Category: Kneemail

On a day like today—September 11—we pause. The world seems quieter, the sky somehow more solemn, and our hearts remember what was torn: lives cut short, fear that crowded the horizon, faith shaken but not extinguished. Each year this date reminds us of the fragility of peace, the cost of extremism, and the need to nurture our better selves..

Today, we also learn of Charlie Kirk—shot and killed while speaking at Utah Valley University. A man known for fervent conviction, polarizing voice, for many praise, for others chastisement. The news arrived like a thunderclap. Political assassination: words heavy as stones.

How do we hold both memories in one hand: the memory of devastation on 9/11, the horror of a leader silenced by violence? And with the other hand, hold grace?

Remembering with Hearts Anchored in Christ

Christians are not called simply to remember. We are called to remember well. To recall the past so it shapes our hearts rightly—not with despair, not with hatred, but with a longing for reconciliation. On 9/11 we remember first responders who ran toward danger, neighbors who sheltered strangers, the fragile threads of unity that held broken hearts together. We remember how fear could have consumed us, but something else rose: courage, love, sacrifice.

Similarly, in the assassination of Charlie Kirk—regardless of one’s politics—we must remember that a life ended. A family shattered. A voice silenced. And whether we agreed with him or not, we are obligated to mourn as human beings. The Bible says, “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.” (Matthew 5:4) Grace begins with mourning, with acknowledging the terror inherent when the smell of blood ‘politicizes’ belief.

Disagreement Is Not Disunity

Polls, tweets, banners—political discourse is loud and often ferocious. But disagreement need not be disunity. Christ himself disagreed with authorities—religious, political, spiritual—and yet his disciples saw in him compassion. He spoke truth, even when it stung, even when it upset powerful people. But he did not call for blood at his opponents. His example was confrontation with compassion, conviction with love.

When we witness things like the killing of Charlie Kirk, we must beware the temptation to respond with the same hatred that silenced him. When rhetoric degrades into demonization, we are already losing the battle for human dignity.

Remembrance, Grace, and the Christian Way Forward

1. Pray First — Before you tweet. Before you meet in shouting groups. Pray. Pray for his family. Pray for our leaders. Pray for the shooter. These are not easy prayers—but they are Christian ones.

2. Speak with Truth, but Listen with Love — If Charlie Kirk held beliefs you found wrong, now is no time for victory laps. But it is time for honest reflection, careful speech, and listening to those who are in pain, even those you’ve disagreed with.

3. Work for Peace in the Small Moments — It may be a small thing: a convocation of faith, an apology for harsh words, a vote for compassion. But peace is not won overnight. It is won moment by moment, person by person.

4. Hold Memory Deeply, but Not Hardenedly — 9/11 still burns. So does the news of Charlie Kirk’s death. But bitterness is a burden that ever pulls us from compassion. We remember, yes—but let it make us more full of grace, not rage; more gentle, not more closed.

A Closing Reflection

In The Four Loves, Lewis writes: “To love at all is to be vulnerable.” We love our country, our convictions, our family. Those loves make us vulnerable—because harm can come to them. We also love God, and God tends to multiply our vulnerabilities.

Yet, as Christians, our roots do not lie in vengeance or hatred. Our roots lie in a cross. In a Savior who bore injustice without cursing, who forgave his executioners, who promised that love is stronger than death. Remembering 9/11. Reacting to Charlie Kirk’s death. These are not parallel—they are intertwined: reminders that sorrow, violence, disagreement are real and worldly. But that grace, love, forgiveness—these are also real, and eternal.

May we not forget. And may we not harden.

Sharing His Wonder,

The Question Beneath The Clock. Some questions feel like they’ve been buried in the dust of time—tough, tangled, and endlessly debated. And one of those questions is this: How old is the Earth, really?

Honestly, I’ve never felt like that was my assignment to answer. Whether the world is six thousand years old or six billion, that debate seems better suited to geologists and astronomers than to pastors and poets. But still, people ask. So here’s what I’d say.

Timeline isn’t the same as Truth

Christian faith doesn’t hinge on how long the Earth has been spinning. To hang the whole weight of the gospel on the tick of a clock is like putting your trust in the scaffolding instead of the structure. Let’s not confuse chronology with theology.

Genesis—majestic, mysterious, and foundational—isn’t written like a science manual. It’s poetic, but that doesn’t mean it’s untrue. It tells the truth that matters most. Not the kind you measure with charts and carbon dating, but the kind that wakes your heart up and points it toward something eternal.

Wonder is Greater than a Telescope

When the Psalmist wrote, “The heavens declare the glory of God,” he wasn’t waiting for a telescope. He already knew what awe looked like. He saw the stars and felt the truth behind them.

Could God have created everything in six literal days? Of course. Could He have used six billion years? Absolutely. Time is His to command. If He made the world appear aged—like Adam, formed as a man rather than a baby—that’s His prerogative. He’s not bound by our systems; He invented time.

The Deeper Question

So whether you lean young-earth, old-earth, or somewhere in the mystery between, don’t let the timeline shake your faith. Because the most important question isn’t how long the world has existed, but what will we do with the One who stepped into it? The One born of a woman, in the fullness of time.

This story isn’t just about beginnings. It’s about redemption.

And that, my friend, is the truest wonder of all.

Sharing His Wonder,