The Day the Bullet Missed

I was late joining Charlie Kirk’s livestream that day. Five minutes in, the screen filled with a tent, folding chairs, and young faces eager—or maybe just curious—about a conversation. Then, faster than my coffee could cool, the world turned upside down.

A shot cracked the air. A chair rattled. A microphone slipped from someone’s hand.

Charlie slumped sideways, eyes fixed on eternity.

That’s not note-taking anyone plans to do. But I wrote it down, maybe to remind myself that evil isn’t abstract.

It has a smell, a sound, a stain. And it shows up right when you expect a good, old-fashioned argument about truth.

That evening, I was supposed to lead a prayer meeting, but truth be told, I didn’t feel much like praying. My hands were still, my soul pacing like a caged raccoon.

I was angry and sad. I wanted to clam up, to whisper, to wonder if speaking out loud about faith was worth the risk anymore.

Because let’s face it—the world’s not simmering. It’s boiling. Europe trembles, Israel burns, rockets fly, and here at home, a man gets shot for opening his Bible under a tent.

What do you do with that?

Here’s what I remembered–Jesus never whispered. He preached on hillsides, in synagogues, in boats, and at dinner tables. And when people told Him to hush, He didn’t retreat—He picked up a cross. Not a symbolic one. A real one. Splintered. Heavy. Bloody.

And He told His followers, “If you’re coming with Me, bring yours too.”

That’ll sober a prayer meeting right up.

So instead of leading our saints into mourning, I led them into battle—not the fist-shaking kind, but the kneeling kind. The kind where you weep beside the wounded, pass out living water, and refuse to run when the fire gets hot. That’s the fight Charlie fought. That’s the fight we inherit.

Paul once asked, “Who shall separate us from the love of Christ?”

He stacked the deck with every fear—tribulation, persecution, danger, even the sword.

Then he lit the whole list on fire, “No. In all these things we are more than conquerors.”

That means bullets don’t win. Headlines don’t win. Fear doesn’t win.

You can lose every earthly comfort and still walk into glory crowned. That’s not wishful thinking—that’s resurrection math.

And if Charlie’s body slumped in the grass, his soul was already standing tall in heaven. I like to think Stephen, the first martyr, met him at the gate.

Scripture says Stephen, in his last breath, saw Jesus standing at God’s right hand. Did you get that? Standing, not sitting—rising to welcome His servant home.

I believe He stood again.

Now, don’t get me wrong—fear is real. I feel it too.

The tremble in your spirit, the thought that maybe silence is safer. But here’s the thing–fear makes a lousy theology. If Christ is King, then no gunman, no critic, no regime gets the last word.

History’s full of men and women who wouldn’t bow—stoned, burned, mocked, chained. Some were children who sang while flames licked their feet, and every last one of them arrived, not limping, not silenced, but crowned.

So let’s not mourn like the world mourns. Let’s not write eulogies dripping with sentiment. Let’s sing resurrection songs. Let’s carry the banner higher, not lower.

Charlie Kirk didn’t fall. He crossed.

And the gospel he carried? It’s still here, sharp, alive, and still real.

So friend, don’t worry about who is going to pick up the microphone; you pick up your cross. The tomb is still empty, but heaven is not.