What about my people?

Amidst the well-known story of Nehemiah rebuilding the wall of Jerusalem—often told to highlight his extraordinary leadership—we discover something deeper than bricks, blueprints, or bold strategies. Yes, Nehemiah was a man of vision, courage, and organizational brilliance. But if we pause and listen carefully, we hear a cry that makes his story more than historical: a heart cry for his people. His story is ultimately not just about leadership; it is about love—a love that refused to ignore the pain of his people. 

We know Nehemiah as someone who showed deep care for his nation and played an unwavering leadership role in rebuilding both the physical structure of Jerusalem and the spiritual foundation of its people. His name is attached to revival, restoration, and renewal. Yet, it is not his skill alone that inspires us—it is his burden. And that burden begins not in Jerusalem, but far away, in the luxury of a royal palace. 

Nehemiah was not born in Jerusalem. He was born and raised in exile, in the Persian Empire. The city of his ancestors was a distant memory, a name in prayers, a place of heritage but not experience. The Bible introduces him as the son of Hakaliah, a Jew living under foreign rule. Despite his privileged role as cupbearer to King Artaxerxes I, he was still part of a scattered, humbled people whose homeland lay in ruins. 

As a cupbearer, Nehemiah held a trusted and prestigious position. He lived in royal surroundings, with access to the inner court of the most powerful empire of the day. His life was one of comfort and safety. To most people, Nehemiah had made it. He had no pressing reason to worry about a far-off city he had never seen. No one expected him to care. 

But one question broke through his comfort and shattered his ease: “What about my people?” 

When Nehemiah heard that Jerusalem’s walls were broken down and its gates burned with fire, he did not brush it off as an unfortunate report or someone else’s responsibility. He sat down and wept. He mourned. He fasted and prayed for days (Nehemiah 1:4). The ruins of Jerusalem weren’t just physical—they were personal. His people’s shame became his grief. His identity was tied to theirs. His comfort could not silence their cries. 

And isn’t that the heart of God? We hear in Nehemiah’s concern an echo of the divine question once posed to Israel: “Is it a time for you yourselves to dwell in your paneled houses, while this house lies in ruins?” (Haggai 1:4). Just as God called His people to remember the temple, Nehemiah felt a divine tug to remember his people, their dignity, their covenant, their future. 

This isn’t just Nehemiah’s story—it’s a mirror for our generation. In a world where many leave their homeland in pursuit of opportunity, how many forget their people? How many forget their roots, their community, their purpose? Surrounded by comfort, success, or even survival, we’re tempted to ask, “What about me?” rather than “What about my people?” 

We live in a culture that often prioritizes individual gain over collective care. We are taught to “move on” and “move up,” often at the cost of disconnecting from those who shaped us. We forget our families, our hometowns, our communities, and the places that once nurtured our faith. But Nehemiah shows us that real maturity, real faith, and real leadership begin when we carry a burden not just for our own well-being, but for the restoration of others. 

We don’t want to risk our life and our comfort for the restoration and growth of others. We live in a society that cares for others only if they benefit. When any concern for others comes, the question is always, ‘what about me?’, ‘what do I get in return?’. But Nehemiah’s heart was different. He chose to risk everything.

Nehemiah's response wasn’t just internal. His burden moved him to action. He risked everything by appearing sad before the king—a dangerous gesture in Persian courts, where sorrow could be seen as disloyalty. He asked for permission to leave, for letters of protection, for provision. All of this was risky. Jerusalem had a reputation for rebellion, and Nehemiah’s request could easily have been seen as political treachery. But his heart overruled his fear. With God’s favor and the king’s blessing, he journeyed over 1,000 miles to a city in ruins. 

Once there, Nehemiah didn't call for a grand parade. He quietly assessed the damage at night. He walked through the ruins. He listened. He prayed. Then he spoke to the people—not as a stranger, but as one of them. “You see the trouble we are in... Come, let us rebuild the wall of Jerusalem, and we will no longer be in disgrace” (Nehemiah 2:17). His burden became their rallying cry. 

But Nehemiah's mission didn’t stop at construction. He confronted injustice—challenging the wealthy who were exploiting the poor. He led spiritual reforms, calling people back to the Word of God. He organized worship, reinstituted feasts, and helped his people remember who they were. His leadership was holistic—touching hearts, minds, and homes. 

Remarkably, Nehemiah did all this for a people and a place he had never seen. He didn’t need a childhood memory of Jerusalem to move his heart—his identity as a child of God was enough. He knew that to be part of God’s people was to be part of God’s mission. He understood that caring for his people wasn’t just a cultural obligation, but a divine calling.

And that same calling is ours. You may not feel deeply connected to your village, your church, your community, or even your family. But God does. God’s heart beats for your people, and He often places you where you are—not to forget them, but to be His ambassador among them. He doesn’t just save us from something; He saves us for something—to serve, to restore, and to rebuild. 

If you have experienced the joy of salvation, the forgiveness of sins, and the healing of your soul, then ask yourself: What about my people? What about those who haven’t heard? What about those who are still broken, still burdened, still without hope? We cannot truly celebrate our faith if we’re unwilling to share it. We cannot dwell in spiritual luxury while our own people remain in ruins. 

Nehemiah’s example leaves us with a challenge: When comfort calls and culture encourage self-focus, will we ask the costly question? Will we risk our convenience for the sake of others? Will we say, like Nehemiah, “I will not rest until they stand again”? 

Nehemiah had no personal gain in Jerusalem. But he had a divine burden. That burden transformed him—and through him, a nation. God doesn’t need perfect people—He uses burdened people. People who are willing to leave comfort for calling. People who cannot ignore the pain of others. People who dare to ask the question that changes everything. 

Now the question turns to us: “What about my people?”

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