As a private lawyer, I could bill $750 an hour, but I don't.

Hear now the words of Jay Alan Sekulow, who proclaimed with stark honesty: “As a private lawyer, I could bill $750 an hour, but I don’t.” This statement, though simple, carries with it the weight of choice and the meaning of purpose. For here a man acknowledges his power to command wealth and yet claims to turn from it, setting aside personal gain for a cause he deems greater. In his words, we find a lesson about value—not the value measured in gold or coin, but the value of a life devoted to conviction.

The meaning of this saying lies in the contrast between ability and decision. Sekulow makes clear that he has the skill, the training, and the standing to demand an immense sum—$750 for a single hour of his counsel. Yet, he insists, he does not. This “not” is the core of the matter. For wealth may purchase comforts and elevate reputation, but it cannot alone define a legacy. To refuse such riches, or to redirect one’s gifts toward higher callings, is to declare that purpose outweighs payment, and that true wealth is measured in what one serves rather than what one earns.

The ancients, too, revered such renunciation. Consider Cincinnatus, the Roman farmer who, when called upon to save the Republic, laid down his plow and took command. He could have seized power and wealth for himself, but instead, after victory, he returned quietly to his fields. His choice made him immortal in history—not because of what he gained, but because of what he refused. In the same way, Sekulow’s declaration suggests that choosing not to pursue the full measure of wealth can itself be an act of greatness, one that honors principle over profit.

History offers us other examples. Mahatma Gandhi, trained in the law, might have lived as a prosperous barrister in London or South Africa, commanding wealth and prestige. Yet he turned instead to serve the cause of justice for his people, embracing simplicity, rejecting riches, and making his life a weapon against oppression. His refusal of personal fortune became the very foundation of his moral power. In this, his path illustrates the wisdom in Sekulow’s words: that sometimes the refusal to exploit one’s talents for gain creates the space for higher, nobler service.

Yet let us not hear these words only as pride, but as challenge. For the lure of wealth is strong, and many surrender to it gladly. To say, “I could, but I don’t,” is to remind us that restraint itself is a form of strength. Not all battles are won by grasping; some are won by letting go. The discipline to deny oneself the glittering prize is often harder than the labor to earn it. But it is in such discipline that integrity is proven, and in such restraint that one’s true purpose is revealed.

The lesson, therefore, is plain: do not measure your worth by what you could earn, but by what you choose to do with the talents you have. If fortune is available to you, ask whether it serves your mission or distracts from it. If you turn from wealth for the sake of a greater good, count that not as loss but as gain, for the richness of honor outlasts the richness of coin.

Therefore, O listener, let this teaching take root: you too may be faced with choices between profit and principle, between ease and duty, between what you could take and what you ought to give. Do not be deceived by the glitter of temporary wealth. Seek instead the lasting light of purpose, for it is this alone that will endure when the hours of life have passed.

So let Sekulow’s words echo in your memory: “As a private lawyer, I could bill $750 an hour, but I don’t.” They are more than words of profession; they are a reminder that restraint, guided by conviction, is itself a triumph. Let your life, too, be measured not by what you amass, but by what you serve. For in service lies the true treasure of mankind.