I sat in the front row on the far left side of my Story in Modern America class around 2:30 p.m. Wednesday, September 10.
Our professor, who’s likely to be reading this, was valiantly trying to drive class engagement in our literary discussion. Instead, our class was distracted by the national news unfolding before us.
Student body vice president Nate Holder, seated to my left, leaned over to me.
“You know Charlie Kirk?” Nate asked.
I replied affirmatively, and I was certain the next thing I heard was either a prank or a misunderstanding of a news story on Nate’s part.
“He just got shot.”
Nate showed me his phone and the legitimate news site (CBS? NBC? ABC? BAC? CLC?) at which he found his information. Immediately, the entirety of my presence, save the physical, left Clauson Center 331. Sorry, Professor Dill.
For the entire rest of the day – my Welcome Week coordinator debrief meeting, my workout, the Royals’ volleyball game, my Wellness Center shift – I was anxious. I couldn’t keep my mind and eyes off Twitter. Reactions to the tragedy, from both sides, took over my feed. Videos showing the violent attack from several angles filled my mind as soon as I saw them.
Scrolling Twitter for as long as I did during the 48-hour aftermath was not healthy for me; I know that now. Every free moment I got, I snuck peeks at my phone, judging countless opinions from people I’d never heard of.
My Instagram stories flooded with the initial consensus of “Pray for Charlie Kirk” reposts, but then, it seemed, everyone at Bethel had to pick a side along with the rest of the country. AI-generated images of Jesus welcoming Kirk into heaven came from one end, while silence or the occasional “He didn’t deserve to die, but…” post emerged from the other.
In the hours and days following Kirk’s assassination, I learned a lot about my peers. But none of it happened in real conversation. People I see every day, but whom I’ve never spoken to, reposted black and white images of Kirk with broken heart emojis.
But the weird part was that nothing about my regular life changed.
Online, it felt like the world was falling apart. Lefties spilled their post-mortem opinions of Kirk – he was a racist, sexist, homophobe. They found clips of him saying some annual deaths to gun violence were worthwhile if Americans got to keep the Second Amendment.
Righties fought valiantly to defend the late Kirk from these claims – he promoted free dialogue, treated everyone with kindness, loved Jesus – while pushing forward its own antagonistic movement against the left. It was the left’s fault for promoting violence that led to Kirk’s assassination. Spiritual, anti-Jesus powers of darkness live on the left.
The purpose of his death wasn’t to reveal who the righties and the lefties are at Bethel, but it did so anyway.
As I scanned people into the Wellness Center, passed the masses moving between classes and delicately maneuvered the D.C. with my tray, I spotted those with strong online opinions made known through reposts. I waited for something to happen outside of online life.
What would happen when these two worlds – the one on my phone and the world in front of my eyes – collided through this disastrous event?
But then nothing happened. Everyone picked a side via their Instagram stories and then went on with their lives – chatting in the stir fry line, laughing on the way to chapel, scribbling notes in class.
The reaction to Kirk’s assassination is really the culmination of a larger movement of political dialogue among Bethel students. We show brainrot Instagram Reels to each other in person and then yell about shootings online.
I’m confident that various ideas about the relationship between politics and religion are being formed in many of my peers, as they have in me over the past four-plus semesters, but the only proof I see from the general Bethel population appears exclusively online.
But what’s the point of taking a side online and then returning to our normal lives, avoiding political discussions with friends and classmates in real life?
The most dangerous part about creating politicized online identities like this is exemplified by the posts I saw for Kirk’s 32nd birthday. “31 ways to live like Charlie Kirk” I saw on many Instagram stories – right after the call to wear red Oct. 14 in support.
And it’s a nice sentiment, especially for Christians, who are called to live in the world and make a change in it for the better. But aren’t Christians meant to respond to the call of Jesus and live a life like him? Shouldn’t that example shape our intended impact on the world?
Actions speak louder than words, so what if our beliefs showed through the things we do, rather than the things we post?
Admittedly, I’m guilty of this too. I mean, you’re currently reading this opinion online, but generally I try not to let my opinions exist online if they aren’t reflected in person. I don’t engage in the Instagram reposts or Twitter rants, but I can still do better at partaking in dialogue with real people.
For those who truly believe Kirk was a martyr, an advocate for the Gospel, tell the rest of us who believe otherwise. Tell us why, and do it not on Instagram notes or reposts. What’s the point of believing anything if all you do with it is post it on your Instagram story?
