When Christians Choose Silence

I’ve been sitting with the deaths of three very different people. I wrote a piece about Charlie Kirk, the conservative firebrand assassinated last week. I also wrote a piece about Demartravion “Trey” Reed, the 21-year-old Black student found hanging from a tree in Mississippi. And then I learned about Cory Zukatis, another young Black man lynched in the same state. 

These deaths aren’t the same, but they are connected. They’re connected by a system that thrives on violence and fear. A system of dehumanization. A system upheld, far too often, by the very people who claim to follow the Prince of Peace.

And lest we forget, earlier this year, Melissa Hortman — the 61st Speaker of the Minnesota House of Representatives, a Democrat, a woman of principle — was assassinated too. If her death and Charlie Kirk’s death teach us anything, it’s that political violence doesn’t play favorites. It devours left and right alike. It reveals how emotionally and spiritually depleted our culture is.

Yet the response is uneven.

I’ve seen the videos and read Kirk’s own words. His rhetoric wasn’t abstract. He was a racist, xenophobic, misogynistic, transphobe dressed up as loving Christian. So when he died, I wasn’t surprised to see people relieved. Not celebrating, but breathing easier. It’s hard to mourn someone who used their platform to harm you.

I get it. Before I came out about 20 years ago, I was a homophobe too. I was a Bible thumper that preached against the LGBTQ+ community. I’ve asked for forgiveness from those I harmed, and I’ve forgiven myself. What I learned is that when we are indoctrinated into a harmful belief system, the cycle of harm not only affects the people we preach against, but it slowly rots us from the inside out. Sometimes, we don’t even realize it. I know how that feels, and that’s what I saw in Charlie Kirk. When I came out, I left the conservative Christian community, and I think my exit was celebrated by both those that I had once oppressed (queers) and by the ones who wanted to continue upholding the systems of oppression (Christians).

My point is, the only grief over Kirk’s death I’ve seen poured out publicly has come from conservative Christians. I’m not talking about a broad grief that covers everyone harmed by violence. Everyone, from Bernie Sanders to Donald Trump, has condemned political violence (though some seem to both condemn and incite violence at the same time, if you know what I mean).

The kind of grief I see Christians exhibiting is specifically for Charlie Kirk who explicitly upheld harmful beliefs — the same beliefs that have harmed minorities for generations. 

I have to be honest: it’s hard to take that grief seriously when those same Christians have said nothing about Trey Reed and Cory Zukatis. Two Black men lynched in Mississippi in 2025 — and the silence is deafening.

Not every Christian or every conservative is silent. I know there are people of faith — even some who admired Charlie Kirk — who are grieving more broadly, who do stand up against racism, transphobia, xenophobia, misogyny, and violence. And yes, there are liberals who found something to admire in Kirk, too. My critique is not of every individual, but of the larger pattern of selective grief and silence that reveals how deeply hate — specifically Christian nationalism — has warped the moral imagination of this country.

It’s possible to both condemn the murder of Charlie Kirk and hold him accountable for his harmful hate. I do not think, however, that it’s possible to truly grieve the murder of Charlie Kirk unless you also grieve the murder of Trey Reed and Cory Zukatis. Otherwise, you’re not mourning the loss of human life, you’re mourning the loss of a person that upheld a system of hate that you’ve grown too comfortable believing is justifiable.

Where are the Facebook posts about Trey Reed? Where are the prayers for Cory Zukatis’ family? Where are the tears for their mothers? I haven’t seen them. And that silence is not neutral. It’s complicity.

Of course, this is bigger than individual Christians. It’s about how hate is distributed and justified in this country. This past week, the Trump administration moved to suppress a Justice Department report that confirmed what most of us already know: the vast majority of domestic terrorist violence comes from the far right. At the same time, Stephen Colbert and Jimmy Kimmel — two late-night hosts who consistently challenge right-wing narratives — have been taken off the air.

These attacks on free speech, combined with selective grief, are all tied together. They are about controlling the information we get and keeping us divided. Billionaires and the ruling class profit when we fight each other. They want us so busy defending or attacking Charlie Kirk that we don’t notice how much more dependent we’re becoming on their entrenched systems of inequality — while they quietly march toward trillionaire status.

Class warfare isn’t a slogan; it’s the operating system of this country. And when Christians uphold Kirk’s legacy, or cry only for him, they’re not just complicit in white supremacy — they’re feeding a system designed to keep us all distracted from the deeper theft of our dignity.

I stand by what I said before: love is the only way forward. But love doesn’t mean ignoring hate. It doesn’t mean sugarcoating harm. It means naming it clearly so that love has a chance to thrive where we can all see — and where we can all access it.

Charlie Kirk deserved a chance to rehabilitate, to be called in, to love and be loved. But that’s the tragedy of this system: it devours everyone, even its champions.

But let’s be clear — the weight of that tragedy does not fall equally. Trey and Cory were killed because of the color of their skin. Melissa was killed because she dared to wield power differently. Charlie, in my opinion, died because of the hate he chose to spread. All of them should still be alive, but those distinctions matter.

I also know this: asking for love may sound like a privilege. I am a queer, trans, nonbinary person who has been threatened by hate. But I also live within the margins of whiteness that protect me in ways Trey and Cory never knew. While part of me is vulnerable, I can’t say that I know what it’s like to feel constantly exposed.

So, my call to love is not meant to erase anyone’s rage. Rage is a human response. In moments like these, it is often the only response. But rage alone won’t free us. Love, if it is to mean anything, must hold truth and accountability. It must refuse to look away from who is suffering most.

This is where my heartbreak lies. I once thought Christians — of all people — would lead the charge for justice, mercy, and care. Over the years, I’ve come to believe that Christianity in America has too often been co-opted as a tool for right-wing ideology. That’s evidenced by how many of them are defending a racist transphobe while ignoring the lynchings of two innocent Black men. That is not love. That is complicity. And maybe that is Christianity?

Now, I believe that queer people are the true torchbearers of love and shared humanity. In fact, I believe that’s the definition of queerness. It’s not about who you sleep with, it’s about how you live in the world.

If your heart only breaks for Charlie Kirk, ask yourself why. If your posts only defend his memory but say nothing about they harm rhetoric like his caused Trey Reed, Cory Zukatis, or Melissa Hortman, ask yourself why. If your grief can only extend to those who look like you, vote like you, or believe like you, then your grief is not just.

I’m not asking anyone to feel what I feel. Multiple truths can coexist. Some will breathe easier at Kirk’s death. Some will resist celebrating. Both are human responses to trauma. What I’m asking — of myself, and of all of us — is whether we can imagine a political and cultural life where love and restorative justice play a bigger role than vengeance.

Christians, where are you? I’m not standing against you, I’m calling you into a deeper love — a shared humanity. Call out hate when you see it. Grieve more broadly. Love more bravely. Show up for Trey, Cory, and Melissa the way you’re showing up for Charlie. If your faith means anything, let it mean that no one is expendable. That everyone deserves love.

Trey, Cory, Melissa, and Charlie should all still be here. They should all have had the chance to live meaningful, impactful lives rooted in shared humanity. So how do we make sure nobody else dies? It starts by calling everyone into love, ensuring that none of us are victims of hate.

That’s the world I want to fight for. That’s a queer world. That’s the world love demands.