Charlie Kirk’s death is still very raw for me. I can’t even begin to describe the strange mixture of anger and sadness I’ve experienced over the last few days. I’ve known Charlie for a long time. I keep making it clear to folks that it’s not like we were besties. Lots of people all over the world called him a friend. Still, he read and endorsed my books, called when he needed my help, flew Jennifer and me to his conferences, spoke at our “The Body of Christ and the Public Square” (BOCPS) conference pretty much any time I asked—all things that friends do for each other.

I remember at his “People’s Convention” in Detroit last summer, Charlie hosted a clergy gathering the night before the main event. Of course, I went. I was already in the room when he arrived. When he walked in, he saw me a few rows away and waved, mouthing, “How are you?” I nodded and mouthed back, “Well. You?” He gave me a thumbs up and then turned to give his respectful attention to the person on stage. When he finally took the microphone, of all the local pastors and leaders in the room—and there were many—he pointed only to me, calling me out by name and telling everyone in the room how thankful he was for what I was doing in Michigan and how glad he was to call me a friend.

Admittedly, it was a proud moment. And yet, I was also somewhat embarrassed. I’m just doing what pastors are supposed to do. I’m engaged in the world around me—representing the Church’s concerns in the realm of Caesar.

Before I go further, I should admit that Charlie’s death has torn open old wounds. For years, I’ve endured sneers from fellow LCMS pastors and laypeople who were critical of my partnership with him. Their jabs—sometimes private, sometimes very public—still sting. I’m sore from it. They made my friendship with Charlie into a liability, as though being friends with a brother in Christ who wasn’t Lutheran was somehow scandalous. Even now, as I wrestle with my own sadness, I feel the old irritation rising. It’s not the grief alone that’s raw. It’s the hypocrisy and the sanctimony of those who should know better, but don’t.

I wrote a few weeks ago about a cardinal I’ve heard singing outside my office window. Well, he was back this morning. At least, I think it was him. Either way, his song was familiar, and as before, he was unwaveringly defiant against the noise of the world as he welcomed the dawn. And yet, I also imagined how strange it would be for that crimson bird’s song to shift midstream suddenly—how hypocritical it would be for his melody to change from one that welcomed the sunrise to one that condemned it.

The day before Charlie’s death, I received an unfriendly email—much like the jabs I’ve been getting this year for re-inviting Dr. James Lindsay to BOCPS.  I shouldn’t have been surprised by these things. Every year, in the month leading up to BOCPS, the usual suspects emerge from the shadows to criticize my efforts in the public square. For example, a few years ago, a fellow LCMS pastor blasted me for my friendship with Dinesh D’Souza. When I pushed back, he unfriended me. Another called to complain about my partnership with Ben Shapiro—because he’s Jewish—then unfriended and blocked me. Three years ago, an LCMS district president attempted to cancel me after I highlighted CRT’s presence in our own Lutheran circles, including a BLM rally hosted at Concordia University in Ann Arbor, where the school’s chief administrator spoke. Two years ago, a group of conservative pastors launched a vicious series of online threads criticizing me for working with Tim Ballard, a Mormon, to address child sex trafficking.

Now, before I light the fuse on what I really want to say, let’s get something straight. What I do with BOCPS is not complicated. It is well within the boundaries of “Two Kingdoms” theology. Essentially, I engage in what the Church has long called “cooperation in the externals.” In short, Christians may share a stage, or even a cause, with unbelievers in matters of the public square that affect both Church and society. What we may not do is share an altar or pulpit with a foreign confession. That line has always been clear. What I am doing belongs to the first category, not the second.

And so, the cardinal. I think of that bird and how strange it would be if his song welcoming the morning suddenly turned against it. This is to say, I behold such dissonance in much of what I’ve described so far.

One pertinent example: I find it perplexing that several of those expressing concern also openly support organizations like 1517 or the Institute of Lutheran Theology (ILT)—institutions that trade directly in theology, and in ways far more concerning than anything connected to someone like James Lindsay, who is not even attempting to speak as a theologian. One of my most vicious critics touts his confessional Lutheran authorship and professor status at ILT.

