1 Thessalonians 4:17 asserts that those Christians who are left alive on the earth at the time of the Lord's arrival at the rapture will suddenly be caught up together with the dead in Christ in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air
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Shabbat Shalom,
People often ask if I enjoy what I do.
The honest answer? It’s irrelevant.
I don’t believe this is about enjoyment. It’s about obedience.
In my flesh, I sometimes wish for a quieter life — more private, more naturally connected to my nation and its heritage. A simple, normal Israeli Jewish life.
Instead, I often find myself between worlds.
To the Orthodox Jew — I am a Christian.
To the Christian — I am a Jew.
To the Muslim — I am an infidel.
To many Israelis — I’m “the international guy.”
To the world — I’m “the Israeli guy.”
Too conservative for some.
Too liberal for others — because I believe salvation is by grace alone.
The flesh whispers:
— Comfort is better.
— Silence is easier.
— Withdrawal is safer.
— Giving up would finally bring peace.
But the Spirit does not allow settlement there.
When the flesh says “Enough” — the Spirit says “Stand.”
When the flesh says “Hide” — the Spirit says “Speak.”
When discouragement pulls down — the Spirit refuses surrender.
Yes — the flesh may win small battles.
But the Spirit prevents losing the war.
Calling is never about preference. The prophets did not pursue ministry as a career — they carried a burden.
Jeremiah resisted.
Moses hesitated.
Jonah fled.
Elijah despaired.
They were mocked, imprisoned, rejected.
Yet they obeyed.
This was never about fitting neatly into one camp.
Never about universal acceptance.
Never about comfort.
It is about the hour we are living in.
“The night is far spent, the day is at hand.” — Romans 13:11–12
This is not the hour for comfort. It is the hour for clarity.
Not the time to ask whether we enjoy the assignment — but whether we are faithful to it.
If the Lord calls, you answer.
Not because it is easy.
Not because it is pleasant.
Not because it is popular.
But because eternity is real.
Because truth still matters.
Because the day is at hand.
Awaiting His Return,
Amir
Charlie Kirk would have been president. His friends knew it. His admirers knew it. And his enemies knew it.
This universal confidence in Charlie’s future began with his countless political accomplishments. At 18, he founded Turning Point USA, which went on to become the most important cultural organization on the American Right. By 22, he was addressing the Republican National Convention. Three years later, he founded Turning Point Action, which led the get-out-the-vote efforts that delivered the first Republican popular vote victory in twenty years. In his spare time, Charlie published five books, hosted a national talk show, married a lovely wife, and fathered two beautiful children. All of that by 31.
Charlie’s appearance inspired as much confidence as his accomplishments. At a towering six-foot-five slouching, he joked that he had descended from the Nephilim—the giant “fallen ones” of the Old Testament. He might have been born with such a nature, as are we all, but he was not content to remain so. Charlie loved his Savior. The zeal with which he debated politics paled in comparison to the excitement with which he discussed religion. And his religious life bore fruit.
Turning Point launched a Faith division to focus specifically on his followers’ souls. There too, Charlie’s enthusiasm for open debate set the tone, as he invited atheists and even Catholics to take part. But he didn’t need a specific religious conference to convey his faith. Charlie Kirk’s religion bore fruit in everything he did.
Discerning observers believed in Charlie Kirk, not chiefly for his accolades or his appearance, but for his manifest virtue. Charlie’s prudence, the principal virtue in politics, built a generational coalition that helped to transform the American government. His temperance distinguished him as one of the few on the Right to eschew whisky, cigars, and every other delight that might have distracted him from his purpose, for which he had so little time. His sense of justice produced clarity in moral vision and grace for his opponents. His fortitude impelled him to enter the public square without a hint of servile fear.
Charlie’s only fear was the holy sort—awe and wonder, the beginning of wisdom—and his clearest virtues were theological: faith, hope, and charity. We mourn his death, we take up his cause, and we entrust him, as he confidently entrusted himself, to God’s care.