Love in the Time of Propaganda
Facing forgiveness at the Charlie Kirk memorial
Lily is a writer. You can follow her work: Furniture Coins.
“Every liberal needs to be strangled” my mom hisses in Mandarin, fuming as we run late to the 11 a.m. Charlie Kirk memorial I have mixed emotions about. For me, the memorial is…an opportunity? A chance to write about politics and propaganda. A chance to attend Sunday church again. It’s been too many years, and now we’re gunning towards the service of the century at State Farm Stadium with 100,000 mourners at its wake. But really, it’s a chance to hear out Erika Kirk. She is a widow general, the most powerful woman in the world right now. With words, she can lead us to fire and brimstone, to dark paradise. Though I hope she softens the scapegoating. So yes, this is an opportunity of a lifetime, but I’m no craven opportunist. I’m there to see all the circling beasts, all the heady hyenas at this carrion call. My MAGA mom, for one, is out for blood. To her, the Charlie Kirk memorial is simple. Vengeance is a better breakfast than her pears and red-bean bread. Between bites, she continues cursing the left. I roll my eyes. 6:15 a.m. is too early, so I drown her out with Power by Ye on repeat; Charlie’s favorite hype song, according to his work wife, Candace Owens. I nod to the lyrics: “This is way too much, I need a moment.”
Attending this memorial is also some stupid, desperate bid to please my mom. In September, I returned from New York City with zero-carb rice, a gift in answer to her gripes about rice-driven weight gain. But fifteen minutes later, she’s dressed me down to nothing. My sins: I squandered money, wasted time and energy carrying it in my suitcase, and fell for “fake liberal bullshit.” Through furious—and embarrassing—tears, I tried protesting: it was $10, I’m not that weak, and stop mom, it’s literally just food. Then she yelled that nothing I give her could ever match the gift that was Charlie Kirk, which shocked me out of my sobs. Well alright, chuck the rice into the trash. Let’s go see Charlie. You see? I’m not some vulture, feasting for spectacle. I’m something even more pathetic, a yelping dog begging for a meager scrap. She thinks if she mewls a little more, her world will change, turn on its axis, show her bright lights, big cities, big dreams. A part of me wants a savior to put Old Yeller out to pasture. Take that thing out of its misery. Just shoot it through the neck. Je suis Charlie Kirk. If you didn’t laugh at my fucked up joke, I’m glad your mom loves you.
Who even was Charlie Kirk? Let’s dissect Charlie Kirk the propagandist, which I don’t mean as an accusation. We need propaganda to survive even when it destroys us, as the prophetic French philosopher and theologian Jacques Ellul would say. Propaganda is what every media scavenger is responding to, after all. Even if you binged over 5,000 hours of Charlie Kirk content, you still wouldn’t know Charlie Kirk the man. I knew of him before his murder, though I never sampled his product. Of the right wing content creators, Candace Owens suits my appetite the most; I like my girls insane.1 So I get a taste of him now, consuming the way the public consumed him—piecemeal, a Rorschach hors d’oeuvre.
If you’re my mom—on the Right and not a Nick Fuentes fanatic—then Charlie was delicious. Destined for the Presidency, he was a great, honorable man who loved faith, family, and freedom. Standing in line at 7 a.m. is my mom multiplied by the thousands. Classic Republican physiognomies2 as far as the eye can see, bottled blondes carrying heels around like it’s prom night. Some guy shouts back at their loud woos “We are all Charlie Kirk!” to chittering applause. A high-spirited atmosphere, no mourning. Perhaps everyone, sans my mom, is in a forgiving mood? This surprises me, though it shouldn’t have. Turning Point, the organization that Charlie founded in 2012, asked for our red, white, or blue Sunday best, not black. My mom and I donned flowing white dresses, but most of the crowd wore shirts with words like BLOOD OF CHRIST. Merch made in communist China, no doubt. The deprecating dog in me wants to mock a little more, but faith tastes so sweetly sincere that I swallow my tongue.
Now if you’re on the far Right or far Left, then you’re united: Charlie Kirk was bad eating. To a groyper,3 Charlie was overcooked establishment meat, a rubbery Israel First steak instead of medium rare America First. If you’re a Leftist, then he was unforgivable. A fascist Nazi, or in less charged terms, a “hate-mongerer” as Ta-Nehisi Coates retorted4 in response to Ezra Klein’s controversial statement that Charlie was “practicing politics the right way,”5 referencing Charlie’s devotion to debating college students. Good eating for Charlie.
