Erika Kirk and Donald Trump channel the American right’s spirit.
T here is no doubt in my mind that Charlie Kirk would have loved the service in his honor that took over a football stadium this past Sunday. It was a mixture of memorial, tent revival, and Republican political convention. This may seem foreign, or even distasteful, to those from traditions that more firmly separate liturgical celebration from political agitation — viewers would have some whiplash going from Kirk’s widow Erika announcing her Christ-inspired forgiveness for her husband’s killer to Trump celebrating his tariff policy, but the brash celebration of life, the somewhat light-hearted conference of the people and the powerful, was squarely in America’s Evangelical and democratic traditions. The modern part is that the pastor asked those who gave their life to Jesus that day to scan a QR code so they could be met with follow-up from the local church.
The shock of Kirk’s assassination has caused his peers and colleagues to promise to double down on his mission. His friends and sometimes rivals for influence took turns hosting his podcast in the week between his death and this memorial. Partly because this became the political event of the year, and because it was not a scripted part of the political calendar, it was unusually revealing about the conservative movement in the Republican Party of today.
Kirk’s death has highlighted something about American politics. The Republican coalition, like the rest of the country, has become more secular. But its influencer class, embodied by people like Charlie Kirk but also hundreds of congressional staffers, think tank personnel, and other young influencers, are much more religious than the generation of Republican influencers that preceded them. Kirk may have allowed models to fire T-shirt cannons at his TPUSA events. But, in between his smashmouth style of political advocacy, he constantly preached living a traditional life of early marriage and childbearing to his audience. And along with that, he constantly preached the Gospel according to his Evangelical lights.
The memorial also felt like a mini political convention where the right could test out different potential leaders. Secretary of State Marco Rubio and Vice President JD Vance look like potential 2028 candidates. But it was also hard to rule out Donald Trump Jr. and, yes, Tucker Carlson. While many conservative movement grandees are trying to figure out a way of finally exiling Carlson from influence, Kirk died as one of his chief defenders, working behind the scenes to try to smooth out conflicts and keep the tent as large as possible. The conservative movement has always been haunted by the idea that purging one individual or one faction from the coalition would render the whole thing healthier and more welcoming, a strategy of addition by subtraction. Kirk’s instincts ran the other way: include more people, get comfortable being uncomfortable. Addition by addition.
The most memorable moments of the entire event came during Erika Kirk’s speech, in which she tearfully recalled the example of her husband’s life and the example set by Jesus, and offered forgiveness to his killer. Her message was to answer hate with love. Later, President Trump would give a speech, contrasting his personal morality with that of the Kirks:
Trump praised Charlie’s noble spirit and said “he loved his opponents and wanted the best for them.” Trump then said, “That’s where I disagreed with Charlie.” Putting on a tone of comical resignation, he continued: “I hate my opponent and I don’t want the best for them. I’m sorry!” The crowd began laughing. “Now Erika can talk to me, and the whole group and convince me that that’s not right, but I can’t stand my opponent.”
The most literal-minded pretended to be scandalized by Trump so explicitly rejecting the Christian ethos. But there was a kind of political and emotional intelligence in this provocation and joke. It graciously re-highlighted Erika Kirk’s extraordinary gesture. In a way, he’s saying that if this forgiveness is virtue, it is one that is beyond him. It is also obviously authentic to Trump, whose own book has a chapter dedicated to praising vengeance, even at its most petty. Part of Trump’s political covenant with Evangelical Christians is that he is not one of them, but he wants to protect them. Like any hired security, he doesn’t paint on his truck, “Our policy is to turn the other cheek.” Trump was implicitly promising justice and protection. America’s conservative Christians want America to be their place of freedom, not the site of their martyrdom. They don’t just see their deal with Trump as a price of doing that business, but as a part of God’s surprising and scandalous Providence.