The measure of our grief is the measure of our responsibility. We need not one Charlie Kirk, but a thousand. We need millions. Only then can we ensure that no single bullet from a malicious man can blot out a voice of truth.
Some of the ghoulish Left celebrate his death: even professionals; even physicians. Their joy reveals evil more than argument. Charlie Kirk said it plainly: evil only makes sense in the presence of God. Without God, cruelty is just random noise. With God, evil has shape, and therefore resistance gains meaning.
Charlie carried himself as a coach and teacher, giving order where chaos threatens to rule. He offered discipline where confusion reigns.
Charlie Kirk has been taken from us, and we feel the weight. His assassination on September 10 reminds us that courage itself carries risk. We need to collect our strength, to be courageous, to be gladiators, with the tenacity and bravery of lions. We need to go out to battle with our heads held high.
Charlie stepped into his arena willingly, not for sport, but for truth, and not for physical combat, but for spiritual, mental, psychological, and healing conversation(s). He met hatred as if it were an onrushing tide, and he did not flinch. Hatred poured toward him, and he met it with civility, with humor, with caring, with aplomb. We isolate and hold him in our minds because he was so effortlessly good at it, and as with all virtuosi, we see the performance and we have no idea of the work that goes beyond, the hours put in to master the technique.
Civilization means nothing without civility. That truth has not changed. When mobs confronted him on college campuses, they carried venom, scripts, and prepared barbs. He answered them not with rage, but with clarity. His resistance was never violent. His weapons were language and conviction. He stood when others knelt. He spoke when silence was demanded.
Even satire confirmed his reach. South Park lampooned him with “Charlie Kirk Awards” for podcasters. Satire is a rough crown, but it crowns only those who matter. Mockery, however cruel, acknowledges influence, and he smiled at it all, being the master debater he was.
Charlie never shrank from the uncomfortable truth. In 2020, when the streets burned and hysteria drowned out reason, he named it plainly: Floydapalooza. He insisted that Derek Chauvin followed police procedure and was railroaded in the trial, as he was unable to present the police manual that documented the “knees-on-the-neck” and “shoulder pose” as recommended. George Floyd was in the grip of fentanyl; he likely died from it. Ideally, a sensible society would have recognized the tragedy reflected in a drug, more than a race war.
Mr. Kirk refused to let facts be buried under slogans. Faith anchored him. He admitted sin and weakness, and he testified that he had been saved by Jesus. With grave self-knowledge, in an interview, he stated that if something should happen to him, he wanted to be remembered for his faith, not his politics. Clearly, we will do both. He filled what Blaise Pascal described as the God-shaped hole in every heart.
He understood Chesterton’s warning that when you believe in nothing, you end up believing in everything: the situation sadly on our campuses, which Mr. Kirk remedied, selflessly and self-deprecatingly (never having completed college; in retrospect, thank God). He lived life, had started a family, young, and has two beautiful children and a beautiful wife who will never further enjoy his touch, guidance, wisdom, humor, perseverance, and knowledge — save for videos and memories.
Charlie understood power as well. One must respect it as one respects a lion—not by admiring its hunger, but by acknowledging its teeth. The left understands power. They wield it with precision. Charlie met that power, not with fear, but with courage. He channeled the rawest aggression into discourse, much like a coach channels unruly boys into football, teaching discipline and maturity.
That channeling matters. Football has long taken impulses that might otherwise erupt in chaos and turned them into ordered strength. The game disciplines the body and the mind, forcing boys to practice, to follow rules, to respect referees and coaches, to hit hard but within bounds. Without such outlets, those same impulses can drift toward destruction.
My own nephew plays football and excels academically as well. He had been preparing to attend a Turning Point training session, hoping to sharpen his intellect and his courage in the same way he sharpens his body on the field. His devastation at Charlie’s death is real, but so is his resolve. His story is proof that when you guide young people with structure and truth, you prepare them not only to compete in games but to stand firm in life.
After the Charlie Hebdo massacre, the world declared “Je suis Charlie.” I am Charlie. Today, those words must be spoken again. And when you remove one letter from Je suis, you see Jesus. That is no accident. That was his anchor.
We will not have another Charlie Kirk. There cannot be another one. But we can have many. And we must.
Charlie Kirk can no longer carry on. But we can. And we must.
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