Having competed in four years of switch-side debate, judged for a few years, and practiced at being an argumentative asshole to this very day, I qualify as something of a chronic master debater myself. I’ve long-digested the structure of debate. More importantly, I know what it takes to prep the counter-argument properly, to season and serve it hot enough to win. Every tournament requires equal rounds of affirming and negating, and you cannot get away with sophistry. So bluntly, Charlie Kirk was no paragon of real debate. He gestured at dialogue, plating up polite politics like empty fine dining: all presentation, no substance. Competent, charismatic, confident content, but propagandistic content at its core, an endless churn made for quick hits, not satiation. Propaganda is beyond lies, beyond persuasion—it predigests reality for people to swallow whole without question. And Charlie Kirk in debate drag was fluent in the technique, spoon-feeding a MAGA-only palate to the youth. But hey, I’m just some dog with all bark and no bite. Charlie was a Michelin-starred propaganda chef, a generational talent surpassing even the likes of AOC and Mamdani. And stripped to the bones, Charlie was no different from you or I. He was seeking answers in a complex world, a world where we cannot reliably distinguish data from propaganda. So we’re asked to simplify, to commune with easy answers and easy blame, marking scapegoats as the source of all strife. Propaganda serves victors and victims of us all, even its most loyal purveyors. Now one of its greatest victors has reaped the spoils, laid out on the table to be picked clean.
And I daresay Charlie Kirk, dead, is even riper for the picking than Charlie Kirk, alive. If Jacques Ellul lived to see his public execution, he would say the algorithm is the greatest propagandist of all, a mechanical black priest with a singular virtue: attention. It crowns what best captures our eyes, even a snuff film. It baptizes fear, shock, disgust, making us gag out of reflex even as we lick our screens clean, begging for more horror. Even though I’d avoided Charlie’s graphic murder,6 I’m still a 21st-century schizoid like you.7 I found out just last week that I suffered food poisoning in the aftermath, sickened from false propaganda that he was shot in front of his family.8 Who spread that lie? Who benefitted from spreading that lie? Perhaps you’re tempted to blame specific people, groups, foreign adversaries, as I am. But from a bird’s eye view, it’s the machine. It’s the machine that churns out Charlie’s death, the machine that turns even my 5 ft 4 mom into a Dragon Lady fit to kill. We haven’t descended into 4chan or Kiwi Farms or Live Leak; we’ve given the beasts escape velocity from quarantine. And there’s no unringing this bell. Hell is empty, and all the devils are here.9
I briefly chew on Charlie Kirk the man, a person behind the propaganda. You want to know what I think of him so you can judge me, deem me worthy or unforgivable for rightthink or wrongthink.10 Well, tough luck. I don’t have your appetite. Better to eat a mirror and digest my own penchant for spite, hatred, dishonesty, since “the line separating good and evil passes…through every human heart.”11 I can be quite the frothing mad dog, after all. So partisans, please stay mad at this paradox: Charlie was good and hateful, like me. He was a sinner, like me. Now he has returned to the arms of his Maker, and if judgment went well, lives in a place where there is no more death and no more suffering. Meanwhile, I get to suffer a whole life ahead of me; I’m aimless and alone, just one year older than Charlie. Charlie, with a whole wife and two kids and a sprawling conservative empire. Charlie, eternally 31.
I think about belonging as we squeeze in like sardines by 10:20 a.m after breaking through a dogshit line secured by the bottom quartile of TSA agents. My mom leaves to buy $25 pizza, insisting that I eat. I remind her that I’ve water-fasted for over a week before, so half a day abstaining is nothing. But no, she won’t have it. For a moment I imagine trashing the pizza like the rice. I’m starving, but not for food.
Then the Christian music swells and I’m lost in discomfort. Physically, that is. I’m seated too close to the stage, where sound turns to pressure turns to rattling in my ribcage. People of my cultural milieu, the ones who grow up and out of church and into atheism or soft agnostic faithless faith, or the ones who had no faith in the first place, likely can’t relate to this strange spectacle, this alien set of Evangelical symbology. But I remember how good it felt to spread my own alien mythos on Tumblr as a teenager, that secular religion called woke left propaganda. How good it felt to blame the source of all evil on straight white male supremacy, to belong for the first time in my life to something larger, grandiose, visionary. The hunger for belonging never dies; it just changes gods.
