This article is inspired by my thoughts and an article I found here https://founders.org/articles/pastoral-reflections-on-the-murder-of-charlie-kirk/ by the author Tom Ascol

It’s not every day your peace is interrupted by news that shakes your spirit to the core. When I heard about Charlie Kirk’s murder, I missed my usual indifference to grim headlines—my hands were trembling, and for a few moments, my mind raced with memories of faith conversations, snippets of old hymns, and a stubborn ache of injustice. If you’re reading this, maybe you felt it too: That weird collision of disbelief and anger that forces you to ask, now what? This isn’t a neat blog about getting over tragedy; if anything, it’s about sitting in the aftermath together, asking how Christians actually live—and hope—when all seems lost.

Facing the Unthinkable: The Significance of Kirk’s Murder

On September 10, 2025, the news of Charlie Kirk’s assassination hit me like a tidal wave. I remember exactly where I was when my daughter texted me that he had been shot—how the world seemed to pause, the air thick with disbelief. For many of us in the faith community, this was more than just a headline. It was a wake-up call, a moment that forced us to confront our own vulnerability, our anger, and our deepest fears about the world we live in.

Charlie Kirk was not just a public figure; he was a symbol of bold faith and conservative conviction. His murder sent shockwaves through churches, small groups, and online communities. Suddenly, the conversations we’d been having about safety, division, and the cost of standing for our beliefs became painfully real. I saw it in the eyes of friends at church, in the worried texts from family, and in the heated debates that erupted everywhere from Sunday school to social media.

For many believers, Kirk’s death felt like the loss of a martyr—someone who paid the ultimate price for his faith and his values. This perception sparked a firestorm of discussion. In sanctuaries, pastors wrestled with how to address the tragedy from the pulpit. In comment threads, people argued about what it meant for Christians to be bold in a world that sometimes seems hostile to our beliefs. The event became a mirror, reflecting both our hopes and our fears, our unity and our divisions.

What struck me most was how Kirk’s assassination fueled broader conversations about political violence and the cultural divides tearing at our nation. Suddenly, the rifts that had been simmering beneath the surface were exposed for all to see. It wasn’t just about politics; it was about who we are as a people, and what it means to follow Christ in a time of turmoil. The pain was real, but so was the opportunity to examine our hearts and our communities.

• Some found renewed boldness. I saw believers stepping up, speaking out, and refusing to be silenced by fear. They saw Kirk’s death as a call to action—a reason to double down on faith advocacy and to stand firm in the face of adversity.
• Others struggled with cynicism and despair. There were those who questioned whether America was on the right path, or if things would ever get better. The grief was heavy, and the sense of loss sometimes felt overwhelming.

In the aftermath, I realized that facing the unthinkable isn’t just about surviving tragedy; it’s about what we do with the pain. Kirk’s murder forced us to ask hard questions about faith, courage, and the future of our nation. It challenged us to look beyond our differences and to seek God’s wisdom in the midst of chaos. The significance of this moment cannot be overstated—it changed the way we see ourselves, our faith, and our place in a divided world.

When Faith Meets Grief: Biblical Truths for Facing Loss

When tragedy strikes, like the heartbreaking loss of Charlie Kirk, I find myself wrestling with questions that have no easy answers. As a Christian, I’m often tempted to rush toward hope, to skip past the pain and land on a tidy promise. But the Bible doesn’t ask us to pretend. In fact, it gives us permission to feel the full weight of our grief, while still pointing us toward something deeper and eternal.

One passage that has anchored me in seasons of loss is 2 Corinthians 4:16-18. Paul writes, “Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.” These words don’t minimize pain. Instead, they invite us to acknowledge it honestly, while also rooting our hope in realities we can’t yet see. Sometimes, that hope doesn’t make sense in the moment. But Scripture assures us that our suffering is not the end of the story.

I appreciate that the Bible never sugarcoats the world’s brokenness. From the very beginning, Genesis 3 shows us how sin and death entered the world, and Ephesians 2:2 reminds us that darkness is a real and persistent force. 1 John 5:19 is blunt: “We know that we are children of God, and that the whole world is under the control of the evil one.” These passages don’t shy away from naming the darkness. Instead, they urge us to be resilient, to keep standing even when evil seems overwhelming.

