Joyfully Accept the Plundering of Your Reputation

Reflections on Martyrdom and the Anti-Witness of Virtue-Signaling

Precious in the sight of the LORD is the death of his saints.

~ Psalm 116:15

Our family has been reading through the book of Acts for family worship. Recently, we read about the martyrdom of Stephen in chapter 7, and—predictably—my boys got to see me get choked up while reading about and reflecting on his triumphant death (Acts 7:1-60). There is something about the testimony of the martyrs that inevitably pulls at my heart. It is unsurprising that so many in the history of Christianity have come to faith in Christ on the heels of watching the saints persecuted and killed on account of their allegiance to Jesus. And yet, while it is unsurprising, the reasons as to why this is the case are allusive. Why does the death of the martyrs not awaken dread and fear and aversion to the claims that led to their demies? Why, instead, does it often draw in the lost, and inject courage into the spines of weak and frail believers?

Kinship with the Martyrs

There is a hidden mystery behind the beauty of the martyrs. I don’t pretend to understand it, but I cannot deny the reality. Separating Stephen and myself are some two millennia, a language gap, a culture gap, and many other factors that should make me relatively indifferent to the account of his brutal stoning. And yet, there is a tie that undeniably binds us together. My heart is knit with Stephen’s in love. This kinship is the “communion of the saints,” as we confess in the Apostle’s and Nicene Creeds. And so reflecting on his death cannot but awaken a deep ache of affection for this elder brother of the faith. I am proud to own him. He is my brother, and the Jesus that stood to welcome him into the courts of heaven is the Jesus in whom I, likewise, take refuge (Acts 7:56).

I remember feeling similarly in 2015, when I heard about the twenty-one Egyptian martyrs who were brutally executed by ISIS in Libya. I had heard that they were Coptic Christians, and while I didn’t then know what that meant, I knew at the very least that their beliefs and practices differed a great deal from the evangelical Protestantism of which I am a part. And yet, when the news broke, I don’t remember many people in my circle feeling the desire to elevate the distinctions in our theological traditions. Instead, there was a universal outcry of love for these “brothers in the faith,” and a corporate lamentation for their murder.

This was maybe the first time that I felt a truly ecumenical spirit of comradery for other Christian traditions. Perhaps this widespread spirit of catholicity was on account of the starkness of their death. We all knew that despite the real theological differences that separated the Copts from us, ISIS didn’t decapitate those twenty-one brothers on account of those theological differences. Were any one of us there on that beach, we would not be spared from the same fate were we to cry out in objection, “Wait! These guys venerate icons, and we don’t! We affirm the five solas and don’t use incense in worship!” What ISIS hated about those Egyptian Christians is what we have in common with them: the cross of Christ, and praise of the Holy Trinity. Without minimizing the real differences between a Baptist and an Egyptian Copt, we felt our kinship in Christ.

I felt similarly in 2018 when I heard about the death of John Allen Chau at the hands of the Sentineles people he was trying to evangelize. Except, the death of Chau didn’t seem to awaken the widespread spirit of catholicity in my tribe that the execution of the Copts awoke, despite the fact that Chau was much closer, theologically, to me and my fellow evangelicals. Instead, the response Chau received in death was widespread derision and criticism.

Unlike the events in 2015, I remember exactly where I was when I first heard about Chau. I was with my family for Thanksgiving, and two of my brothers were laughing with each other about “how stupid this religious nut was” for approaching the “primitive tribespeople” unarmed. When I got the story from them, I felt dizzy and sick to my stomach. There I stood with my blood relatives, feeling the everlasting chasm that separated us, while my heart throbbed with love for this brother in Christ whom I had never met. To my dismay, the mockery and derision his memory received did not just come from unbelievers like my siblings, it came also from fellow Christians. If it wasn’t the more liberal-leaning Christians who disapproved of his “colonial ambitions,” it was the nit-picking, haughty patronizing comments of conservative evangelicals who disapproved of his methods.

