Amy Westbrook

The Cross Still Offends The bullet tore the air in half. A folding chair rattled. A Bible dropped. A young man slumped sideways beneath a white event tent, eyes wide with the weight of eternity. It was supposed to be a conversation. A “prove me wrong” segment. But this time, rebuttal came not with words, but with a rifle. Charlie Kirk didn’t get to finish his sentence. I got the news just before prayer meeting. I contemplated this death as I prepared to lead the saints in prayer. But I didn’t feel like praying. Not tonight. My hands were still. My mouth was ready. But my soul was pacing. Angry. Grieving. Tempted. Tempted to grow quiet. Tempted to sit this one out. Tempted to wonder if any of this, faith, boldness, public gospel witness, is still worth it. Because hatred in this country isn’t simmering anymore. It is boiling. Europe is trembling. Israel is burning. Rockets lit the sky over Gaza again. And now, here on American soil, the blood of a Christian apologist paints the pavement of a university quad. What do you do with that? What do you say when courage gets gunned down in daylight? Charlie Kirk was no perfect man. None of us are. But he had backbone where most of us don’t anymore. He was a believer. Unashamed. Unafraid. He understood that real conversations only happen when truth is welcome at the table. And the truth he carried most was Christ. He brought the gospel into public space on purpose. Because the gospel isn’t supposed to stay in church basements and private Bible studies. It is meant to confront. It is supposed to offend. It was not made for safety. The Word became flesh and they nailed Him to a tree. So of course they came for Charlie. Of course they reached for a gun. This is what evil does when it runs out of arguments. It doesn’t reason. It kills. That’s the part that catches in my throat. Not just the sadness, but the strategy of hell behind it. The Enemy wants us afraid. He wants us to see what happened to Charlie and backpedal. He wants the rest of us to whisper, to soften the message, to believe the lie that faith should stay private. But Christ never whispered. He preached in temples, on hillsides, in courtrooms, at dinner tables. And when they told Him to be quiet, He picked up His cross. Not a symbolic one. A real one. Heavy. Bloody. Splintered. When Jesus said, “Follow Me,” He didn’t hand out maps. He handed out crosses. That’s what I remembered tonight. I sat in our prayer space, surrounded by saints who had brought prayer lists and worn Bibles. And I realized I didn’t want to lead them in mourning. I didn’t want to lead them in mourning. I wanted to lead them into battle. Not with banners or fists, but with open Bibles and tear-stained prayers. The kind of war that kneels in gravel beside the wounded, hands them living water, and refuses to leave. The kind that speaks both mercy and judgment without flinching. The kind Charlie died for. This world is not a friend to grace. But grace isn’t fragile. “Who shall separate us from the love of Christ?” Paul didn’t leave that question unanswered. “Shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or danger, or sword?” —Romans 8:35 He piles up every fear you and I carry and then sets them on fire. “No. In all these things we are more than conquerors.” That means bullets don’t win. Slander doesn’t win. Prison bars don’t win. Death doesn’t win. You can lose everything in this world and still walk into glory with your head lifted high. Because the love of God in Christ Jesus isn’t suspended by headlines or gunfire. There are two worlds unfolding right now. The one you see. And the one you don’t. One is filled with chaos. The other is filled with crowns. I believe that when Charlie Kirk’s body slumped to the concrete, his soul stood upright in heaven. Not limping. Not silenced. Not stunned. But crowned. He didn’t fall. He crossed. The great cloud of witnesses gained another voice. And I wonder if Stephen met him there. The first martyr. The man who got stoned for preaching what the crowd didn’t want to hear. The man who, in his final breath, saw the heavens open. The only time in all of Scripture we see Jesus standing at the right hand of God, rising to receive one of His own. I like to believe He stood again. Are you afraid? Do you feel the tremble in your spirit? Do you wonder if it’s still worth it to speak boldly, to carry your Bible, to preach the gospel in a world that doesn’t just disagree but wants you gone? You’re not alone. You’re not weak for feeling that. But you are called to something stronger than silence. Don’t let fear become your theology. The cost is high. But the reward? The reward is Christ. And He’s not a concept. He’s a King. Heaven is not empty. It is filled with scarred saints who refused to bow to fear. Men who were stoned. Women who were burned. Children who sang while the flames climbed. And every last one of them arrived. There is no difficulty that can cancel the promise of God. There is no persecution that can derail your destination. There is no sniper’s bullet that can separate a soul from Christ. Your life is not measured by how long you live on earth, but by how much of it was spent pointing to heaven. Paul said, “I have fought the good fight… I have kept the faith.” Then he looked toward the reward. Not a monument. Not a mention in history books. But a crown. Handed to him by the One with nail marks still in His hands. So let me say this clearly. We do not mourn like the world mourns. We do not write eulogies dripping with sentiment. We sing songs of resurrection. We carry the banner of a Kingdom that does not tremble. Charlie Kirk did not die for nothing. He died carrying the same message you and I must now carry forward. The cross stands tall. The tomb is still empty. And the gospel has not lost one ounce of power. So pick up your cross. Wipe your eyes. And keep going. The crown is worth it. The King is coming. And there’s still time to speak. Even if they shoot. Lord, give us courage. And if not safety, give us joy. For we carry not just the message, but the marks. And You are worth every bruise.