I Wasn’t There. But I Felt It.
I didn’t attend the Charlie Kirk memorial. But I watched the videos. I read the posts. I heard the voices calling it “holy.” And I believe many were sincere.
But what I felt as I watched wasn’t reverence.
It was dissonance.
I didn’t feel inspired. I felt displaced.
Not because I’m grieving a loss, but because I’m reckoning with a version of faith I don’t recognize. This isn’t a ‘back in my day’ clap back.
There are moments when we witness something so publicly embraced by our “brothers and sisters in Christ” and quietly wonder: Am I still one of them? If I don’t resonate with the tears and declarations and theater of it all, am I somehow…less faithful?
No. I am not less faithful. I am simply learning to follow Jesus, not the crowd.
Faith Without the Fanfare
The online testimonies about the memorial speak of unity, kindness, patriotism, forgiveness, and worship. There are stories of people standing in the heat for hours, dressed in Sunday best, sharing food and water, praying with strangers.
Those moments matter. I believe them. And yet, I also believe that a sacred atmosphere does not make a sacred motive.
Forgiveness proclaimed into a microphone before 60,000 can be powerful.
But Jesus also wept in silence.
He didn’t need a platform to validate His mercy.
He forgave from a cross, not a stage.
There is a difference between public faithfulness and faithful publicity.
When the Cross Becomes a Cultural Identity
The pain I carry isn’t about one memorial. It’s about what that event has come to represent: the merging of American nationalism, performative grief, and revival language so entangled that you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
We have not been silenced. We have not been persecuted. We have been platformed. Broadcasted. Trending.
And it is that which troubles my soul.
When we use the language of persecution in the context of political disappointment or social discomfort, we cheapen the faith of those who have truly suffered for their beliefs.
We confuse cultural preference with eternal truth.
This isn’t courage. It’s cosplay.
Forgiveness as Spectacle
The most-shared moment from the service was the widow’s public forgiveness of the shooter. I don’t doubt her sincerity. I am moved by her strength.
But I also know this: Forgiveness doesn’t need an audience to be holy.
In Scripture, forgiveness often happens behind closed doors: between brothers, between kings and prophets, between Jesus and the broken.
It is slow. Painful. Unseen.
So when forgiveness becomes applause-worthy, I worry it becomes performance.
As Guy Debord once wrote, “The spectacle is not a collection of images, but a social relation among people, mediated by images.” When sacred moments are curated for mass consumption, even unintentionally, we risk substituting reflection with reaction and communion with consumption.
And when 60,000 people are prompted to stand and cry, not in mourning, but in spiritual euphoria, I ask: Are we worshipping Jesus, or are we worshipping our own image of Him?
This Isn’t “Their Side” or “Ours”
Before someone mistakes my heart, let me be clear: This isn’t a political article. This is a spiritual reflection.
I’m not grieving the death of Charlie Kirk. I’m grieving the death of nuance. The loss of quiet faith. The co-opting of sacred language for cultural war.
When I look at what American Christianity has become in public spaces, especially on LinkedIn, where leaders are suddenly emboldened to “speak out” now that it’s safe, I don’t see Jesus. I see fear wrapped in righteousness.
Not fear of God. Fear of irrelevance.
There’s Still a Place for Us
So where does that leave the rest of us? The ones who still pray in the morning and wrestle with Scripture at night, but feel disconnected from the loudest voices claiming the mic?
I’ll tell you where it leaves us: rooted. Still. Watching. Praying. Loving.
You are not broken because you didn’t resonate with the crowd. You are not alone because your spirit felt uneasy. You are not faithless because you long for something deeper than theatrics.
There is a quiet revival happening, too. It doesn’t trend. It doesn’t require concert lighting. It doesn’t need a hashtag.
It just needs people willing to live like Jesus did.
My Son, My Reminder
My middle son is a college student and happens to be a person with autism. He walks through a world more complex than the one I inherited. And I tell him: don’t walk in fear. Walk in wisdom. Be aware, not anxious. Be thoughtful, not tribal.
He reminds me every day that God is not fragile. He doesn’t need defending. He needs reflecting and quiet time with Him reading the Word and in prayer.
So I’ll keep showing up. In rooms where I don’t always feel understood. In churches where I sometimes feel out of place. In conversations where I say less than I know, because listening is more powerful than preaching.
Let’s Build Something Quieter
To anyone else feeling disoriented, doubting, or just… tired: you’re not crazy. And you’re not bitter. You’re discerning.
Maybe we don’t need a new “movement.” Maybe we need quieter obedience. One that doesn’t announce itself but leaves a trail of healing behind it.
Less “revival.” More restoration.
Less applause. More action.
Less fear. More faith.
