The stadium roars with grief. Eyes are closed. Hymns soar. Hands are lifted. Prayers echo. Every note, every phrase works on the listener. Each part of the memorial service designed to move emotion, shape thought, and compel devotion to a cause, to a movement.
This was an unusual gathering, far from a typical celebration of life. It swung wildly between radically different tones—somber, stirring, downright scary, and shamelessly pandering—part Funeral Mass, part MAGA rally.
Looming over the proceedings was the long shadow of a hugely ambitious and influential conservative activist. The dominant voice of the hard-right youth movement. An ardent Trump devotee with unparalleled access to the president. A man who peddled fear and hate, cloaked in Christian love. The event mirrored his life: a seemingly sincere faith, forever at odds with his inner Rush Limbaugh—publicly proclaiming Christ while resorting behind the scenes to bare-knuckle, winner-take-all partisan politics
Charlie Kirk is dead. Politicians, pundits, and some church leaders are rushing to frame his passing as the spark of a spiritual revival, a triumph of civility, patriotism, and a “Christ-founded” America.
Rhetorical Dissonance
But when we look closely at his words and the ideas he championed, a very different story emerges. Kirk defined the “American way of life” as one free of “the lesbian, gay, transgender garbage” in schools. He said children shouldn’t “have to hear the Muslim call to prayer five times a day.” He portrayed Haitian migrants as “raping your women and hunting you down at night” and claimed “Jewish donors” were behind “anti-white” policies.
This contrast between public praise and private rhetoric is not just dissonant; it is revealing. What some celebrated as debate or spirited argument was actually language steeped in white supremacy, Christian nationalism, and ideological violence—words meant to justify fear, harm, and domination in service of a pernicious agenda. In his own words: “Shock and awe. Force,” he wrote, referring to Trump deploying troops to Washington, D.C. “We’re taking our country back from these cockroaches.”
Just as America once sanitized the Confederacy, looking away from the truths of slavery and the people who defended it, so too is Charlie Kirk’s legacy being whitewashed. Pundits, politicians, and even some church leaders are turning his life into a story of civility and moral courage, erasing the harm he caused. As Ta-Nehisi Coates asks piercingly: “If you would look away from the words of Charlie Kirk, from what else would you look away?” We cannot afford to look away.
Reshaping a Nation
The public grief we are witnessing mirrors the very fruit of Kirk’s life: division, discord, and the relentless drive to polarize rather than reconcile. His mission, made plain through podcasts, speeches, and social media activity, was to reshape America into something narrower, harsher, less diverse: more white, more conservative, more Christian, more like him. He preached a version of the “Great Replacement” theory, claimed Democratic immigration policies were designed to diminish white demographics, and labeled white privilege “a racist idea.”
It is no surprise that Erika Kirk, in her eulogy, reflected on the corrosive power of words: “This is what happens when we lose the ability and the willingness to communicate. We get violence.” Her words echo the teaching of the book of James, which warns that religion is empty if we claim to follow God but fail to control our tongues, and that true faith shows itself in “caring for the orphans and widows who suffer needlessly” (James 1:27). James also reminds us that the tongue is a flame, capable of setting an entire life on fire. Words can wound, corrupt, and spread harm far beyond their source, but they can also build, heal, and guide if rooted in love.
Kirk is being hailed as a model of civil discourse, yet I find myself wishing he had wrestled with these truths in his lifetime. Had he done so, he might have confronted the ways his words fueled fear and division, rather than embodying the humility, mercy, and care for others that genuine faith demands. When words become weapons instead of bridges, communities fracture and harm spreads. Erika’s reflection and the wisdom of James together offer a stark reminder: language matters, religion matters, and neither can be separated from the call to love and protect those most vulnerable.
Which Way to Salvation?
This reminder also exposes a harsher reality: civility alone does not make words Christlike or true. When words are rooted in fear, in demonization, or in the intentional manipulation of people’s beliefs and emotions to serve political or religious agendas, they bear the bitter, rotten fruit at the heart of the false gospel Charlie Kirk peddled.
