More Than a Man: Why His Death Feels Like Ours
When a voice for truth, faith, and reason is silenced, we all feel the loss.
Why does the death of a man I never met feel so personal?
Last night I wrote a short post on here about Charlie Kirk’s assassination. I couldn’t spend much time on it, but I had such a sense of urgency and necessity that I just immediately published it.
Some time has passed since then, and I’ve spent much of that time wondering why I’ve become so emotionally invested in the assassination of a man to whom I had little to no connection.
Why does this tragedy ring so loudly—not only in my heart, but in the hearts of millions of Americans across the country?
After some reflection, I think I know why.
Charlie was, first and foremost, a husband and a father. Before he was a spokesperson, he was a 31-year-old man with two young children. His gravitas and public persona may have seemed impressive to many, but the reality is that settling down early—finding a wife and raising children—was probably one of the biggest contributions to his maturity as a man. That family will now grow old without him.
Though political, Charlie was not necessarily a politician. What he championed was common sense, reason, and even revelation. He believed in a true marketplace of ideas, where thoughts could be exchanged on the basis of human reasonableness. Many of his debates I love and revisit often. Others make me wince in disagreement. And yet I believe that, had I ever met him, he would have welcomed even my disagreements with fairness and open dialogue.
Lastly, Charlie was a Christian. Though he initially emerged as a secular conservative, over time he became increasingly vocal about his faith, which grew to become the bedrock of his political and moral vision. Critics might argue he was only nominally evangelical, but the evidence tells a different story. There is no shortage of footage showing his willingness to share his faith. And when he recounted the Gospel to his listeners, one thing was clear: for Charlie Kirk, salvation was in Christ alone.
What unsettles me most in all of this is the simple truth that Charlie Kirk, behind the conferences and the company, was not a larger-than-life figure. He was a man with a family, a man committed to reason, and a man of faith. He is you. He is me. And that is the man they chose to silence.
Because the truth is, the labels of “extremist,” “bigot,” and “fascist” are no longer reserved for outspoken figures standing on college campuses with a microphone. They are now applied to every man and woman who dares to believe in the things our forefathers once took for granted: that marriage is between a man and a woman; that the unborn deserve protection; that our nation has the right to secure its borders; that crime deserves just punishment; that God created humanity male and female—nothing more, nothing less; and that citizens have the God-given right to bear arms in defense of themselves, their property and their families.
Charlie stood for these truths openly. Many of us hold them quietly. Perhaps his death grips us so personally because it was the silencing of a voice that validated our presence in a world that often villainizes us.