20–25 minutes for a thorough read. 

I, for one, never really cared for Charlie Kirk. Why, you might ask? Honestly, I just found him annoying (ironic). His debating style was somewhat off-putting to me; I didn’t really care for his content, and our views rarely lined up on anything, from religion to politics. Kirk was definitely ‘MAGA,’ and I, for one, am definitely not ‘MAGA.’ However, like anyone in this situation, I didn’t really know Kirk—I only knew of him. I’m sure that if I were friends with him, my opinions and this article might be different. And thus, my impression of Kirk is, and was, based solely on YouTube clips, his writings, and the occasional news story about him—I am hardly a man of politics.

Kirk was known for several things, but most notably for his debates, or at least his discussions with the opposition. These ‘works’ (including debates, appearances, speeches, writings, etc.) have never been a serious part of my life. I wouldn’t go out of my way to watch or consume them. I mean, I don’t consider myself ‘conservative’ (nor ‘liberal’), so I really had no reason to search for them anyway. Therefore, the only times I would hear of Charlie Kirk were through short clips or the occasional CNN story where he played the role of ‘designated villain’ in America’s ongoing ideological soap opera.

However, I have watched one of his ‘works’ in its entirety, which was his talk, appearance, and debate at the Oxford Union. Being one of the most renowned arenas for intellectual discussion in the world, the Oxford Union, located at the University of Oxford and founded in 1823, often hosts public debates with invited speakers like Kirk. At the time, I had never watched a talk at the Oxford Union, let alone known what it was. Now, it’s a regular part of life, and I watch it like a podcast of some sort. I have to thank Charlie Kirk for that!

I couldn’t tell you why this specific talk appeared in my YouTube feed, but it did, and it seemed appealing, so I decided to watch it. Its title, “You should be able to say outrageous things,” seemed like the Charlie Kirk I knew from the videos I saw of him; mission clearly accomplished.

My first impression of Kirk during his appearance was that he was trying to articulate a set of principles that were simply not getting across to the other side. Kirk seemed to be genuinely trying, albeit imperfectly, to put forward a set of ideas that simply weren’t landing with his audience. Maybe it was his tone, perhaps it was the content, or maybe it was that people had already made up their minds about him long before he opened his mouth (a hypothesis I feel no need to test further). There seemed to just be this wall between Kirk and his audience (ironic), and I don’t think either side was all that willing to scale it, an almost symbolic consistency, I guess. 

However, the students who decided to show up to see Kirk seemed, at the same time, kind of ‘awe-struck’ by Kirk’s ability to articulate in a fashion that was, in its fullness, ‘MAGA.’ Most of these kids weren’t even from America, I assume, so I imagine the whole thing felt…educational? Moreover, his way of articulation was not simply yelling, or “chi-na” as with Trumpian MAGA, but was pronounced from a grounding in both facts (something Kirk was good at) and historical reasoning (something he was very good at). 

What I mean by this is that after watching a lot more of Kirk’s content since September 10^th, I began to notice how Kirk articulates his views, points, or arguments. His style, I must admit, I really started to enjoy, although I hardly agreed with what he said. He would not simply say something factual like “2 + 2 = 4,” but instead framed it historically, showing why 2 and 2 have come together to make 4, and he was very good at this. 

This was not simply evident in his appearance at Oxford, but in any clip of the man, there is a historical cause and effect he applies, which almost always builds a strong foundation for his case and exposes weaknesses in the opposing side’s case. By linking past events to present moments in a clear, narrative-driven way, he would make complex situations (or topics, such as abortion, freedom of speech, etc.) feel relevant and easy to understand. It almost made me wish the ‘left’ would learn the same art, not because I’m on their side, but because harmful rhetoric offends me more than bad politics. Apparently, some people need a full trigger warning just to watch a debate.

For the debate itself, I don’t think Kirk won or lost, nor do I believe the house (that is, the audience) won or lost. Instead, I quite frankly believe both lost in the same way: they canceled each other out. Kirk’s views, and those of the Oxford Union, which, yes, you guessed it, are as far left as he is right, created a situation where the two sides were unable to find even basic common ground on several issues (the main ones I noticed being abortion, birthright citizenship, male unhappiness), much like most of the world today in this era of online fistfights over lame duck politicians. Therefore, if you can’t even find common ground on the basics of an issue, I will highly doubt you will agree on anything. 

