Disclaimer
This reflection is not written to promote or oppose any political, religious, or ideological position. It is a personal meditation on words, silence, and the ways we respond to tragedy online and offline. While recent events form the backdrop, the aim is not to debate politics or theology but to invite readers to pause, reflect, and consider how our words can either build peace or deepen division.
I remember the moment I first heard the news. It wasn’t the words themselves that struck me it was the silence that came first, the disbelief. Charlie Kirk, speaking to a crowd at Utah Valley University, was suddenly gone. A single shot, a life lost, chaos rippling through a thousand hearts in an instant. The facts followed, slowly: the shot at 12:23 p.m., the confusion that reigned for hours, the images released to help identify the shooter, and finally, about 33 hours later, the arrest of Tyler Robinson. A young man, a rifle, evidence collected, and a long, complicated story beginning to take shape.
But even before the facts were clear, the world had already spoken. Social media erupted with accusations: the left did this, the right did that, someone was evil, someone was to blame. Screenshots circulated as truth. Videos were shared with captions that assumed motives we didn’t yet know. People who claimed to know God spoke words of rage, calls for punishment, and lists of those who should be “held accountable.” I watched all of this and felt a deep ache.
It reminded me of something more ordinary, something closer to home: influencers and the impossible expectations we follow on Instagram, Twitter, Facebook, or X. Someone posts a serum that promises perfect skin. It looks real. It looks achievable. And yet, when we pause, when we reflect on our own reality, we see the difference between their life and ours, between their experiences and our own. The same principle applies to news, politics, and tragedy. We can see a headline, a tweet, a rumour, and rush to conclusions without reflection. Without thought. Without prayer.
As a Christian, I can’t help but reflect on what the Bible teaches. “The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control.” “Vengeance is mine, says the Lord.” The contrast between these truths and the flood of online outrage is sharp. Some people who claimed to speak in God’s name were reacting with fury, not fruit. They were taking sides, labelling others evil, and imagining justice in ways that have nothing to do with Christ’s teaching.
We do not know Tyler Robinson’s story. We do not know his heart, his upbringing, or what brought him to that rooftop. And yet, many rushed to judgment as if they did. That is the danger. That is the temptation of living in the digital age: we can see, hear, and type faster than we can pause, reflect, and pray.
I have seen this in other areas of life as well. When someone tells me, “This product will transform you,” or “This approach is the only way,” I pause. I check my own reality. I weigh my own needs. I don’t rush. And if I rush, I fail myself. Why would the human heart respond any differently to spiritual or social prompts? Rushing to judgment, hurling insults, or assuming evil in others often hardens walls instead of opening hearts.
I believe no one is beyond God’s reach. Not the young man who took a life, not the voices on social media, not those who celebrate violence or rejoice in division. Redemption is not instant. Grace is not timed by our impatience. We plant seeds; we pray; we live in ways that model love and patience, and sometimes the smallest acts of light, the quietest prayers, are what shift hearts.
Even as I write, I see the temptation for Christians to act out of the flesh instead of the Spirit. To name-call, to shame, to imagine vengeance. And yet Scripture calls us to something different. Christ’s example was patient, measured, and rooted in truth and love. He taught, modelled, and let people come when they were ready. He did not chase, force, or humiliate. That is the path we are asked to walk.
The tragedy is real. Charlie Kirk is dead. Families are grieving. Communities are shaken. Lives are broken. And yet, our response must not mirror the violence of the act. We are not called to revenge or rage. We are called to reflection, to prayer, to walking in the fruit of the Spirit. Our words must heal, not harm. Our actions must guide, not push.
It is tempting, especially for Christians, to believe that outrage proves faithfulness. But it does not. True faith shows in patience, in care, in the courage to pause before we speak, to weigh our words, to remember that even those we may see as “lost” or “evil” are not beyond God’s hand. I have seen hearts transformed, not through argument or attack, but through patience, love, and steadfast example.
The online world is unforgiving. Rumours spread faster than facts. Opinions harden faster than evidence. And yet, as believers, we can choose differently. We can model calm. We can choose peace. We can allow the Spirit to guide what we say, how we say it, and when we say it. That is not weakness it is strength. It is discipline. It is witness.
I also reflect on the danger of mixing politics with religion. Too often, the two become inseparable online, and people justify attacks in the name of faith. But politics can never replace humility, patience, or the fruit of the Spirit. When our words are driven by fear or outrage rather than the Spirit, we become the very thing we claim to oppose.
Even as we reflect on tragedy in the U.S., the lessons are universal. This is not just an American problem. In the UK, across Europe, divisive voices are rising on social media, in protests, in debates about refugees, disability rights, and identity. People rush to label others: left, right, liberal, conservative. And the moment you speak against hate or blanket assumptions, you risk being named, attacked, or misunderstood.
Protesters themselves have noted how the far right in Britain has been emboldened by what happened in America. Almost immediately, Nigel Farage and Tommy Robinson seized on the Kirk murder, weaving it into their own narratives of fear and division. A tragedy in Utah became a rallying cry in London. This is the speed of outrage in our time: pain turned into platform, violence repackaged as momentum. And it forces us to ask what are we amplifying when we speak, share, and repost? Are we planting seeds of peace, or are we feeding the very cycles of anger we claim to resist?
The answer is not to exile one group or silence another. It is to choose coexistence, to live side by side despite differences Muslim, Christian, atheist, black, white, disabled, able-bodied. Our shared humanity, our shared creation, demands that we refuse the temptation of division. Words, actions, and attitudes matter. Whether Christian or not, we all bear responsibility for building communities rooted in patience, respect, and peace.
The tragedy of Charlie Kirk is a reminder not only of violence and loss but of the urgent need for care in speech, for reflection in outrage, and for hope even in despair. It reminds us that polarization, division, and the rush to judgment can happen anywhere, and that every society, including ours, must choose carefully how it responds. The work of peace begins with each of us.
So I close with this reflection: pause before you speak. Reflect before you judge. Pray before you share. Let your words reflect truth, love, and patience. Even in tragedy, even when the world seems chaotic, we can still choose to be peacemakers. We can still choose light. And we can still choose to live together, side by side, despite our differences.
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