Love in Violent Times (Sermon 9.14.25)

Y’all, it has been a rough week. 

If somehow you missed the news. Wednesday afternoon, 31-year-old Charlie Kirk, an ultra-right conservative activist, was shot and killed during a public speaking engagement with students at Utah Valley University. 

I was scrolling on Instagram when footage of the shooting was uploaded online. And immediately, they were in my feed. Clips of Charlie Kirk debates are frequently in my feed, so I paused to watch.

I had no way of knowing what I was about to see. Until it was too late. 

No matter how vehemently I disagreed with Charlie, on nearly every topic. Watching him get shot will haunt me. It was awful. 

None of us should ever witness such a horrifying scene. It should never happen. 

And yet… we have. All of us. Again and again. Whether in person or through a screen, we have all witnessed violence. 

This includes discreet moments of violence, like a shooting or a bombing. 

Violent policies, like mass starvation in Gaza and the cutting of food assistance at home. 

And also the violence that is hardest to pinpoint, Slow violence. The violence that affects takes time to accrue, like poverty and pollution, patriarchy and racism. 

For no matter how deeply we wish it were different. We live in violent times.

And for every statement condemning political violence, there is yet another school shooting, another child who goes hungry awaiting humanitarian aid, another bomb sold, another family ripped apart by deportation proceedings, another hospital bill too large to pay. 

And none of these act of violence that will not receive the same bipartisan condemnation, as did this most recent political assassination.

And yet, all of it—violence. All of it—political. All of it—tearing at, as Dr. King said, the “single garment of humanity” to which we all belong.  

I was on a pastor’s retreat when the news broke. When we heard, the one other millennial pastor, came straight to me. Together we sat with our phones in hand—keeping vigil—reading updates, texting our families, processing our many, mixed emotions. 

And as ugly, painful emotions bubbled up, so too did ugly, painful questions. 

How could this happen again? Who is at fault here? 

And perhaps the most pressing, how do you tell the truth about someone who has died? 

Together, we grasped for theological insight, as pastors are prone to do, searching for solid ground, seeking anything that would bring order to the chaos.

Those who live by the sword die by it! You reap what you sow!

But that isn’t right. Too many who have sown life have died young and violently. And too many who lived by the sword have lived long and died in peace. 

Jesus tells us to pray for our enemies, to refuse to return violence with violence—but are we required to empathize with them? 

Empathy—that steadfast theme of Jesus life and ministry, that Charlie himself considered a “made-up New Age term, that does a lot of damage.” What do we do when we are hurt, our own anger, our own wounds, make it impossible to feel sorry for someone who made the world less safe for us? 

We were still furiously scrolling, trying to get more information, some sliver of understanding, when I saw it… 

SHIT - another shooting. 

This time at Evergreen High School in Colorado. The same school district where I went to school. 

This week’s words from the prophet Jeremiah could not have been more appropriate:

My joy is gone; grief is upon me;

   my heart is sick...

For the brokenness of the daughter of my people, I am broken…

It was all just so much. Too much. All at once. 

And yet, immediately, it was clear which story was going to get more media attention. 

In America, the national response to school shootings has become a mere routine. 

First, we’re horrified. We offer thoughts and prayers. Or we cry out and demand our government respond…  

And then nothing changes. 

It was only two weeks ago that we prayed for all the victims of the shooting at Annuciation in Minneapolis. 

Nothing changes, not because no interventions exist, but because these interventions are not politically expedient. 

As a country, we are held captive to the cruel ideology of people like Charlie Kirk, who felt, and I quote, “It is worth it, to unfortunately have a few gun-related deaths every single year, if it means we can have the Second Amendment to protect our other God given rights.”  

So children shot at school—that’s not the story. 

But the assassination of one of the most prominent conservative activists of my generation, the founder of Turning Point USA, one of the most influential organizations recruiting young people to vote for Donald Trump. A man who openly discussed his disdain and distrust of women, Black people, LGBTQIA+ people, Jews and Muslims, and deaf and disabled people. 

Now that is major news. 

I knew immediately—no matter who the shooter was—that this event makes it less safe for every person living in this country, not matter our creed or identity. 

But more precisely, I and others knew that this assassination made the country more dangerous for those critical of the political agenda Charlie Kirk championed. 

Because, as the assassination of Rep. Melissa Hortman and her husband, Mark, and the attempted assassination of Sen. John Hoffman and his wife—there is a particular disdain, not for political violence, but for violence against particular people. 

And as a white, cisgender politically conservative man, Charlie Kirk was their perfect victim. 

And sure enough, the rhetoric came fast—from pundits, politicians, even the president. 

Instead of turning down the heat, they immediately began pouring gas on the grill. 

Almost instantly, political and religious leaders turned Charlie Kirk into a martyr—weaponizing his death to blame the so-called “radical Left,” and target trans people--their favorite scapegoats. 

As I watched the online narratives develop, I had, what we young people call a full-on crash-out.

I cycled between emotional bursts and shutdowns. When I got talking about it, I couldn’t stop. When I looked up more information online, I struggled to look away.  

And quickly I learned that not everyone shared my reactions.

One older colleague gave me a blank look.

She was disturbed to hear of another school shooting, yes. But she had no idea who he was.

Maybe some of us here today felt the same way. Maybe some of us still unsure. 

And this is not just about age. This week I talked with a friend my own age who stays off social media for their mental health. They only had the faintest idea who Charlie Kirk was.

So yes, part of me feels a little embarrassed talking about all this. Call it Confessions of a Chronically Online Millennial.

And yet—here’s the problem. As the current narrative grows louder that it was “online culture” which shaped both the Utah Valley and Evergreen shooters, we risk missing the point.