Nevertheless, what continues to strike me about this ‘work’ to this day is Kirk’s ability to excel in his role; it was pretty clear that his understanding of youth perception was built on years of research and assurances from political figures that he was doing the right thing. Kirk, whether you agree with him or not, was probably the best youth-focused political activist we’ve seen, maybe ever, but certainly since the activists of the 1960s and 1970s. While I didn’t agree with him on many issues—you have to give the man credit—he was simply good at what he did and showed passion and dedication for what seemed to be his life’s mission.

To elaborate further on this, in my view, it isn’t his knowledge or his experience that made him good at what he did, but instead how the man lived his life, and how that ‘living’ enabled his worldview and his historical standing. To me, the main reason he was effective in his ‘work’ (i.e., winning an argument, convincing young people, or simply holding someone’s attention) is less about facts, but more about the architecture of his belief in what is right and wrong that he, and everyone, carries with themselves. That architecture has a name: Evangelical Protestantism. Yes, those words are heavy, but they explain almost everything about how he thought, argued, and lived, at least in the view of the 22-year-old who never even met the guy ( the full extent of my ‘expertise’).

This type of ‘ideological fullness,’ in Evangelical Protestantism, if you will, is entirely based upon the idea of conviction, and is quite clear in Kirk’s rhetoric and apologetics towards his stance. I suppose the best example I can give of this is how Evangelicals confidently interpret political debates, school board decisions, or public policy through the lens of their faith, fully convinced that their perspective aligns with divine truth. Posting on Instagram or TikTok about social issues, claiming their stance reflects God’s immediate design of the world, and how (H)is kingdom should operate—” God created this world with a plan, and this is how His kingdom should run.” And yes, that’s reality, go scroll past it.

Protestantism, particularly in its modern American Evangelical form, more often then not highlights this personal and intimate conviction of truth, what could be called a ‘concrete certainty’—faith in both (1) essence and (2) principle is absolute and limited, not mythical and infinite, unlike Eastern Orthodoxy and Roman Catholicism (each to their own; respectfully). Moreover, ‘concrete certainty’ shapes how the believer interprets their daily events, from moments of bliss and ‘God,’  to political debates, to news stories; there is usually a ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ in a form that is exact. For example, “This policy is right because these historical events led to this outcome, and God’s design makes it so,” is much like saying 2 + 2 = 4 because 1 + 1 happened here, and 1 + 1 happened there, and the sum follows naturally.

The Bible in Evangelical Protestantism (that is, of 66 books, not 72-77) is true, down to the punctuation, and serves as the fixed lens through which history, morality, politics, science, order, family life, culture, purpose, and questions of truth are interpreted (of course, this is a broad generalization, but my point has been made, and I trust you understand it).

By contrast, Apostolic Christianity, whether in the form of Roman Catholic or Eastern Orthodoxy, has historically located the ideals of what ‘truth’ is in the harmony of both scripture and tradition. For example, a Roman Catholic might say, “I know this devotion is real because the Church says it is… and also because some saints I’ve never met, and maybe never existed, say so too.” Additionally, the authority of the Church/Magisterium often leaves room for mystery and theological development (e.g., the Eucharist, Marian devotion, and apparitions). In contrast, Evangelicalism emphasizes the immediacy and finality of Scripture. Two flavors of the same Christianity, to each their own, with respect.

Thus, ‘truth,’ it seemed for Kirk, was therefore rooted in the conviction that truth was both personal and absolute because truth in and of its entirety was grounded in Jesus Christ, and his Gospel alone. Moreover, his political arguments were almost a secondary expression of his deeper theological assurance in Evangelical Christianity: the same certainty with which he proclaims salvation in Christ is the certainty with which he proclaims the MAGA vision of America, a style of argument where confidence is not rhetorical but theological: to doubt, to waver, to hedge is seen as weakness. This is not exclusive to the MAGA (the right), but also to the left; however, it’s labeled as ‘moral clarity,’ instead. Furthermore, this also ties into his ability to successfully frame an argument within a historical framework that is easy to understand, mirroring how Evangelicals broadly read Scripture not as abstract theory, but as a living story of truth unfolding in clear periods and events through time. 