Back then, if I had a real family, I never would’ve found a false family in the deep dark recesses of cult-like subculture. I fled that gruesome pack, eventually crawling back to the largest, most infinite presence. So if the gospels are propaganda, then let me swallow them whole. Suffuse me, string me out on love. Unlike my time on Tumblr, I don’t feel good here; there’s no easy belonging. I’m a stranger in a strange land, crying out for the God of the Lost to save me. Yet the alien is comforting, easy to sway to. I don’t know the words to the gospel songs, but I raise my hand in Hallelujah. I find myself tearing up, praying, asking for help. When I look up at the morose gray light cracking through the stadium beams, I think maybe yeah, I can see God.
The mysticism of the music stays through speeches by Charlie’s friends. My mom returns with pizza; I eat a slice as I eat their words, chuckling through tears as Stacy Sheridan ribs on Charlie’s high-pitched laugh. I don’t doubt she loved him. Yet my mom, who feeds the dog and then calls it fat later, leaves me cold and suspicious. Probably because her theatrics are quite mean-spirited. On the other hand, the WWE theatrics here are good-natured. All these sparklers and gameshow contestant walkouts make me think Charlie Kirk Day could be a yearly carnival, a cheery 9/10 to prequel a somber 9/11.
My tears dry quickly once the overtly propagandistic, political pundits rear their heads. I relish Tucker Carlson’s pterodactyl cackle12 and wonder why a Hindu like Tulsi Gabbard keeps invoking God.13 When RFK Jr. starts speaking, my mom turns to me looking like she’s been sucking for hours on a particularly sour and rancid lemon. Amazingly, she’s never heard him talk until now, his rickety voice scratching her eardrums through the speakers. That’s like taking all twenty vaccines on the CDC schedule at once.14 “Why’s he like that?” she whispers miserably to me. I tell her he has a condition. “If he didn’t have that voice, he could be President,” she says, shaking her head. Astute analysis about the little known Kennedy family, you heard it here first. Snark aside, what strikes me about these three pundits is their heterodoxy: Tucker now the chief conservative critic of Israel and a 9/11 conspiracy theorist,15 Tulsi and RFK Jr. both Democrat defectors turned Republican evangelists. Do people see this political realignment? Question the whiplash? Most probably can’t, even if they want to. “Propagandas, far from canceling each other out because they are contradictory, have a cumulative effect,” wrote Ellul. “A boxer, groggy from a left hook, does not return to normal when hit by a right hook; he becomes groggier.”16
The stadium inhales as Erika Kirk’s speech draws closer; will she go for love or go for hate? I can’t tell which choice the crowd prays for. Two days after her husband’s murder, Erika vowed that “the cries of this widow will be heard around the world like a battle cry.” So I hold my breath. I think she’ll light up a warpath, follow the heat still hanging in the air from Stephen Miller’s incendiary set. He had performed a passable imitation of Goebbels while my mom screeched in uproarious agreement. To him, everyone in the stadium are children of the light while all the evil is out there, ready to be vanquished. Erika’s grief could very well be gasoline. Bare your fangs, I imagine her demanding. Howl! The salivating dog inside me stirs. It rears its head, puzzled but wondrous at the commandment to change, to don a vicious coat, to tear out some open throats. After all, this is a dark world where “everyone seeks to be a wolf.”17 At nightfall, the full moon beckons us to her bed, legs open. Why not treat this tenderless night to some teeth?
But Erika Kirk refuses the night. She starts so softly; Charlie had sprouted a single gray hair; Charlie hadn’t suffered a second; Charlie had met each day to the fullest. When Erika starts sharing his passion for revitalizing faith and family, my mom bemoans “Why is she still talking? Taking too long!” Now there’s moonlight rising in me. Here’s the wolf, hackles raised, glaring at my mom. But oh, we must forgive her. She can barely understand English even after 25 years in America. I scurry away from my mom to focus on the speech. After five minutes, when Erika starts saying that Charlie wanted to save the lost boys of the West, that’s when I knew. I knew, with creeping, spine-chilling awe, that she would forgive his murderer in front of the whole world.18 She could call the angels down and smite her enemies, and not a soul on Earth would blame her for her rightful vengeance. Yet…yet she will do the unearthly. She will set down her heavy crown. She looks to the heavens, past those stadium beams, beseeching God. I can almost see Him touch her hand, closing that excruciating, infinite gap to forgiveness. Forgiveness! She forgives “that young man” who gunned down her husband! And the whole stadium erupts with a mania, pain and ecstasy beyond measure. Beyond lightning, beyond thunder. Whatever this is, this electricity rippling in the air, is some unknown element of the universe. The propaganda of vengeance glitches, short-circuits. Something divine has broken through. “The answer to hate is not hate. The answer…is love and always love,” Erika intones. “Love for our enemies and love for those who persecute us.”
