Charlie Kirk
Facebook used to be my megaphone. Three thousand “friends”—most lurking in the shadows, reading every word without daring to hit like. Then the hammer dropped. “Hacked.” Booted. Silenced. My voice—gone. Not because I cursed, not because I mocked, but because I whispered the one scandalous truth left in America: Jesus is the only way to Heaven. That was enough to make me vanish from their stage.
Now that I have a NEW Facebook Wall? Two pity likes on my new wall. Two. The machine buries me, sweeps me under the rug, dares me to pay for oxygen. Maybe this blog will double my reach. Maybe I’ll break the ceiling and hit a whopping four souls.
But I’ll tell you this—I was making a difference. I am making a difference. And if I’ve got to claw my way out of Facebook’s graveyard one sentence at a time, I will.
Here’s just one post they tried to strangle.
*************
The death of Charlie Kirk isn’t just a headline—it’s a gunshot at the throat of free speech. His blood screams the warning: in America, words can get you killed. Open your mouth, step on a landmine. Freedom of speech? For Charlie, that dream got buried with him.
I’ve got friends who hated what he said. Others in my church loved him. That’s not the point. Jesus already told us: say the wrong thing, and somebody will crucify you for it.
The Left cheers free speech when it’s rainbow flags and anti-gun rallies. The Right cheers it when it’s Second Amendment sermons and conservative values. Both sides keep shouting—but nobody listens. “A house divided cannot stand.” America’s become a firing squad, and sometimes it’s more than words.
Division is the real assassin. It slithered in like a snake, slicing unions, families, churches, until nobody stands together. The killer just pulled the trigger. Our division loaded the gun.
And still I hear it: “Murder is wrong, but…” That “but” is poison. It spits in Abel’s face while Cain smiles. Murder is murder. Period.
Charlie Kirk knew his words painted a target. He even said it. Now he’s met his Judge. His eternity is sealed. But what of the man who pulled the trigger? Did he whisper a prayer before he fired? Don’t scoff—history’s soaked with holy wars fought by men clutching crosses with blood on their hands.
Nobody escapes death. Not presidents, not politicians, not killers. Jim Morrison said it: “Nobody gets out alive.” The only escape is Christ.
So we pray—for Kirk’s family, and against the cancer of division. Once, Republicans and Democrats could share a table. Now we sharpen knives and wait for someone to speak the wrong word.
Listen—words can heal or words can kill. But murder is evil. Period. Stop excusing it. Because the blood of the innocent still cries, and God still hears.
*************
Bruce Lee once said words are spells. TikTok recycled it, but the truth is older than kung fu flicks and viral clips. They call it “spelling” for a reason—because every word we speak is a hex, a charm, a prayer like a bullet loosed into our own bloodstream. And the cruelest sorcerer in your life isn’t the devil, it’s your own tongue whispering in the mirror:
“I’m so stupid.”
“I can’t do anything right.”
“Why was I even born?”
Yeah, I’ve heard that litany. Maybe you have too.
And maybe it’s true—I am stupid, I am weak, I am dust compared to God. But that’s the twist in the tale: He chose the foolish things of this world to shame the wise. He took broken men like me—men Facebook silenced, stripped of three thousand readers, men who watched their memories vanish into digital ash—and said, “You’re mine.”
I say I can’t do anything right. Scripture nods: most of what we build is hay, wood, stubble—ready for the fire. Only the gold and silver of eternity lasts. My church? It’s fragile. My works? Maybe ash. But if they burn, let them burn—I’ll still crawl out of those flames clutching Christ Jesus as my personal Lord and Savior.
Because here’s the punchline: what lasts isn’t the bricks we stack, but the words we carve into others. Words that wound. Words that heal. Words etched like graffiti on the walls of cyberspace long after we’re gone.
Every eulogy is just a transcript. Every gravestone is just a headline. “Here’s how he lived. Here’s how he died.”
So hear me before the credits roll:
Death and life are in the power of the tongue. (Proverbs 18:21)
Shadow-ban or bullet, Facebook jail or cemetery dirt, the truth doesn’t change. Jesus warned us—every idle word will echo back on judgment day. (Matthew 12:36)
So speak carefully. Speak like your soul is on trial. Because it is. We all need to be ready to die for what we say. See Charlie Kirk for details.