Violence, Empathy, and the Need for Moral Order
Why Our Partisan Age Demands We Grieve All Losses Equally
The roll call of American tragedy reads like a litany of our national conscience: Emmett Till, whose boyhood was stolen by hatred. The four little girls—Addie Mae Collins, Cynthia Wesley, Carole Robertson, and Denise McNair—whose Sunday school lessons ended in the bombing of a Birmingham church. Medgar Evers, gunned down in his own driveway. The Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., felled on a Memphis balcony while fighting for the beloved community. Fred Hampton, a community activist killed in his bed at 21. Trayvon Martin, walking home with Skittles. Tamir Rice, a child playing in a park. Philando Castile, reaching for his wallet. Atatiana Jefferson, looking out her window. Botham Jean, eating ice cream in his own living room.
These losses demand our grief, our attention, and our collective reckoning. They are not abstract political talking points, but human beings whose absence leaves holes in the fabric of existence that can never quite be mended. Every name listed is a reminder: violence always takes more than a life. It takes futures, it takes relationships, it takes a piece of the common trust that holds a society together. And when violence becomes so frequent that we rattle off these names with a weary cadence, something deeper than politics is being lost. Just weeks ago, children at Annunciation Catholic School found themselves in the crosshairs of that same plague of violence, their innocence shattered in a place that should have been sacredly secure. The headlines cycle in, and the country moves on, but those families will never escape the echo of what was stolen.
Now, the most recent shooting has brought us to a different kind of reckoning: the shooting of Charlie Kirk. Many Americans did not know who he was, but within the MAGA movement, Kirk commanded a sub-cult-like following. He was not merely a media personality but a figure who cultivated loyalty through a sharp mix of grievance, provocation, and partisan zeal. This, like all violent tragedies, should be condemned and prayers and condolences extended to his family.
Yet what strikes me in the aftermath is not just the act itself, but the moral compartmentalization which has infected both sides of our sociopolitical divide, creating what psychologists call cognitive dissonance—the uncomfortable tension between our stated values and our actual behavior. In our fractured age, we have developed a disturbing tendency toward selective empathy. We grieve loudly for some victims while remaining conspicuously silent about others. We extend condolences based not on the content of tragedy but on its political utility. Even now, as communities grieve the very idea of yet another act of public violence, we see defenders circling to canonize a man whose career was built on division, dishonesty, and, often, outright dehumanization of those he opposed. It is a familiar American reflex: tragedy sanctifies, and martyrdom is bestowed even on the most polarizing of figures.
The danger here is not only political; it is moral. We are cultivating a civic culture where people excuse or even celebrate destructive rhetoric until it spills over into destructive reality.
Consider how differently various segments of American society respond to loss. Conservatives who speak eloquently about the sanctity of life and family values sometimes fall silent when the victims don't fit their preferred narrative. Liberals who champion socially progressive ideals and wide moral definitions occasionally withhold compassion when the deceased held views they found abhorrent. This selective mourning reveals a profound spiritual poverty that would be unrecognizable to the moral traditions we claim to uphold.
The Apostle Paul warned against such division when he wrote to the Corinthians: "If one part suffers, every part suffers with it (1 Cor. 12:26a)." This is not mere sentiment but a recognition of our fundamental interconnectedness. When we allow political tribalism to determine the boundaries of our compassion, we violate this basic principle of human solidarity.
Consider the example of Jesus himself, who consistently demonstrated empathy that transcended social boundaries. He wept at the tomb of Lazarus not because of political calculation but because death itself was the enemy (John 11:35). He mourned over Jerusalem even as its leaders plotted against him (Luke 19:41-44). He extended compassion to Roman centurions, Samaritan women, and Jewish tax collectors alike. His grief was not conditional on agreement or tribal loyalty but flowed from a recognition of shared humanity, and ultimately, the divine love that dignifies all.
This radical empathy is not weakness but strength. It requires us to hold two or more things can be true simultaneously: that we can mourn genuine loss while still maintaining our moral convictions.
You empathize with families scarred by violence while recognizing that death does not sanitize the words and deeds of the deceased. Biblical empathy does not demand that we abandon discernment or pretend that all actions are equally virtuous. Rather, it calls us to recognize that even those with whom we profoundly disagree remain image-bearers of the divine, worthy of basic human dignity in life and death.
The true Gospel, properly understood, offers no refuge for our tribal instincts. It condemns all sin, not just the sins we find politically convenient to denounce. It calls out pride and hatred whether they wear red hats or blue ones. It challenges the comfortable assumption that we are the righteous ones while our political opponents are beyond redemption. Paul's reminder that "all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God" (Rom. 3:23) applies as much to our political heroes as to our designated villains.
More importantly, authentic faith labors to unite believers rather than divide them. The early Christian community was itself politically diverse—it included Simon the Zealot, who advocated violent resistance to Rome, and Matthew the tax collector, who had collaborated with the occupying forces. Yet Paul insisted they could share communion at the same table because their unity in Christ transcended their political differences.
We are living in a time that desperately needs this kind of moral courage. Our democracy depends not just on the peaceful transfer of power but on the preservation of basic human bonds that transcend partisan identity. When we allow politics to determine the boundaries of our compassion, we contribute to the very polarization that threatens our common life.
The choice before us is clear: we can choose love over indifference, truth over convenient falsehoods, peace over violence, and the transformative power of the Gospel over the bitter satisfactions of tribal loyalty. These are not abstract ideals but practical necessities for a functioning democracy, but most importantly, a healthy soul.
The Gospel compels the Christian to extend genuine condolences to the families of all shooting victims, regardless of their politics. Even when public figures have shown little empathy for others in their moment of loss. Even when they wish disenfranchisement and harm towards persons of a different ethnic group. For the truly regenerate Christian, the call of faith remains constant: to model the kind of compassion we wish to see in the world. This is not moral relativism but moral leadership—demonstrating that some principles transcend political calculation.
In the end, there are lessons here for us all. Every tragedy is an opportunity to practice the kind of empathy that builds rather than divides, that heals rather than wounds, that points toward our highest aspirations rather than our basest instincts. Jesus didn’t choose violence, he was the victim of it. May we have the wisdom to learn from Him.