Today, around 2 p.m. Eastern Time and noon Mountain Time, the nation will publicly and formally mourn the loss of Charlie Kirk. For ten long days, grief has been held privately—families, friends, colleagues, congregations—all clutching at their sorrow behind closed doors. But today, the private grief will be allowed a public utterance, something our people have desperately needed.

In the swirl of heartbreak, certain “necessary” matters have been addressed. Swift justice is already underway in the search for and capture of his killer. The transition of leadership within his organization has been secured. The financial resources to guarantee the care and future of his children have been raised and provided. In one sense, the pragmatic checkboxes are completed.

That leaves us, on this day, free to do the one thing our souls have been aching to do: cry, mourn, and grieve.

But let me let you in on a little secret. Today will not be a day of regret. Today will not be a day of despair. Today will be a day of celebration and remembrance.

Charlie Kirk lived just 31 years—only 13 of them as the public voice we came to know through Turning Point. Yet in those 13 years, he touched millions of lives. His final days on earth were spent pushing forward with the relentless drive that marked his whole career. He told his staff he wished to reach 35,000 campuses. They reminded him that America has only 23,000. But then, in a moment that only eternity could have orchestrated, after his death, more than 60,000 applications flooded in for new Turning Point chapters. The very vision that seemed impossible in his lifetime suddenly became reality through his passing. This was Charlie’s way: dream beyond the possible, press forward, and see God multiply the effort beyond what anyone could predict.

And then, consider this—just two days before he was taken from us, CNN commentator Van Jones admitted that though he and Charlie had been “beefing hard—on and off the air,” Charlie reached out to him personally. In one of his final direct messages, Charlie extended an invitation to sit down, face to face, and talk. Jones admitted he almost kept that quiet. But as voices rose in our culture shouting about “civil war” and “censorship,” he knew it was important to share the truth. “None of that was on Charlie,” Jones said. “He was still just reaching out to those who disagreed with him, trying to talk, trying to have discourse.” This, too, was Charlie. He modeled what he constantly preached—that disagreement does not end discussion. That truth can be pursued with conviction, but also with civility. That discourse is not only possible, it is necessary.

Today’s memorial will be historic. Analysts already predict it will have the largest viewing audience of any event this year. It will be streamed into every household with access to television or the internet. Literally billions will hear the President, Charlie’s bride, pastoral mentors, friends, and colleagues celebrate his life. But I am prayerful that the memorial will be historic for an even greater reason: the gospel.

I am not saying it will happen—but I would not be surprised if it does. If thousands attending in person and millions watching online were to confess their belief in Jesus Christ as Lord and Savior, if revival were to break out in ways we’ve rarely seen in modern history—wouldn’t that be exactly the kind of legacy Charlie would have wanted?

Charlie Kirk could win almost any debate. His grasp of physics, economics, theology, history, and political philosophy was astounding. He retained facts like a machine and wielded them like a master craftsman. But knowledge was never what drove him. What drove Charlie was the welfare of the students in front of him—the kids who thought they were only there to spar with him. Even those who came at him with hostility, Charlie wanted one thing for them above all: that they would know Jesus as Lord and have their eternity secured.

So today, we grieve. We grieve for his family. We grieve for his beautiful bride. We grieve for his children—his most precious legacy. And yet, we do not grieve for Charlie. For ten days, Charlie has been at his Savior’s feet. He has heard the words he longed to hear: “Well done, thou good and faithful servant.” He is awaiting the arrival not just of his immediate family, but of the countless thousands—perhaps millions—whose lives were touched by his message, his witness, his example. And perhaps, through the testimony of this day, many more will be ushered into the kingdom he so faithfully proclaimed.

This day is not the end of Charlie Kirk’s influence. Far from it. Today marks the passing of a torch. It is now our duty—yours and mine—to take the considerable truths Charlie modeled and maximize them in our own lives. We must continue to fight for truth. We must continue to extend our hands in discourse. We must continue to proclaim the gospel with clarity and conviction. We must continue to love the next generation enough to tell them the truth—even when it costs us.

So thank you, Charlie. Nothing you accomplished has been in vain. Today we will weep, but today we will also celebrate. We will celebrate a life lived with courage, conviction, and compassion. And we will commit ourselves to carrying forward the mission you so clearly demonstrated.

Today is historic. Today is remembrance. Today is celebration. And if God is gracious, today may yet be revival.