The honest Christian response to tragedy isn’t denial. It’s not about putting on a brave face or pretending that everything is okay. Instead, it’s about embracing the ugly reality of loss, while holding onto the promises that God is still at work. I’ve learned that sometimes, the holiest thing I can do is simply admit, “I don’t understand.” There are moments when my outrage and confusion feel bigger than my faith. But even then, I choose to trust that God’s wisdom is greater than my outrage. His perspective is eternal, even when mine is clouded by grief.

In the face of tragedy, faith isn’t a shortcut through pain—it’s a way of walking through it with honesty and hope. The Bible gives us permission to grieve deeply, to name the darkness, and to cling to the truth that suffering is not the final word. When faith meets grief, I find that God meets me right in the middle of my questions, offering comfort, resilience, and the promise that one day, all things will be made new.

Anger, Justice, and the Messy Emotions of Christian Faith Response

When tragedy strikes, like the shocking murder of Charlie Kirk, I find myself wrestling with a storm of emotions. Anger, confusion, and a deep longing for justice all swirl together. As a Christian, I’ve often wondered if it’s okay to feel this way. Shouldn’t faith make me calm and forgiving, even in the face of evil? But the truth is, the Bible doesn’t ask us to ignore our feelings—it guides us on how to handle them.

One verse that comforts me is Ephesians 4:26: “Be angry and do not sin; do not let the sun go down on your anger.” This tells me that anger itself isn’t a sin. God isn’t offended when our blood boils at the sight of injustice or cruelty. In fact, righteous anger can be a holy response to evil. It means we care deeply about what is good and right. The challenge is not letting that anger curdle into bitterness or a thirst for revenge.

That’s where Romans 12:19 comes in: “Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave it to the wrath of God, for it is written, ‘Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord.’” This is a hard teaching. When someone we love is hurt or taken from us, the urge for payback can be overwhelming. But God asks us to trust Him with justice. Our role is to lobby, pray, and trust civil authorities to do their job. We resist the pull toward personal revenge, even when our hearts cry out for it.

I’ve learned that the Christian response to tragedy isn’t always neat or predictable. There are days when I shout at heaven, asking why God allowed such pain. Other times, I find myself in tearful prayer, begging for comfort and for things to be set right. Sometimes, the most honest response is messy. We don’t have to hide our raw emotions from God—He can handle our anger, our grief, and our questions.

There have been moments when I’ve prayed Psalm 58, gritting my teeth and pleading with God to bring justice:

“Break the teeth in their mouths, O God! … Surely there is a God who judges the earth.”

These are not gentle prayers, but they are honest. They remind me that it’s okay to ask God to set things right, even when I don’t understand His timing or His ways. But I also remember that my hope can’t rest on the courts of man alone. Earthly justice is important, but it will never fully heal the wounds or bring back what was lost.

In the end, faith doesn’t erase the messy emotions that come with grief and injustice. Instead, it gives us a place to bring them—a God who listens, who cares, and who promises that one day, all things will be made right.

Sovereignty, Repentance, and the Upside-Down Hope of the Gospel

When tragedy strikes, like the shocking murder of Charlie Kirk, it shakes us to our core. I find myself searching for answers, for something solid to hold onto. In moments like these, I am reminded that God’s sovereignty isn’t just a comforting phrase or a bandage to cover our pain. It’s a foundation—a rock beneath my feet when everything else feels like it’s crumbling. God’s sovereignty means He is in control, even when the world feels out of control. It doesn’t erase the pain or explain it away, but it gives me a place to stand when nothing else makes sense.

But there’s another layer to this. In Luke 13:1–4, Jesus responds to news of a tragedy not by pointing fingers, but by calling everyone to repentance: “Unless you repent, you will all likewise perish.” These are hard words. They don’t let me simply blame others or demand easy answers. Instead, they invite me to look inward, to examine my own heart. Tragedy, as painful as it is, becomes a call for all of us to turn back to God, to recognize our own need for grace and forgiveness. It’s not about accusing others—it’s about humbling myself before God.