Unfortunately, I’ve no clue if the live wire in the audience burned just as bright for hatred as it did for love. My mom found me and we left before Trump’s soft launch of autism root causes and pleasant benediction towards his enemies: “I hate my opponent, and I don’t want the best for them. I’m sorry. I’m sorry Erika...I can’t stand my opponent.” I almost laugh at the black comedy, watching the livestream from the car. What did the stadium feel like when he uttered those great sucking sounds? If anyone has power that rivals God, it’s Trump. I imagine he must have rerouted the current, tuned the voltage from forgiveness back to spite. The show must go on. Love and hate. Black and white. There’s no glitz and glam without the push and pull. Turning Point wants to open more chapters, host more college campus debates in Charlie’s name. They want new episodes in new seasons post-major character death, more dog-and-pony shows disguised as dialogue.
Well Turning Point and Mr. Trump, let’s have a real debate, a proper policy round. One where we have to win over judges and jury. One where we’re actually open to changing our minds. Two people per team. Erika Kirk and I on the affirmative, you on the negative. But hey, I’ll let you bring a litany of opponents against us, whatever army you want. We affirm the resolution: Forgiveness is the only path. It’s what Charlie would’ve wanted. Erika already gave the first speech, so it’s your move.
Trump recedes, lets his minions dig into Christian theology and the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy.19 The ghost of pastor Dietrich Bonhoeffer stands up, saying forgiving too quickly is “cheap grace,” costing nothing because it demands nothing. Why shouldn’t we hear an apology first before offering premature mercy? He cites scripture: “If your brother sins, rebuke him, and if he repents, forgive him.”20 A secular ghost floats in to back him up; Nietzsche thinks we’re laundering a pious performance. He asks us accusingly, “Are you sure your forgiveness isn’t ressentiment in disguise, an act of powerlessness that tries to turn impotence into virtue?”
Their arguments are heavy with reason, but hollow of Christ. It’s my turn now. I defend Erika Kirk with my trusted friend, Jacques Ellul. Actually, she’s not powerless. She turned her power into nonpower, as Christ did. He had the power to save himself from tortuous death, but chose not to use it. He forgave us all on the Cross without needing anything in return. We don’t need repentance, and we don’t need retribution. To need is to surrender choice and freewill. To need is nature; to choose is faith. To choose is to be human. However! Even if we are to be animals, Christians must daily choose to be “sheep among wolves.”21 We are called, not to follow blindly, but to bear witness to the innocence and sacrifice of the Lamb. We choose to “accept others’ domination,”22 forgiving their trespasses against us just as God forgives ours. When our bodies are asked to bare its fangs, Christ asks us to unclench our jaws, to stay soft in a world of wolves. Maybe I’m a bad sheep—or no sheep at all. I’m a hungry dog who shall stay a dog. Whatever I am, I think we’re winning the round.
Then a terrible opponent raises an accusing finger…my mother. My flesh and blood. Not my enemy. “You say to forgive. But how come you can’t forgive me?” she demands. And it’s true, I can’t. I might let bygones be bygones, but not all the accumulations. Not every backhand, every silent treatment, every caustic neglectful thing she has ever done. Blaming me when the neighborhood boys break my toys. Taking me to tennis, then forcing me to sit on the sidelines because I suck. Driving me to debate and audibly laughing at how stupid I sound. My mom never liked her litter much—I’m not the sweet, feminine daughter she wants. “You should’ve been born male,” she often snarls. Well, aren’t I a son of a bitch now? Dragging my own mother for filth in public, when Erika Kirk forgives the unforgivable?
