Ultimately, abolitionists believe they are fighting a holy Christian mission, answerable to the God they worship.

In their amicus brief, they wrote, “The court is not only bound by the text of the Constitution, but it is also bound by the limits on human civil authority revealed by God.”

To stop a woman from entering an abortion clinic, you have about 15 seconds to make her change her mind, Mr. Durbin said, casually holding a yellow Yerba can in his Tempe, Ariz., office recently, and pointing to a stack of signs his team takes to clinics that say, “Babies are murdered here.”

Mr. Durbin is working to achieve abolitionist goals with a multipronged approach: evangelizing online and preaching at his church; training congregations on how to keep women from walking into an abortion clinic; and traveling to state legislatures to promote bills classifying abortion as homicide.

He works in a studio office space behind a door with a sign displaying the name of a meat shop and crossed knives. The sign is a decoy for security, he said, to throw off opponents. The inside is dark, industrial and metal, with movie posters for films like Quentin Tarantino’s “The Hateful Eight.” Tubs of 4Patriot emergency food survival kits were stacked nearby, with water, protein powders and chia seeds.

Mr. Durbin, 44, has five children, as well as three grandchildren and five black belts. Before he was a pastor and online activist, he was a national karate champion who played Johnny Cage in Mortal Kombat: The Live Tour. He married his wife when he was 20 and she was 18 and pregnant with their first child, and he devoted his life to Jesus after he nearly overdosed on ecstasy, he said.

He often tells the story of how they adopted their youngest son after the boy’s birth mother sought an abortion when doctors wrongly expected him to be born with spina bifida.

He is motivated by a belief he is obeying God. “It’s a command of God to rescue those who are being led to the slaughter,” he said. “That’s not a request or a suggestion. It’s, rescue them.”

It is no accident that “abolition” is the word the movement chose for itself. Mr. Durbin and his fellow activists portray their mission as comparable to the push to abolish slavery in the United States before the Civil War. And abortion abolitionists — as well as many in the broader anti-abortion movement — equate supporters of abortion rights with defenders of slavery.

“There were people arguing against the abolitionists at the time,” he said. “They were saying, ‘Well, sure, it’s wrong. But, if you don’t want a slave, don’t get one.’ You know, so everything was sort of, ‘That’s their plantation, their choice.’”

He takes issue with news articles saying he wants to see women who have abortions executed. But he wants women who have the procedure to be prosecuted for homicide under their state laws.

“I do believe that the unjustified taking of human life, if provable, ultimately, justly, ought to be capital punishment,” he said. “However, I don’t trust our system today to deal that out.”

He said he also wanted people to know, “There can be forgiveness in Jesus Christ.”

At a time when church attendance is often shrinking, Apologia Church had so many families on a recent Sunday, about a month before the Supreme Court decision, that it ran out of bulletins. Fathers wheeled in children in wagons, and mothers held babies while leading other small children by the hand. A man at the door greeted them in a black shirt that read, “Jesus is Lord, pass the ammo.”

Mr. Durbin preached from the book of Proverbs, which he said offered wisdom on every part of life, including about “nations rejecting God’s wisdom and then being destroyed,” and “how a Christian mother looks when she builds a home, over and against the average unbelieving mother.” A woman’s role in the home “raises up little heroes, and little image bearers of God,” he said.

Later that week, at 7 a.m., about six men from the church lined the only entrance to the Planned Parenthood clinic in Tempe, holding signs as the hot Arizona sun rose. “We care about these women,” Chad, a father of five who gave only his first name, said. “We are their last hope.”

He wore a body camera, “for accountability and protection,” he said, and cited a verse from Proverbs that “tells us to rescue those that are being led away to the slaughter.”

Another man, Daryl Groves, 55, who found the church online about five years ago, used an amplifier: “We would even adopt your child,” he said.

Past the line the men could not cross, a group of clinic volunteers in rainbow jackets gathered to escort clients inside.

At the post-Roe celebration at the Brazilian steakhouse, a woman sat at the center of the long table.

Like many people who go to the church, Christine Schwan first stumbled upon Mr. Durbin on YouTube and saw him give a Mother’s Day message about a woman who did not abort her baby. Days later, she joined one of the church’s protests at a Planned Parenthood clinic. It was something she felt she had to do.

“Because of what I had done,” Ms. Schwan, 63, said matter-of-factly in the church studio. “Because of having had an abortion.”

Asked how old she was when she had the procedure, she simply said, “younger,” and declined to give specifics. They were irrelevant to the real truth of the matter, she said.

“I am not a victim,” she said. “I was a sinner. I was a complete sinner.”

Ms. Schwan is now an assistant to Mr. Durbin and the other pastors, all men. When Mr. Durbin suggested she share her story, she agreed. She had grown up Catholic but said she was not truly saved until several years ago when she abandoned teaching yoga and “new age” ideas.

“What upsets me most is when the pro-life industry says that women are victims,” she said. “That means I don’t have to take responsibility for myself.”

She started to cry and took her head in her hands. “I’m so sorry,” she said.

She opened her laptop and read aloud from the Old Testament. The passage was about King Belshazzar of ancient Babylon, who was feasting when mysterious fingers of a hand wrote on the wall of his imminent destruction.

“They thought they were impregnable,” she said. Her voice grew shaky.

“Do you know what I did? I killed a baby. It doesn’t get any worse than that,” she said. “Because that is what we were created for. God created us to bear children. To carry them. That is a gift, that is not a curse. That is a gift. And we are special.”

She believed what her pastors taught, even if it meant she would face severe consequences.

“I took a life, I should give my life,” she said. If authorities were to come for her, “I would right now, I would absolutely go to court and say, ‘Yeah, I am a sinner, I did it.’ And if that was my punishment, I would take it.”

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