When I think about the injustice of Charlie Kirk’s death, I can’t help but remember the greatest injustice of all: the crucifixion of Jesus Christ. Acts 2:23 and Acts 4:24-28 remind us that Jesus was handed over according to God’s set purpose, and yet, it was through the evil actions of men. The cross was the ultimate example of cosmic injustice—an innocent man condemned and killed. But God was not absent. He was working redemption behind the scenes, turning the world’s darkest moment into the world’s greatest hope. If God could bring resurrection out of crucifixion, I can trust that He is still weaving redemption through the tragedies we face today.

To honor Charlie Kirk, and all who have suffered for their faith, I believe we are called to do more than just grieve. We are called to embrace the upside-down hope of the gospel—the hope that looks foolish to the world, but is the very power of God. This hope says that death is not the end, that suffering is not wasted, and that Christ’s resurrection has broken the power of the grave. In the face of loss, I am challenged to lean into this hope, to live as someone who believes that eternal life is real and that God’s promises are true.

• God’s sovereignty is our foundation, not a quick fix for pain.
• Tragedy calls us to repentance, not accusation.
• Jesus’ crucifixion shows God’s power to redeem even the worst evil.
• Christian hope is countercultural—rooted in resurrection and eternal life.

How Prayer is Key—Even on Extra-ordinary Wednesdays

When tragedy strikes, like the heartbreaking murder of Charlie Kirk, it’s easy to feel powerless. The world spins out of control, and grief can make even the most ordinary days—like a Wednesday—feel heavy and strange. In moments like these, I find myself returning to Paul’s words in 1 Timothy 2:1-4: “I urge, then, first of all, that petitions, prayers, intercession and thanksgiving be made for all people.” Not just for those we love, but for everyone—including those who irritate us, or even those who have caused us pain. It sounds bizarre, but in the chaos, prayer becomes a lifeline.

Prayer isn’t just a spiritual discipline we check off a list. In the face of tragedy, it’s an act of rebellion against despair and resignation. It’s a quiet, stubborn insistence that God is still at work, even when we can’t see it. I remember one particular Wednesday, not long after hearing about Charlie’s death. A few friends and I gathered on Zoom, fasting and praying together. Our prayers were messy and awkward—sometimes just silence, sometimes tears. We prayed for Erika Kirk and her family, for the church, for revival, and even for the person who committed the crime. It felt strange, but it was real. In that moment, I realized that half the power of prayer is simply refusing to let go of hope.

Paul’s command to pray for everyone stretches us. We’re called to pray not only for grieving spouses and families, but also for perpetrators, for reckless media, and for a nation that sometimes seems to have lost its way. That’s audacious. It’s not easy to pray for those who have hurt us or those who seem to be part of the problem. But maybe that’s the only way forward. Prayer doesn’t mean ignoring pain or pretending everything is fine. It means bringing our raw, honest selves before God and asking Him to do what we cannot.

I’ve seen how regular rhythms—like churches fasting on the first Wednesday of the month—can seem mundane or even pointless. But history proves that God works through the small, persistent prayers of messy people. The early church didn’t change the world with grand gestures, but with faithful, ordinary prayers. When we gather—whether in a sanctuary or over a video call—and lift up our brokenness to God, we’re participating in something far bigger than ourselves.

So, as we navigate grief and faith in the wake of tragedy, let’s remember that prayer is not just for the extraordinary moments. It’s for the extra-ordinary Wednesdays too. It’s for the days when hope feels thin and answers are few. In those moments, prayer is our lifeline, our rebellion, and our quiet declaration that God is still present, still listening, and still working—one prayer at a time.

TL;DR: In the aftermath of Charlie Kirk’s murder, Christians are called to mourn honestly, trust in God’s sovereignty, channel righteous anger wisely, seek personal and national repentance, and turn persistently to prayer as both comfort and catalyst for hope.