But then a sudden challenger rushes in to confront Erika: Charlie Kirk the propagandist. “Politicize my murder,” he drones, eyes glazed over, echoing his final tweet.23 I realize with stunning clarity that this is also Charlie Kirk the man. He would’ve loved this stadium full of wolves, gospel thundering in vain. He would’ve loved the pyrotechnics and the earnest, garish gauche of it all. He would’ve loved being sanctified, canonized, consecrated, martyred—barely memorialized. I look to Erika Kirk for help. But the more I look, the more I find myself faltering, doubting. She knew Charlie best, knew the man and the propagandist. So did she really mean her forgiveness? And if she didn’t, then was it coerced? A politicized performance demanded by her of the crowd and cameras and the constant machinery of worldly faith? I’m going down a cynical path now. I wonder how false forgiveness could be engineered for virality. No longer grace, but optics. No longer nonpower, but power. Power that appears so pure that it cannot be doubted. Could the perfect form of propaganda…look like forgiveness?
At home, I search for a dose of pure humanity, a proper eulogy to Charlie. I don’t want to think about propaganda anymore. I can’t reach inside Erika Kirk and pull out her heart, weigh it against the truth. I only know how I feel. All I want to be is a soft little sheep. All I want to feel is love. Briefly, the memorial had flashed with it. The music. Stacy Sheridan.24 She was the one who made fun of Charlie’s laugh, the one who eulogized him purely as a friend. I find more of that tenderness in Candace Owen’s 24 minute tribute video to Charlie. While watching it, I think, That’s real love, right there. And Candace, through tears in the end, said she was praying for the people who celebrated Charlie’s death. She didn’t call them disgusting or label them evil. Only offered to pray. I dig up other videos of Candace and Charlie from her social media. They’re singing and dancing backstage. They’re sitting on a bench, looking into the distance. Funny, isn’t it, that notorious propagandist Candace Owens is the one who preserved such hallowed ground.
When I see photos of Charlie and Candace, I don’t see propaganda—I see my old debate friends and I. Suddenly I’m traveling back in time, back to those sweet boys I was half in love with, half in awe of in high school. Those rich prep school boys with their Orthodox Christian and Catholic upbringings were generous beyond measure. They stayed up late to teach me about Foucault’s biopower, showed me the best Italo-disco remixes of trending pop songs, gently eviscerated each of my shitty arguments without an ounce of arrogance or pity. They were so beyond me, but they treated me so well. Tears flood as memories pour in. I return to my mom, who was trying to treat me well, standing for 40 minutes to buy me a pizza I didn’t want, but did eat. I didn’t savor it. Couldn’t, not with the grease and cardboard texture. Perhaps that is the barest form of love—survival calories. The only thing she knows how to give. And she did keep me alive enough, didn’t she? Well enough to seek out real love elsewhere, out there. Well enough to see Erika Kirk offer grace and unsettle something in me, performance or not. Maybe it doesn’t matter; maybe love is a performance until it isn’t, just one long slow burn until you don’t remember a time without warmth. Time to have a little more faith. I fish the rice out of the trash. Keep it stored in a cupboard, hopeful that an old friend who loves me will savor it.25
And strangely, I can see Charlie Kirk, standing by a dog. It’s not a dog that he’d pick out of the pound, this mangy mutt. It’s a crass thing that pisses itself when you try to take it out for some fun at the park. But I think Charlie Kirk would have pet that dog, fed it treats, called it a good dog when it brings him a ball, a bag of rice. Never kick it, no matter how annoyingly loud it yowls. No, Charlie could never cut me down to size the way my family has. Not Charlie, a man who’d delivered medical supplies to a friend’s husband when he was dying of cancer. So as crazy as it sounds…if he were alive, and I met him and befriended him, I know Charlie Kirk would love me more than my mom ever could.
Love isn’t some intellectual game. Forgiveness isn’t some mental exercise. It can’t be coerced. You have to feel it. And this feels true, written again: Charlie Kirk would love me more than my mom ever could. With a start, I realize the reverse feels true, too. I could love Charlie Kirk more than I love my own mom. It’s excruciating, trying to love my mom, forgive her specific crimes. I lost so many years for her. Maybe it’s just impossible to mourn a living wound. It feels so much easier to try and love Charlie, forgive the fantasy of a dead man for his abstract harms against me.