Because blaming the consumers of social media—

the kids glued to their screens, 

the so-called “chronically online”— 

they become just another scapegoat.

It’s a trap. A distraction from the deeper problems.

And so we need to ask some really hard questions.

Questions that may point us back to Silicon Valley. 

To an economy that profits on outrage. That rewards those who game the algorithm. 

That raises up not prophets who call out the best in us, but profiteers who thrive on keeping us divided.

These questions may points us back to the gun lobby, and advocates who, like Kirk, did not believe that the lives of children are truly so sacred that we should protect them at all costs. 

And it doesn’t stop there.

These questions should also push us to examine our broader economy, our schools, and our culture.

And I’ll be honest—this is the question I struggle with most.

We must ask, How do we help those—especially young white men—who feel disempowered, excluded, rejected? Why do gains for women, people of color, LGBTQIA, and disabled people continue to feel like losses for them? 

And even if we don’t agree with their reasoning, we must still ask the question.

I think that asking questions in the most honest place we can start from. We must ask questions because none of us have all the answers we need, and these issues are way way way to big for us to figure out or navigate on our own.  

So perhaps we start with one another? 

For some of us, this week has felt big, scary, overwhelming.

For others, it’s harder to understand why the feelings run so strong.

And that’s okay—because there’s an invitation here.

If you’re not feeling it, listen to those who are. Not to fix, not to console—just to listen.

If you are feeling it, help others see why this moment feels so heavy.

Because however we feel—or don’t feel—the truth remains: together we live in violent times.

And so we must ask questions and we must listen. 

We must also grieve.

Many of us are already grieving. We might be experiencing the sharp, hot pain of clear and present loss. Or it may be the dull ache of old or ambiguous loss. 

We grieve for loved ones who have passed. We grieve for lost jobs and lost purpose. 

We grieve for the suffering of friends and family. 

And then there is the grief for our world. 

The prophet Jeremiah gives us words for this experience:

I mourn, and horror has seized me.

Is there no balm in Gilead?

The passage which this text comes from opens up with the image of a path and a question. 

Jeremiah asks the people--which direction are we headed? Shall we continue to down the path of wickedness? Of war? Of wounds? 

Or, he continues, shall we turn around? Shall we go and return to God’s own heart? 

To turn from wounding others, to allow ourselves to heal? 

To turn from war, to let the land be restored? 

To turn from wickedness, to enable peace to flourish?

We don’t know the specific events that cause the prophet to grieve, but it has clearly left him shaken. 

And we can imagine the prophet is himself processing process not just his BIG emotions, but also the BIG emotions of all those around him. The “hurt of his poor people.”

In this community, joy is gone. Grief abounds. Souls are hurting. And dismay and doubt are setting it. 

And unlike the hymn we sing today, which rings so beautifully of our clear and sure hope in God’s healing Love, the people and their prophet, in that moment, were not sure. 

They ask, Is there a balm in Gilead? 

And rather than offering rushed answers, simplistic cliches, or self-righteous hot takes, Jeremiah’s question invites space for compassion. The question invites time to tend to suffering and lament in a community marked by violence. 

And in Jeremiah’s lament, we hear not only the prophet’s anguish, but God’s own anguish. 

God’s own heart breaks with ours.

Following in the tradition of the Jeremiah, known as the weeping prophet, Jesus was also prone to periods of anguish. And in today’s Gospel reading, we hear the words of a Jesus wearing with his grief for the world. 

Everything Jesus does flows from Love, perhaps most especially his warnings. Like a protective parent as their child leaves home for the first time, Jesus is accounting for every potential danger and pitfall. 

And so he offers words of warning to his disciples, hoping to prepare them for the world in which they are being sent.

This passage invites us to think with Jesus about how we are called to love in violent times. 

He does ask us to go out! To Love the World as ourselves! To walk in solidarity with him and our neighbors, towards that upside-down kingdom where the last are first, and the first are last. 

But here Jesus also encourages us to use some cunning, some discernment, some wisdom, as we go out to so love the world. In violent times, Jesus invites us to decide which battles are ours to fight, and urges us to be wary of falling into traps.

Jesus calls us to discern with love. 

He urges them to take the lesson of the snake and be shrewd, discerning, wise… And to be morally upright like doves. 

The symbolism of the dove is rich. As it calls back to the active incarnate presence of God’s very own good and living Spirit. 

Perhaps’s in conjuring this symbol, Matthew is assuring us that just as the Holy Spirit was with Jesus in his trial, so the Holy Spirit is present with us in ours. 

Today, we don’t have all the answers.

I know that I am not sure of the fights are are mine to respond to and which are mine to let go. I am not sure I haven’t already fallen into a trap. 

But I am also confident that we don’t need all the answers. 

As we echo the words of the prophet Jeremiah, asking, “Is there no balm in Gilead?” we can find comfort that yes! There is a balm! And the balm is here—in God’s present Spirit and in this community. Thanks be to God!

In conclusion, I want to invite you into a moment of quiet contemplation. In the sanctuary this morning, we dimmed the lights, lit candles, and a guitar strummed in the background as we pondered these three simple questions.

These are questions you can carry with you wherever you are reading this:

• How is your heart?

• What do you need right now?

• How could we be balm to one another?

  
  

Take a breath. Let those questions settle in. Perhaps set your phone down or close your eyes for a moment of stillness.

And when you are ready, consider sharing your reflections with someone you trust. Ask them, as we asked one another in worship: Beloved child of God—how is your heart? What do you need right now? How could we be balm to one another?

Because in listening, in sharing, and in caring for one another, we embody the healing love of God.

Sermon preached by Rev. Delaney Piper on 9.14.25