Now, obviously, I may have had objections to his methods. If I were to have met John when he was planning his trip, I might have had all sorts of things to say about his strategy: I might have encouraged him to go with a team rather than alone; I might have encouraged him to engage in the long and hard work of language training; I might have encouraged him to root his missions effort in a local church that would take responsibility and oversight for his efforts. But when I heard of his death, every single one of those hypothetical objections became instantly irrelevant. The most relevant fact about his story was his burning heart of love for the Sentineles people, and the witness of his blood. Transcending all the relative concerns I would have shared with him in life is the tie that binds us together—the same tie that knits my heart in love with Stephen’s and the Egyptian martyrs. In Chau’s death, I found an impulse to minimize, rather than accentuate, our methodological differences. I was discouraged and disillusioned that so many of my fellow Christians felt more of an impulse to create a distance with Chau (“we support missions efforst, but not those kinds of effort!”) than the impulse to praise his zeal for the fame of Christ among the nations.

And yes, I find myself similarly discouraged, disillusioned, and befuddled by similar reactions in the face of Charlie Kirk’s martyrdom.

Charlie Martyr-Kirk

I can already hear the objections. “Charlie Kirk was not a Christian martyr!” But why not? Some will say that Kirk wasn’t killed for his Christian faith; rather, he was killed for his “radical political views.” But I don’t buy it, for several reasons. First, Kirk would have insisted—and did insist repeatedly—that every single thing he fought for in the cultural and political realm was a direct extension of his Christian faith. From his stance on transgenderism to immigration policy; from his fight against abortion to his advocacy for the family, his own self-understanding is that he spoke out on these issues as an act of submission to Christ. “Yes,” you say, “but he was wrong on so many of these issues. His reasoning was flawed. He may have believed that his position on these issues were biblically justified, but they weren’t. He should have reasoned from the Scriptures to different conclusions!” Maybe. Incidentally, I happen to think he was mostly right on most of these issues. But I could grant that he was wrong, for the sake of argument, and it still wouldn’t change the fact that Kirk was hated for holding to views that he believed were naturally downstream from his Christian faith. However you cut it, he continued to put up with vitriol and hate out of a personal devotion to Christ. His devotion to Christ is what fueled him, even if you think he was occasionally mistaken in the application of this devotion.

Second, it’s worth mentioning that Kirk was anything but radical. The views he defended in public could rightly be described as “normie-conservative” beliefs and policies. But even if twenty percent of his views were fringe, do we really believe that such hypothetical “excesses” are the reasons he was so intensely hated? I have heard Christians object to his “tone” or his “dangerous ideas.” Is his death being celebrated in deranged and demonic fashion because of his tone? Was he shot in the neck because of the “dangerous ideas” that separated Kirk from third-way evangelicals? Certainly not. Distancing yourself from the twenty percent of his views you disagreed on makes little difference in the eyes of the enemies of the cross. The eighty percent of agreement you shared with Kirk is plenty to make you just as hated. He wasn’t hated for the few things you might have disagreed with him on; he was hated for believing and defending the things that you, Christian, believe.

I’m not, of course, advocating for a mutual hatred for such “enemies.” We are, after all, called to love our enemies. But to love our enemies we need to know who they are. And if they don’t make themselves known by shooting a brother in Christ (as in the case of the killer), or openly celebrating his death (as in the case of countless leftists on TikTok), or rebuking Christians for honoring the life and death of such a monster (as in the case of countless people flooding my own social media timelines), I’m not sure what else they could do. I am to love them—the ones laughing, the ones itemizing his wrongs, the ones who drown out their own condolences with the countless ways that they object to Kirk and everything he stood for (most of which, again, is simply an extension of basic Christianity). We are to love them, not impress them. We are to love them, not carnally earn a place in their good graces by accentuating the degrees of separation between ourselves and Charlie.

The Plundering of Your Reputation

I would therefore appeal to my fellow Christians and urge self-examination. For whom are these qualifications and objections to Kirk and his “tone” offered? What “witness” are we protecting by throwing a brother who died in honor under the bus? Might this not be a form of naked virtue-signaling that arises from a base fear of man? It seems as if some of us want for nothing more than to communicate, “We’re not one of those Christians—ew!—we’re one of the cool Christians.” But what do we gain thereby? Nothing worth having.