He promoted Christian nationalism, not the faith handed down from the first followers of Jesus—who laid down their lives out of love for Christ and their neighbors to spread a gospel of love, mercy, and justice. He promised salvation through political power, through “taking back” the country, through control. But the gospel of Jesus is not about control. It is about love that sets people free.
Watching footage from Kirk’s funeral, I could not help but think of Jesus’ words in Matthew 7: “Not everyone who calls out to me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ will enter the Kingdom of Heaven. Only those who do the will of my Father in heaven. On judgment day many will say to me, ‘Lord, we prophesied in your name, cast out demons in your name, performed many miracles in your name.’ But I will reply, ‘I never knew you. Get away from me, you who break God’s laws.’”
Invoking the name of Jesus, wrapping ideology in the language of Christ, is not the same as following him. The gospel is not judged by volume, passion, or religious language, but by its fruit. The fruit of Christian nationalism is clear: fear, anger, division, violence. The fruit of the Spirit, by contrast, is “love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control” (Galatians 5:22–23). Which fruit are we cultivating? Which Spirit are we following?
Invisible Harm
The danger of this rhetoric lies in its familiarity. For many, Kirk’s language did not sound extreme; it sounded normal, even righteous. It echoed youth group lessons, Sunday sermons, Bible studies. That is the insidious power of Christian nationalism: it normalizes harm until it becomes invisible.
Yet this moment is not about left versus right. It is about truth versus lies and neighbor-love versus demonization. Faithful grief begins with honesty. To mourn well is not to erase the past or smooth over discomfort. It is to name what was true—the good, the harmful, the complicated—and let sorrow guide us into reflection. Sanitizing events turns words into myth; truth-telling opens the door to repentance, learning, and accountability.
Grief in this tumultuous season invites us to hear Jesus’ words not as threat but as call. Contrary to the fire-and-brimstone crowd, the gospel begins with connection, not condemnation; it widens the circle and stretches out arms in embrace. Christ calls us to love the unloved, welcome the outsider, care for the broken, and resist fear and domination. Our task is to grieve with honesty, live with courage, and follow a gospel of radical, transformative love.
Religious language matters. Words like “martyr,” “revival,” and “spiritual warfare” are invitations to live faithfully, not slogans to justify rage. History warns how sacred words can be twisted into tools of domination—from the Crusades to modern political rallies. At Charlie Kirk’s funeral, Christian language was woven into political mobilization, sanctifying exclusion and fear. Words form communities; when leaders cloak political aims in sacred language, loyalty can be misdirected.
Change is patient, tender work. People transform when listened to, guided, and shown a new way of being human—not when shouted at. Discipleship is costly, and if we take the gospel seriously, we are called to examine how our words, actions, and beliefs shape life now.
Whose Kingdom?
Are we bringing heaven or hell to earth—for ourselves, for our neighbors, for all creation? If our gospel seeks control and subjugation, we betray Christ; if it widens the table, grief can repair rather than recruit, teaching mercy instead of fear. Our calling is to educate, empower, and embody a faith rooted in love.
Does our witness, in the way we grieve the increasing violence and division in our world today, testify to fear or to love, to exclusion or inclusion, to the idolatry of power or to the living, transformative God revealed in Jesus Christ?
We are called to lament. To love. To bless. We cannot afford to look away—not from Kirk’s words, not from the ideological forces that shape our communities, not from the moral clarity Jesus calls us to exercise.
So let us name honestly. Let us grieve with open hearts, acknowledging not only our personal sorrow but also the pain and harm experienced by others. Let us live courageously. Let us cultivate the fruits of the Spirit. Let us bear witness to a gospel that redeems and restores, that widens the circle, and that embodies the love of God for all people.
This is our calling in the face of Charlie Kirk’s death: not to echo the loudest voices of fear, but to choose courage, clarity, and compassion; not to mimic the rhetoric of division, but to live into the gospel that makes the world new.
Amen.
Image: Pamela Reynoso
About Post Author
Yes.
Rev. Stoner, you helped me better understand a point of view different from my own. At the least, it’s a good example of “multistable perception” or different interpretations of the same sensory output. It is how two people can look at the same object and see different things, even though the physical stimulus is identical.