By the way, the distinction between cooperation in externals and fellowship in theology is not without precedent. The Scriptures give us several examples. God used Cyrus, a pagan king, to send His people back to Jerusalem to rebuild the temple (Isaiah 45:1; Ezra 1:1–4). Nehemiah appealed to Artaxerxes, another unbelieving ruler, for letters of safe passage and timber to reconstruct Jerusalem’s walls (Nehemiah 2:1–8). Paul himself claimed the rights of his Roman citizenship to preserve his ministry (Acts 22:25–29). In each case, God’s people worked with unbelievers in outward matters to accomplish the concerns of the Church. They did this without ever inviting them to share in the altar or the pulpit. That line was never blurred.

The difference must be made plain. BOCPS is a cooperation in the externals. James and I share a stage and its microphone to address matters in the public square that impact both Church and society, but we do not share an altar, pulpit, or confession, which makes what I’m doing with James far more appropriate than those in fellowship with 1517 or ILT. Supporting those groups does not constitute cooperation in external matters. It is a fellowship in theology. That is a different thing altogether.

Yet the line is equally clear in another critical direction. To say that a flawed or unbelieving voice can still reflect truth in the public square is not to say that a disqualified pastor should be preaching or teaching in the Church. Not only have 1517 and ILT wandered into dangerous theologies, but they also platform voices who should no longer be preaching or teaching God’s Word. The Church has its own God-given standards for those who do these things. Those standards are not negotiable (1 Timothy 3:1–7; Titus 1:5–9). Any man removed from office because of, let’s say, adultery, or perhaps embezzlement or sexual abuse, or some other extraordinary public sin, is no longer fit for that office, regardless of his eloquence or credentials. And yet, he cannot be barred from speaking in the marketplace of ideas.

This is not complicated.

And so, it is entirely appropriate to work with someone like James Lindsay in the public square. James is an agnostic and does not claim Christian faith, let alone to the office of preacher or teacher in Christ’s Church. He does not stand in our pulpit or at our altar. He stands at a microphone—and then afterward, is welcomed into my home to enjoy dinner with my Christian family, and then he and I head to the bar in my basement, where I share the best whiskies I can offer—while our conversation, of course, steers into matters that include the Christian faith. In every instance, he analyzes and exposes the corrosive ideologies of our time, and I do, too. Together, we offer one another insights that can be applied in defense of both the Church and society. To receive that help is no more a compromise of faith than Paul quoting pagan poets in Athens. And yet, as it was for Saint Paul, so also for me. My words are Gospel-infused, making them the most potent in the discussion.

In the end, all of this reveals that the issue for some of my critics is not really about partnerships or purity. The problem is selective condemnation. When the alliances are their own, they are sanctified. When the alliances are mine, they are scandalous.

I genuinely wonder why that is. Knowing most of these men personally, I’m more inclined to think it’s because they believe they are gatekeepers. If you are not one of the boys in their group, not tethered to the right circle of approved voices, then your work is immediately suspect.

In the meantime, I mentioned in my sermon last Sunday a quote from Ralph Waldo Emerson. He said, “We do what we do, and we call it by the best names.” The point was to highlight how easy it is for us to justify our own behavior with noble labels while condemning the same behaviors in others.

Uh-oh. I quoted from Emerson, a poet who, like Lindsay, was unwilling to accept the deity of Christ. In fact, also like James, he rejected the authority of Scripture altogether. Still, when Emerson described the frustrating dissonance that sometimes exists between what humans allow for themselves compared to what they allow for others—what they defend and what they condemn—he was absolutely right. And the Scriptures agree with him (Romans 2:1; Matthew 7:3–5; Matthew 23:27–28; James 1:22–24; Isaiah 29:13).

Since I’ve referenced Emerson, a man of ungodly belief and yet capable of, on occasion, reflecting certain sunbeams of truth through his cracked window pane, remember that the Apostle Paul argued that truth can flicker even in unlikely places, and to reject every beam of light just because the window is cracked is foolish.

But again, the real soreness of this moment is the more striking inconsistency of those who once condemned me for my friendship with Charlie, and who now, in the wake of his death, are posting tributes that call him a martyr. How could a man they kept at arm’s length suddenly be worthy of such a holy title? How could the same men who derided me for walking beside him in life be so eager to claim him in death?

The public square will always be noisy and unpredictable. The Church will be, too. But there is no license in either for hypocrisy.

It seems even a cardinal has this figured out. His song is consistent. He would never think to condemn in one moment what he welcomed in another. Instead, he chirps the truth of the one true God who made the morning. He may even do it while sharing a branch with a very different bird. That bird may not sing the same notes, or even understand the sunrise in the same way, but natural law’s branch still holds them both. And natural law’s dawn still comes, unconcerned by their theological differences.