remind us that doubt may feel uncomfortable, but it’s essential. The moment we trade doubt for absolute certainty, we step onto dangerous ground—where our “rightness” becomes a weapon instead of a guide.

Look at the Michigan church attack. A gunman entered a house of worship, opened fire, and set it ablaze. His reasoning was grimly simple: the people inside weren’t just wrong; they were enemies.

I’ve felt that same spirit closer to home. I’ve been attacked, my loved ones threatened, my business dragged through the mud—not because of what I’ve done, but because someone decided I was so irredeemably wrong that punishing me was justified. And when people reach that point of certainty, they’ll do anything: insult, abuse, threaten, harass, even harm. To them, their conviction grants permission for all manner of evil.

Then there’s the assassination of Charlie Kirk. To his killer, Kirk wasn’t simply a political opponent or a man with unpopular opinions. He was a danger so intolerable that only death would silence him. Debate and dialogue weren’t even considered—violence was the only answer.

Conviction itself isn’t the enemy. It gives us courage and clarity. But when conviction calcifies into absolute certainty, it turns deadly. What should remain an argument becomes a battle. What should be a disagreement becomes dehumanization.

“I don’t like that man. I must get to know him better.” — Abraham Lincoln
Lincoln understood something we’ve nearly forgotten—that knowing someone changes everything. When we lean into relationship rather than retreat into judgment, we strip away the caricature and find a human being.

That’s what terrifies me most—not just the violence we’ve seen, but how close we all are to justifying it ourselves. If someone else’s “wrongness” is enough to erase their humanity, where does it end? What belief, what difference, is safe from that logic?

If there’s a way forward, it isn’t through abandoning beliefs. It’s by holding them with humility—remembering that even those we disagree with are still human.

“An enemy is one whose story we have not heard.” — Gene Knudsen Hoffman
Hoffman’s words strike at the heart of this problem: ignorance breeds enemies, but listening can create peace. To hear someone’s story is to recognize their humanity—and that recognition is the antidote to violence.

Because the moment we forget that, the moment we let certainty erase their worth, we’ve already stepped onto the same path that leads to destruction.