And maybe all love is agony, because I’m wrong to separate Charlie Kirk the man from Charlie Kirk the propagandist; they’re one and the same. Loving him means loving the man and the propagandist and the machine that uses him. So how do I feel this? I’m just a drooling dog at the edge of the stage, wagging its tail, waiting for a hand to come down and stroke its head. But I search for something. There was a phrase that Candace said Charlie liked, a twist on an old adage. The rest isn’t history, no. The rest is future. I have the rest of my life to make my future. And when I do, maybe I can forgive my mom.
And so I end with a twist on an old prayer: Charlie Kirk, rest in future.
I’m adapting Lana Del Rey’s “Born to Die” for the lovely Candace. I will always love beautiful women no matter how insane their takes are. You will pry hot schizo transvestigators from me like you’ll pry Excel from the cold dead hands of Fortune 500 analysts. And Candace is really a phenomenal friend, isn’t she? I’d love if my work wife tried to pin my murder on Bibi Netanyahu. It’s Mossad, man. ABC. Always Be Closing Conspiring. My tinfoil hat is eternally shiny.
Dmitry wrote a touching tribute to Charlie where he expands on his physiognomy
Fans of Nick Fuentes, named after the Pepe meme
My whole life, I’ve managed to love horror and avoid every piece of real horror: every cartel skinning video, ISIS beheading, George Floyd’s last gasps, Palestinian children blown to pieces, Iryna Zarutska’s fatal stabbing…though once, as a teenager, I caught an unfortunate glimpse of goatse, that hideous, blooming flower.
Another lyric from Power by Ye that samples a song by King Crimson about “how conflicts like the Vietnam war destroy the innocence of entire generations.”
I can’t find it now, but I made a comment on a note by Harjas Sandhu, unwittingly spreading propaganda myself. I’m really, really glad Erika Kirk and his children didn’t witness his murder.
Shakespeare, The Tempest
Imagine what the press would say if I were gunned down like Charlie. I’m a 2A enthusiast, like Charlie was. You can’t take the Arizona out of me; I find shooting a gun quite meditative. So quote me on that, imply I deserved it too. I’ll chuckle at the situational irony from heaven or hell. Though honor my request to put my quote on a hot photo of me, okay? Grab a pic from after I got my teeth fixed at 29. Not from my early 20s, no no. Redpillers should understand: there’s no such thing as hitting the wall for me. Asians don’t raisin. I’m going to be young and beautiful until I turn 50 and into a grandma overnight.
Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, The Gulag Archipelago 1918–1956
Tucker is my favorite catty straight man, the most spiritually gay guy in the media business, second only to Trump. Yes Tucker, People of Hummus killed Jesus Christ (and probably Charlie Kirk, too). Him and Candace Owens, two peas in a pod. Was Tucker really surprised to get backlash for his (debatably) antisemitic dogwhistle? Perhaps the Swanson heir and son of a CIA agent is only pretending to be surprised, just like he is pretending he never knew his father was a CIA agent. Masterful propaganda. If only Pete Buttigieg were here, he could get an impromptu Tucker quizlet on fake gay sex!
As much as I appreciated Tulsi’s 8 minute takedown of xanned out Kamala Harris in 2019, she was up to something fake and gay too. God this, God that littered her speech. Baby girl, you’re so fucking fine, but you’re Hindu. And not a regular Hindu either, like a crazy cult Hindu. People who don’t believe in God but invoke Him in politics are beyond sinister. The shoe fits for a former Democrat who campaigned against forever wars, yet stepped into line on bombing Iran, contradicting her own statements within weeks.
It used to be the kooky crunchy granola Leftists who were known as vaccine skeptics, until COVID-19 propaganda flipped it 180 so that the Right became the anti-vaxxers.
He’s making a 9/11 documentary series after denouncing his former denunciation of 9/11 truthers and his prior Iraq warmongering. I wear a shiny tinfoil hat here too.
Propaganda by Jacques Ellul, pg. 181
Presence in the Modern World by Jacques Ellul
Now, I happen to think the evidence that Tyler James Robinson is the lone gunman to be pretty shoddy. But my conspiratorial side is kept out of the mainframe of this essay…maybe it’ll be in another propaganda one
Luke 17:3
Luke 10:3
The Lord’s Prayer
Charlie Kirk’s final X post
Happy to say I’ve gifted it to said friend already <3
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this banged
Amazing work Lily