In this way, Kirk’s performance at Oxford was not just political but also spiritual, embodying a Protestant ethos that prizes steadfast belief over simple and ‘dieted’ compromise. Approaches to an argument that were grounded in nuance, or free-flowing thought or prolonged reflection, typical of Apostolic Christianity and liberal thinking, would likely strike him as indecisive and lacking moral weight in exactness. Additionally, his refusal to yield or even to offer nuance in his positions at Oxford reflected not only his political commitments but also a religious inheritance that regards conviction itself as a virtue, even when it collides with traditions, such as those found at Oxford. Which, you have to give the man respect for, I certainly don’t have the skills, or even the guts to do that. In fact, I would say my politics and religious beliefs are virtually infinitely hypocritical.

Nevertheless, I find myself struggling in a similar, albeit opposite, situation to Kirk’s. As a Roman Catholic, the religion can be stupidly demanding at times (it is just like… why the hell is this so complicated?). In Roman Catholicism, salvation is ongoing and mediated through grace, sacraments, and moral effort; certainty in one’s salvation is nonexistent. I, for one, have no idea if I will be saved. All I can say is that I was saved yesterday, I strive to live faithfully today, and I hope to be saved tomorrow. Kirk, however, believed that the intimacy of his salvation was particular and accurate; in the Evangelical framework, he could be confident that, having believed in Christ, he was already saved. And, being that over a quarter to 35% of Americans are Evangelical Protestant, this certainty that, in public life, can turn even a single moment into a national spectacle. So, when the tragic news of his assassination broke, I knew it wasn’t just going to be another news story but a fusion of modern religious conviction, politics, and instant communication.

The morning of September 10^th was any other morning for me. As the day progressed, my mundane, wretched, and uneventful life continued as usual. Until around noon, when reports of Kirk’s assassination began to surface. It was at that point that I lost all focus in my work, went home, made a cup of coffee, and proceeded to watch the aftermath of a high-profile assassination, the first of my lifetime. I found out about Kirk’s assassination while just reading the New York Times. They were one of the first to report on it. Then, the video of the shooting was posted pretty much everywhere. 

As I have stated, from the jump, I assumed that this would not be an ordinary news story, but one in which this ‘fusion’ would come together to form a sort of hurricane of radical ideas, radical responses, and radical people. 

I assumed the things that were to come would be as far out as the idea of religion itself, due to Kirk being a somewhat polarizing character.  The man was idolized on one side and hated on the other, meaning the repercussion of this tragic assassination would be as comical as it was predictable, each camp convinced the other had finally gotten what they deserved: hashtags, think pieces, Instagram story posts that no one actually reads, and moral outrage competing for the spotlight before the next gunshot arrived at another American shooting. Essentially, it was two mirrors arguing over which one had the correct reflection.

On one side was this beloved figure of republican, conservative, and Christian values. Viewed by defenders as a man of virtue, liberty, and human dignity, and one who was willing to do it all while talking to the other side and bringing people to Christ. Then, you had the other side, who went as far as to cheer for his death, viewing Kirk and everything he was involved with as inherently bad (even, evil), and whose politics were deemed immoral and criminal at some point or another. Both sides, with equal levels of conviction, argue that their version of why 2 + 2 equals 4 instead of 5 or 3.

When viewed in these somewhat crude binary forces, the dialectic patterns in Kirk’s story that are evident throughout history become apparent. Martin Luther King Jr. was gunned down, even though his whole fight was built on words and peaceful protest. MLK was vilified, but later became a revered figure of conscience. One side hated him and what he stood for, the other side loved him and what he stood for, the same for Charlie. Huey Long, struck down at the height of his power, left people still arguing whether he was the people’s champion or a dangerous demagogue. The elites feared his typical rural Louisiana accent and gospel of power for the poor and the underprivileged, all while being admired by his followers for his incredible ‘populist’ view. Harvey Milk, too, carried himself as a voice for the unheard, and for that very reason, he became a target. Milk, rooted in faith, not in a divine charter, but in the ideas of visibility and voice, thus became a target. Like these famous characters, who either stood for right or wrong, depending on one’s view, mimic Kirk’s tragic story reveals a constant and harsh rhythm of modern sainthood: to speak with absolute conviction in an age that only believes in irony is to invite both worship and wrath.

This is what I mean: a tragic event of an assassination takes place of a figure who is both loved and revered. First comes the shock of violence (usually in the form of one side saying ‘we need to do something’ and then proceeding to do nothing), then the reaction, half the country mourning, half muttering that ‘he had it coming.’ After that comes the battle over memory: who gets to own the story (who writes the history textbook) and who gets to paint the legacy (as it is portrayed in the media), often, the man himself fades next; again, think of Harvey Milk or Huey Long, and what remains is just a symbol, claimed by one side, rejected by another, each stage shaping the next in a sequence that never really ends, tit for tat some may say. And so the cycle continues, likely to persist in polarizing figures or topics until the last debate ends in mutual assured destruction.

