My daughter’s first words after Charlie Kirk’s death stopped me cold: “Dad, I’m scared.”
As a Christian leader and pastor, I am accustomed to speaking out publicly and offering guidance, comfort and perspective during times of crisis. But before I could gather my public thoughts, my daughter’s voice cut through the chaos as she spoke to me privately as her father.
It was more than her words — it was the way she spoke them. Not as a little girl frightened of the dark at night, but as a thoughtful, self-aware 21-year-old young woman facing the darkness of the world. Her voice, sad but steady, became the lens through which I began to understand the tragedy myself.
She has carried the weight of being a pastor’s kid, endured the disruptions caused by COVID, and navigated the recent loss of her grandmother. During that time, our family became hospice — caring for my mother in her final days while running a generator after Hurricane Helene devastated our community and interrupted her care. Throughout it all, my daughter had never expressed fear. Until now.
Her generation’s moment
Part of what made her words so heavy was the history behind them. Born after 9/11, she only knew that tragedy through textbooks. She grew up hearing about Martin Luther King Jr. and John F. Kennedy — leaders who paid the ultimate price for their convictions. And in 2024, she witnessed the attempted assassination of the president, a moment that shook the nation but still felt distant from her daily life.
The death of Charlie Kirk was different. This time, the violence struck a leader she followed closely.
And she wasn’t alone. Across the country, churches reported fuller pews, with some schools seeing attendance rise by 15%. One Catholic ministry leader said, “I have not talked to anyone who has not seen an increase in Mass attendance.” Social media echoed the same story — one young man wrote that he had to park blocks away just to get into a crowded Sunday service, while another admitted he was sitting outside a church he had never considered entering before, surprised by a longing he couldn’t ignore.
Even in our own home, the differences in experience were obvious. Her younger sister, still in high school, felt sadness but not the same confusion. She hadn’t followed Kirk closely, so the news felt distant. That difference reminded me that grief and fear hit hardest where there is a relationship — even if that relationship is with leaders we admire from afar.
Judge Phil Ginn of Southern Evangelical Seminary put it plainly: “This was not the first act of chaos directed at the basic fabric of America, nor will it be the last.” His words echoed what I felt as a father — this moment was both deeply personal and nationally significant.
The honesty of fear
Her words reminded me that we can trust God with our fears. Not because fear disappears, but because God meets us in the middle of it. Scripture never says if we are afraid, but when. David wrote in Psalm 56:3: “When I am afraid, I put my trust in You.”
That short verse holds both vulnerability and hope. Even the man after God’s own heart admitted fear. He didn’t cover it with bravado; he named it and placed it in God’s hands.
My daughter’s confession carried that same truth. As her father, I was humbled that she trusted me enough to share it. At that moment, I wasn’t her pastor, professor or counselor; I was simply her dad, receiving her honesty with love. And it struck me: isn’t this how God receives us? Just as David poured out his fears before the Lord, my daughter poured out hers to me. She reminded me that confession is not weakness — it is trust. It is faith taking shape in the presence of fear.
Wrestling with evil
Her words carried not only fear but also an unspoken question: Why does God allow this?
That tension has haunted humanity since Eden. Evil is not an illusion; it is real, and it cries out loudly in moments like these. Scripture doesn’t hide from this reality — it confronts it.
Job cried out in confusion when his world collapsed. And at Lazarus’s tomb, Jesus Himself wept. God does not stand far off from our pain — He steps into it.
Yet evil does not have the final word. Tragedy may steal our sense of safety, but it cannot steal God’s sovereignty. Jesus told His disciples: “In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world” (John 16:33).
We may not always understand the why, but moments like this drive us to cling to the Who.
What listening taught me
As a Christian leader, I felt the pull to speak. But as a father, I realized I first needed to listen. In the age of instant commentary, outrage and quick fixes abound. But what if silence is actually strength?
The world shouts for reaction. God whispers for obedience. Noise fuels outrage. Listening fuels discipleship. My daughter’s fear reminded me that my first responsibility was not to speak, but to listen — to her voice, to the grief that lingers after headlines fade, and above all, to the voice of God in a world shouting from every direction.
When Jesus was murdered, His final words were not about overthrowing Rome or rallying a political revolution. Instead, He called His followers to something greater — to overcome the world by making disciples.
As children of God, we must spend time with our Father first. Jesus said, “My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me” (John 10:27). Before we speak to the world, we must first hear from Him. Elijah discovered that God’s presence came not in the earthquake or fire but in a gentle whisper (1 Kings 19:12).
Listening is not passivity; it is humility. James 1:19 calls us to be “quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to become angry.” Perhaps the most faithful response to tragedy is not to add more words but to pause long enough to hear God’s. Talk Less. Pray More.
The true hero of the story
In the end, this is not my story or even my daughter’s story. It is Christ’s. Only He stands above the fear and grief of this world.
Jesus warned His disciples: “If the world hates you, keep in mind that it hated me first” (John 15:18). He reminded them that hatred and rejection would come — but none of it was outside His plan. He endured it, He overcame it, and He remains the Hero of the story
Only He can calm the fear that startles us.
Only He can carry the grief that stays with us.
Only He can steady us with hope when all else feels uncertain.
Even in his final days, Charlie Kirk pointed to that truth. In one of his last posts, he wrote: “Jesus defeated death so you can live.”
Charlie’s death shook my daughter, and my mother’s passing shaped our family. But Jesus’ death and resurrection changed the world. Because He lives, fear does not have the last word, grief does not have the final claim, and death does not have the ultimate victory.
As a Teaching Pastor at First Baptist Simpsonville / Upstate Church, I join our team in the conviction we shared across multiple campuses the Sunday after Charlie’s death: “The world is broken, and it has no solution apart from Jesus Christ. Let’s give them Jesus.”
Jesus is — and will always be — the Hero of the story.
Dr. Stephen Cutchins has over 20 years of leadership experience in education and ministry across four states. He has been actively involved with Southern Evangelical Seminary (SES) for more than 17 years and currently serves as the Executive Director of the Center for Innovative Training, Truth That Matters. In addition to his role at SES, Dr. Cutchins is a Teaching Pastor and Multi-Site Specialist at Upstate Church in South Carolina, recognized by Outreach Magazine as one of the top 10 fastest-growing churches in the nation. Dr. Cutchins has coached leaders nationwide through the North American Mission Board and is a sought-after speaker for churches, conferences, and events across the country. As the founder of The Cutchins Institute, LLC, he leads a team specializing in executive coaching, consulting, and counseling services. An accomplished author, Dr. Cutchins has written and contributed to several books, including works published by Thomas Nelson Publishing.
