The image of Jesus in the Gospels comes to my mind — seated among Pharisees who questioned Him, walking among crowds who sometimes misunderstood Him, even standing silent before Pilate who condemned Him. Jesus was not always agreed with, not always celebrated, and yet He never turned violent against those who opposed Him. He engaged their questions, He answered with truth, and when truth was rejected, He still chose to love. That is perhaps the hardest part of being a follower of Christ: to love when you are not loved back, to bless when you are cursed, to pray for those who persecute you, and to believe that reconciliation is better than retaliation.
Jesus said, “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God” (Matthew 5:9). That blessing seems so distant now, so radical, as though it belongs to a different era. To make peace today feels costly, almost impossible, because it demands that we put down our weapons—whether those weapons are physical guns or the words we hurl like stones. It calls us to create a table big enough for disagreement without destruction, for conflict without hatred. And yet, it is the very way of Christ. He did not crush those who opposed Him. He did not annihilate His enemies. He stretched out His hands and let them drive nails through them. He absorbed the hostility of the world so that we might be reconciled to God—and to each other.
When someone is shot for their beliefs, it is not just one person’s life that is attacked—it is a wound against our collective humanity. It is a rejection of the very idea that we are capable of living together in difference, of being neighbors despite our convictions. It exposes how fragile our social fabric has become. We are called to a higher standard, a kingdom ethic, where we bear one another’s burdens and count others as more significant than ourselves. The apostle Paul’s words echo in my heart: “Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good” (Romans 12:21). Evil can so easily become contagious, replicated in our reactions, duplicated in our decisions, multiplied in our anger. But goodness, too, can be contagious, if we dare to let it spread.
And yet, if we are honest, there is a temptation to respond in kind, to match violence with violence, hatred with hatred, outrage with outrage. It feels natural to want justice in the form of vengeance, to strike back so that the pain we feel is felt by the one who caused it. But then we remember the cross, where Christ interrupted the cycle and chose forgiveness over revenge. He said, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do” (Luke 23:34). It is a prayer that feels almost impossible in the face of such injustice, and yet it is the very prayer that can heal a world like ours. It reminds us that the person who pulls the trigger is also broken, also in need of grace, also someone for whom Christ died.
This tragedy reminds me that the call of the gospel is not merely to believe but to embody—to become living testimonies of another way of being, a way that chooses dialogue over death, truth over terror, reconciliation over revenge. Perhaps if we truly believed that every human is made in the image of God, we would find a way to see even our opponents with compassion rather than contempt. Perhaps if we believed that Jesus’ words about loving our enemies were not mere poetic ideals but practical commands, we would find ways to hold space for disagreement without dehumanization.
I also cannot ignore the fact that there are spiritual forces at work in moments like this. The enemy thrives in division, delights in destruction, and rejoices when human beings turn on one another. The apostle Paul reminds us in Ephesians 6:12 that “our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.” When we allow hatred to control our actions, we play into the hands of those very forces. As Christians, we are called to fight differently—not with weapons of war, but with weapons of the Spirit: prayer, love, truth, forgiveness.
Sitting with this news also makes me confront my own heart. How do I treat those who disagree with me? Am I patient with them, or do I silently cancel them in my mind? Do I pray for them, or do I secretly rejoice when they fail? These questions are uncomfortable because they reveal that violence is not just something out there — it can begin in here, in the small resentments and unspoken bitterness of the heart. Jesus warned that murder begins with anger (Matthew 5:21–22). So even as I grieve for what has happened to Kirk, I also repent of my own harshness, my own quickness to dismiss people rather than love them.
Perhaps the challenge of this moment is to reclaim what it means to be truly human, truly Christian. To be someone who refuses to let fear dictate how I treat others. To be someone who holds tightly to truth but never uses it as a weapon to wound. To be someone who believes that life is sacred, no matter whose life it is. In a time when we are constantly told to take sides, to choose a camp, to be outraged, maybe the most revolutionary thing we can do is to stand in the middle and refuse to hate.
I think of Jesus standing between the woman caught in adultery and the crowd ready to stone her. He stooped down, wrote on the ground, and then said, “Let him who is without sin be the first to throw a stone” (John 8:7). Slowly, the stones dropped. Slowly, the crowd dispersed. Slowly, a woman who was condemned found herself forgiven. That is what I pray for now: that the stones we hold—whether literal or metaphorical—might drop from our hands. That the cycle of retaliation might break. That mercy might triumph over judgment (James 2:13).
So I sit with this grief, with this anger, with this longing for something better, and I whisper a prayer: Lord, make us peacemakers again. Make us bold enough to speak truth without spilling blood, strong enough to defend life rather than destroy it, humble enough to listen without fear. Help us build classrooms, churches, homes, and public squares where people can disagree without dying for it. Help us remember that our enemy is not the person across from us but the hatred that divides us. And when we fail, remind us of the cross where love had the last word.
Because if we cannot do that, if we cannot reclaim the sacredness of life, if we cannot disagree without destroying each other, if we cannot forgive, if we cannot choose love even when it costs us everything—then what kind of world are we building for those who come after us?
0 comments:
Post a Comment