In the end, all of it, politics, religion, argument, and discussion, comes down to the same fundamental desire: to be right, to be certain, to stand firm in your views, to claim yours as the only correct view. Kirk found that assurance in Scripture and his worldview; I see it in mystery, to each their own. And maybe that’s the difference between us, he preached salvation as a conclusion, while I live it as a question. Kirk’s steadfastness, whatever one thinks of his findings, is something worth acknowledging, and while I may disagree with some of his conclusions, it’s hard not to admire the certainty. Charlie Kirk deserves respect for this.

During his appearance at Oxford, Kirk stated the following. 

“Whether you’re a secular, atheist, Buddhist, Hindu, or Christian, if you live in the West, you are an inheritor of a Christian tradition. The way we look at things—honor your neighbor, help the poor, charity, natural rights—these are somewhat weird ideas when you actually think about it. And instead of us trying to make a manufactured counterfeit new morality, we should go back to our Christian roots.”

While it is a striking claim, the man is not wrong. Part sermon, part observation (I guess?), it reveals his theological engine beneath his poetic activism. For Kirk, morality, and the idea of it, isn’t a social contract or a product of reason; it’s an inheritance. The West, in his view, breathes through Christian lungs, and every attempt to invent a new morality, one that is not based on those principles, is a kind of secular apostasy. While some, including myself, will question and argue against whether Kirk’s brand of Christian thinking truly reflects the historical and scriptural ideals of its calling, it nonetheless reveals the theological engine driving his worldview. In my opinion, it remains more spectacle than scriptural; however, to each their own, with respect to his, and all views.

Well, I’m about to conclude this essay, and you might be asking, “Well…what point are you making? You made me read your crappy writing, without even a dam point to it?” Hmmm, let me think. Well, if there is a point, it would be this: humans crave certainty. This certainty shapes our lives, whether that be in the resurrection of Jesus of Nazareth, who will be elected, or in the ideas of what is moral versus what is not. This certainty remains an issue on both sides of the aisle, and dear God, I hope to never align myself fully with one wretched side or the other.

However, I don’t view this modern ‘certainty’ that the ‘left’ and the ‘right’ employ as ethical (after all, I am Roman Catholic). Instead, to honestly act ethically, it seems now more than ever, is to act with conviction without losing humility, to debate without succumbing to violence, and to live faithfully while accepting that the world is never fully knowable.

Kirk’s story, one that echoes MLK, Long, and Milk, reveals that it is not about who is right or wrong, but instead this craving for certainty, which enables us to create wretched frameworks of faith, ideology, or inherited culture and to act upon them with violence and speech that is hate. We humans build and deconstruct these frameworks in the names of god(s) and rich men North of Richmond. After all, man creates idols out of stone for his problems and then acts as if they were always there. Kirk’s story, I feel, will go down as a turning point for not just the West, or America, but the world, as crazy as that might be to some.  Kirk’s Evangelical certainty will forever leave a mark, not because we must agree, but because it challenges us to estimate and reckon our own convictions and versions of truth and falsehood.

Karl Marx called religion the “opium of the people.”  I view this as one of the most factual statements there is. But perhaps it is less a narcotic than a scaffold: religion holds us up, shapes our positive and negative actions, and allows us to imagine what ‘justice’ and ‘virtue’ are. Yet when certainty hardens a man’s obsession with his idols carved of stone, when conviction becomes weaponized for one piece of stone versus another, the result is not salvation, but conflict.

I don’t, and will never, stand on the side of Kirk’s politics, nor do I stand on the side of his critics, however. I am by temperament and faith, a Roman Catholic living in a world of tension, who accepts that I don’t know everything, and my views are incorrect in some ways.  I accept the ideals of mystery and hope that ‘moral clarity’ can coexist with humility. Perhaps the real point of this essay is to act ethically and debate honestly, as Kirk’s life work attempted to do, and to live in that faith: man must, in his endeavor, embrace uncertainty in his ideas and thoughts, while leaning on his heart and remembering that conviction alone is simply not enough. Kirk had an unwavering commitment to his beliefs, and this relentless pursuit has indeed left a mark on American discourse, much like the figures before him did, and still do.

 I hope all is well.

Colin