Consider this exhortation from the author of Hebrews:

But recall the former days when, after you were enlightened, you endured a hard struggle with sufferings, sometimes being publicly exposed to reproach and affliction, and sometimes being partners with those so treated. For you had compassion on those in prison, and you joyfully accepted the plundering of your property, since you knew that you yourselves had a better possession and an abiding one. (Hebrews 10:32–34)

The recipients of Hebrews were tempted to forsake the name of Christ on account of the persecution they were experiencing, and so the author writes his letter (preaches his sermon?) to call them back to their “first love” (Rev 2:4). And he appeals to the early days of their piety, when they suffered alongside their fellow Christians who were persecuted. They associated with those whom their culture derided and hated, and were therefore hated and mistreated by association. And their response? In the early days of their zeal for Christ, they rejoiced (cf., Matt 5:11-12). They “joyfully accepted the plundering of [their] property” (Heb 10:34).

If I may reappropriate Holy Scripture here, I would encourage all of us to avoid shrinking back from the honorable death of our brother. May we gladly accept Charlie as one of our own. No one ever said that the martyrs were unassailable; such acknowledgements are unnecessary. In this moment, what you and I have in common with Charlie is more important than the differences we might come up with in our nit-picking, because what you and I have in common with Charlie is what occasions the hatred his enemies feel toward him. Let us be willing to associate with the despised of this world and joyfully accept the plundering of our reputation.

Honoring a Life Well-Lived

Even apart from this urge to consider Kirk’s honorable death as more precious and worthy of admiration than the differences you or I may have had with him in life, I would be remiss to not acknowledge here, in closing, that Kirk not only died well, but also lived well. Recently, I posted this brief reflection on Facebook:

Charlie Kirk was a great man. Since he lived his entire adult life in public view, we can get a clear idea of his “story arch,” and it was refreshing, to say the least. Unlike most public figures, Charlie grew more admirable with the increase of his popularity, not less. In an age where it’s very easy to be cynical towards virtually everyone with a public platform, Charlie’s being an exception to the trend of disappointing leaders is significant. As he settled into his role as a father and husband, he grew more devout in his faith, and also grew in a corresponding maturity and humility and compassion. It is clear to anyone honest enough to pay attention that Charlie did not share the open disdain for his opponents that they had for him. He was consistently respectful, charitable, and routinely dignified his interlocutors (even when they behaved in undignified ways). He also recognized the stewardship of the “big brother” role he stepped into in the eyes of countless young men and women, and he fulfilled that role honorably. Honestly, in terms of a capable young leader, he was pretty much the best we could ask for. As far as I am concerned, this is a judgment that those on the left should be able to make as well. You could disagree with 100% of his positions, and should still, by my reckoning, be able to recognize his respectful and dignifying posture. What more could he have done—as someone with differing convictions that were honestly come by—to genuinely strive to create a platform for respectful dialogue?

I am grieved for his wife and children, and I worry for my country. Most of you will have seen the recent clip of Charlie explaining to a passerby why he did what he did. “When people stop talking to one another,” he said, “that's when violence starts.” He’s tragically right. God help us.

I received a bit of pushback on my portrayal of Kirk as a “great man,” but I stand by my comments. In terms of sheer scale, the ratio of his influence and accomplishments to (according to all that we can verify) personal virtue makes Charlie comparable to few. He was one of those once-in-a-generation kind of figures. And I can think of nothing better than to conclude this brief reflection with Kirk in his own words. This clip has appropriately made its rounds because it represents nothing exceptional. In other words, it’s not uncharacteristic for Charlie, it is Charlie in his default, evangelistic setting. For those who objected to Charlie for his “un-Christ-like tone,” and his failure to “reflect the heart of Christ, who associated with tax-collectors and prostitutes,” here is Kirk summing up his message to a group of online pornographers.