One of the largest memorial services in American history was held the other day in Glendale, Arizona. Whether we are invested in the story or not, the assassination of Charlie Kirk has dominated the news cycle and continues to do so. There are moments in history that capture the public imagination and Kirk’s assassination is one of them.
It’s clear that there were two narratives—a political narrative and a gospel-of-grace narrative—running through the memorial service, and we mustn’t confuse them, even if many participants and observers did.
The Political Narrative
Several members of the Trump administration spoke, including the President. Donald Trump gave a speech a line from which has gone viral:
[Kirk] didn’t hate his opponents. He wanted the best for them—that’s where I disagreed with Charlie. I HATE my opponent and I DON’T want the best for them.
I suspect the President said these words with a certain tongue in cheek. He was trying to bring a moment’s levity to what was a very sombre occasion. Still, what he described does seem to be his modus operandi. Of course, Trump’s words are not his alone; this is the norm and assumed posture across religions and ideologies and politics. As Jesus taught:
You have heard that it was said, “Love your neighbour and hate your enemy.” … If you love those who love you, what reward will you get? Are not even the tax collectors doing that? And if you greet only your own people, what are you doing more than others? Do not even pagans do that? (Matthew 5:43, 46–7)
Whether it is fascists or anti-fascists, left or right (and most of the middle!), we think ill of those who disagree with us. That this President is saying so isn’t laughable, it’s woeful. Doubling down on hate doesn’t resolve the growing friction and factions that are disintegrating our societies. That leaves us with a game of power where the loudest, fastest and strongest aim to take charge and impose their will on the rest of us.
Trump, the ever-populist-and-pragmatist, may well use whatever movement that helps maintain momentum: including evangelical Christianity. That’s a problem, as it was when previous American presidents co-opted Christian language and concepts to promote their own ethics and agendas. Christians and Christian leaders are often not as cautious as we ought to be in resisting the confusion and compromise this can entail.
Avoid the Confusion
On Saturday, I gave a lecture at the Reformed Theological College, where I outlined three principles for doing public theology: don’t conflate church and state; don’t confuse common grace with particular grace; distinguish the common good and the eternal good. Christian pundits, commentators and pastors would do well and serve our congregations and the unbelieving public by recognising and practising those distinctions. Of course, the differences are not always perfectly clear and the gospel of Jesus changes every part of us. Nonetheless, we will do well to avoid confusion. Why? In part, because the gospel is too important to be confused or co-opted by red or blue or green or teal.
Merging the Christian faith with politics is fraught with dangers, and that’s true across the political spectrum. If you think that your particular position is exempt from that rule, that only exemplifies the very problem. It doesn’t mean every political ideology is equally true or good or respectable. Of course not. How we value the unborn really does matter. How we view migrants and the poor matters. And many other topics.
The Gospel-of-Grace Narrative
Two narratives were present in the memorial service, and it is the second one that I hope shines the brightest and the longest. Charlie Kirk’s pastor Rob McCoy gave a clear presentation of the good news of Jesus:
Charlie knew … at an early age … he entrusted his life to the Saviour of the World. Jesus came to this earth, was tempted in all ways, yet was without sin, was crucified upon the cross … His blood was poured out because blood must be shed for the remission of sins … And his death upon that cross was sufficient for all the world’s sins, but only efficient for those who, like Charlie, would receive him as their Saviour.
Can we say an amen to those words? Of course we can. Erika Kirk then addressed the crowds and uttered the impossible word:
My husband, Charlie, he wanted to save young men just like the one who took his life. That young man. That young man on the cross, our Saviour said, “Father, forgive them for they not know what they do.” That man, that young man, I forgive him. I forgive him, because… because it was what Christ did, and is what Charlie would do. The answer to hate is not hate. The answer we know from the gospel is love, and always love. Love for our enemies.
This is the message our polarised world needs to hear. I thank God that God has not judged me according to every word I have said and every thought I have entertained. I am eternally thankful to God that he forgives sinners such as me. And grasping this gospel does something to us. Vindictive words disappear, and love and forgiveness take their place.
Reality is almost always complicated and nuanced. One does not need to choose between elevating Charlie Kirk to the status of Stephen (Acts 6) or labelling him ‘alt-right’. The Christian truth is that sinners are saved by grace alone on account of the perfect sacrifice of Jesus alone. Anything else is hubris. One can also both squirm at the entanglement of gospel and political ideology, and still delight when the gospel shines through.
But here is a thought: regardless of our political leanings, if God uses the gospel preached at Charlie Kirk’s funeral to convince some people of God’s saving news through Jesus, will we rejoice? Or will we resent and grumble, like Jonah outside Ninevah (Jonah 4)?
A version of this article first appeared on Murray’s blog.
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