Charlie Kirk was not just a colleague, not just a conservative leader—he was a man with a microphone, a mind, and a mission. That made him dangerous to the left. And now, his blood is on the ground, and our nation sits here with a gaping wound. We all know it. None of us can believe this is normal. None of us feel fine.

We walk around uneasy, watching the news with suspicion, whispering at work and church and in the bleachers at the ballfield: something has broken. And we’re right. Because something has.

And in the middle of our grief, we have to stomach the smug commentary of political talking heads like Doug Schoen, who say with a straight face that “political violence is spread equally amongst both sides.”

Excuse me?

Tell me where the Republican mobs were that burned down city blocks. Tell me which conservative lunatic tried to assassinate a sitting Supreme Court justice at his home. Tell me which right-wing activists are hunting down CEOs, police officers, or commentators in the streets.

It’s not “both sides.” It’s not “equal.” The overwhelming evidence shows the American left tolerates, excuses, and often celebrates political violence. They may not always pull the trigger, but their rhetoric—“punch a Nazi,” “resist by any means necessary”—lays the cultural groundwork for these moments.

So no, Doug. You’re wrong. You know you’re wrong. And you’re insulting the memory of my friend by pretending his murder is part of some balanced exchange. The American people aren’t fooled. They see it. They feel it. They know where the violence comes from.

And here’s the gut-wrenching part: why couldn’t the man who shot Charlie have just come to the microphone?

Charlie debated everybody. He sparred with professors, liberal activists, journalists who hated him, politicians who sneered at him. He never ran. He never hid.

If his killer had an argument worth hearing, the stage was open. The mic was there. But instead, he pulled a trigger in the shadows like a coward. Why? Because that’s what evil does when it can’t win the debate.

Had he tried before and embarrassed himself? Did the crowd laugh him off stage? Did Charlie dismantle him with facts and reason? Is this what we’ve become—so thin-skinned, so addicted to vengeance—that if we can’t win an argument, we just end the life of the man who beat us?

This is not just sick. It is demonic.

And I can’t help but ask: where are our pastors?

Why has the pulpit grown so timid while our culture grows so violent? Why do we hear endless sermons about “being nice” and “self-care” while the unregenerate nature of man bleeds through every headline?

Where is the cross? Where is the bold declaration that sin destroys, that hatred consumes, that Christ is the only answer?

If churches had been preaching the truth about human depravity, maybe fewer men would feel justified in picking up a weapon. If pastors had lifted high the message of redemption, maybe fewer hearts would be enslaved to rage.

Instead, too many pulpits have gone silent, while too many cemeteries fill up with the innocent.

I’ll say it again: my faith is in Jesus Christ. He is my only hope. He is Charlie’s only hope. He is the world’s only hope.

But my life is being lived here and now, in this world of blood and brokenness. And here and now, I am not OK.

I am not OK watching a friend die on American soil for speaking truth.

I am not OK watching leaders shrug off political violence as if it’s a partisan talking point.  

I am not OK seeing churches retreat into soft words and softer spines.

We are not OK as a nation. Not by a mile.

So how long will it take to “get there”? How long before we return to a place where truth can be spoken without bullets flying? How long before justice runs like a river again in this land?

I don’t know. But I know this: pretending everything is fine is not an option. Politicians may lie. Media may spin. Pastors may go quiet. But the people know the truth—our souls are wounded, our streets are unsafe, our politics are toxic, our churches are weak.

And unless America repents—unless America finds her way back to truth, back to courage, back to the cross—we won’t be OK Not tomorrow. Not next year. Not ever.

Charlie’s blood cries out. And I will not be silent.