The Unity Trap
When “Love” and “Unity” Become Tools of Control
Part 5 of 7 in the series: The Truth That Divides
Over the last three posts, we walked through five scenes — from Nazareth to Rome, from Gideon to Paul — and the pattern was always the same: truth spoken plainly into any setting splits the room. Not because the speaker is reckless, but because reality has edges.
Now we face the objection that always comes next: “But what about unity? What about love? Doesn’t the Bible command peace?”
Yes. It does. And that’s exactly why we need to talk about what happens when those words get hollowed out and turned into weapons.
Unity With Whom, and Around What?
Go back to the convoy.
If “unity” means “keep everyone on the same heading, even if the chart says we’re aimed at rocks,” that’s not biblical unity. That’s mutiny against the Captain.
The New Testament is very explicit about the kind of unity Jesus wants — and the limits of unity.
What Jesus prayed for:
“Sanctify them in the truth; your word is truth… that they may all be one.” (John 17:17–23)
Unity comes after truth has cut and cleansed. No truth, no real unity.
What Paul required:
“Until we all attain to the unity of the faith… speaking the truth in love.” (Eph 4:13–15)
Unity grows by telling the truth in love, not by gagging it.
What Scripture forbids:
“Do not be unequally yoked… what fellowship has light with darkness?… Therefore go out from their midst.” (2 Cor 6:14–18)
“Have no fellowship with the unfruitful works of darkness, but rather expose them.” (Eph 5:11)
If “unity” demands that we bless what God condemns — the shedding of innocent blood (Prov 6:16–17; 24:11–12), the unmaking of the family (1 Tim 5:8; Deut 6:6–9; Eph 6:4), unjust laws that crush the weak (Isa 10:1–2) — then “unity” is just a polite word for rebellion. It is the council saying, “Better that one man die, so we can keep our nation intact.”
Biblical peace is real, but it is never free-floating emotion. “Steadfast love and faithfulness meet; righteousness and peace kiss each other“ (Ps 85:10). Peace without righteousness is drywall over rot. Unity without truth is just synchronized walking toward a cliff.
Two Voices, One Pattern: How Emotional Stories Blame the Victim
If you read Arjen ten Brinke’s posts and Jan Wolsheimer’s article side by side, you don’t just see two individuals grieving. You see a pattern — a way of talking that, whether they intend it or not, emotionally manipulates the reader into thinking that the real problem is not the man who pulled the trigger, but the kind of Christian Charlie Kirk was.
The structure goes like this.
Step One: “We’re so sad” — the warm layer of sympathy
Both start in the same place. “His death is a terrible tragedy.” “We feel for his family.” Arjen adds that Charlie helped his own son stand for his faith. This is the soft blanket of empathy. And to be clear: there is nothing wrong with that. It’s right to name the horror and to weep with those who weep.
But watch what happens next.
Step Two: The “holy but” — the pivot away from the blood
Very quickly, the tone shifts. “His death is terrible, but…” “We grieve, but we must also talk about the dangers of faith mixed with politics.” “He gave youth courage, but he became a symbol of culture war.”
That “but” is doing a shocking amount of work. It moves the focus away from the warm blood on the ground of a brother in Christ and onto a different question:
Not: What ideology shoots a man for speaking Christian convictions in public? But: Wasn’t his kind of Christianity dangerous anyway?
Without ever saying, “He deserved it,” the narrative leans toward: “This is what happens when you are that sort of Christian.” It is the oldest moral reflex in the world: something terrible happens, and people ask not, “What was done to him?” but, “What did he do to bring this on himself?”
It is hard to imagine a more effective way to discourage courage in the next generation.
Step Three: Deploy emotional trigger words
Once that pivot is made, the next move is to load the scene with high-voltage images. Children torn away from their parents at the border. “America First” as if it were a simple synonym for moral corruption. A Bible photo-op after a protest crackdown.
The point is not to carefully analyze those events — he doesn’t. The point is to create an emotional association: “This is the world Charlie stood close to. Do you still feel as sympathetic now?”
The “children torn from parents” line is especially potent. It condenses a complex and tragic policy debate into a single, weaponized image: a sobbing child, a heartless state, and by implication, any Christian who voted for law and order standing there and nodding.
There is truth buried in the picture — real failures and injustices did occur. But the way it is used here is not careful ethics; it is political theater with a cross pinned on top. It tells you, without ever arguing it, that wanting strong borders equals being okay with child abuse, and supporting the only candidate who promises to protect your children from gender chaos, abortion extremism, and anarchic streets equals siding with villains who “tear families apart.”
Now place that image back onto Charlie’s coffin. The unspoken message lands: “Yes, his murder is awful… but remember, he chose to stand with those people.”
That is not love. That is emotional blackmail dressed as compassion.
Step Four: Redefine the lesson — beware Christians like him
By the end of both pieces, the takeaway for readers — especially for young Christians — is very clear: Don’t be too public with your convictions. Don’t get too close to any concrete political choice. Don’t be the kind of Christian who links the Bible to immigration, law, family, or national life.
In other words: Do not live like the man who just died for doing exactly that.
The articles never say, “He had it coming.” They don’t need to. The structure does it for them. They invert the meaning of his death: instead of being a warning about what happens when the world hates the truth (John 15:18–20), it becomes a warning about what happens when Christians are “too clear” and “too involved.”
Even if Arjen and Jan sincerely mean well, the effect is the same: their words teach the flock to suspect the victim and to fear the courage that Scripture actually commands.
The False Love Checklist
Not every appeal to love or unity is fake. Scripture commands us to love our enemies, forgive, and seek peace. But those same words can also be hollowed out and used to shut down obedience.
Here are warning signs that “love” is being weaponized, not practiced:
Love that only ever punches one way. If “love” is mainly used to rebuke outspoken Christians, but almost never to confront the ideologies and movements that kill Christians, corrupt children, destroy the family, or legalize injustice — something is off. Real love confronts wolves as well as clumsy sheep.
Unity that always drifts toward the spirit of the age. If “unity” in practice always means, “Move closer to secular progressive positions,” and never, “Call the culture to repentance,” it isn’t biblical unity; it’s theological peer pressure.
Peace that mutes Scripture. When calls for “peace,” “healing,” or “reconciliation” are consistently paired with, “Let’s not quote those verses,” or, “Let’s not apply that doctrine publicly, it’s too polarizing” — you’re not being shepherded; you’re being asked to sheath the sword of the Word (Heb 4:12).
Condolences with a leash. When a Christian is killed, fired, or ruined for speaking truth, and the first response is, “This is terrible… but we must also talk about how unwise and polarizing his approach was” — that’s not love. That’s social control wrapped in sympathy. The subtext is: Don’t be like him.
Real Christian love “rejoices with the truth” (1 Cor 13:6). It doesn’t use the word “love” to protect idols from being named or to shame believers who dare to say out loud what God has already said in His Word.
When “Love” Is Just My Own Reflection
There is another layer we need to name, because it explains why some Christians talk the way Arjen and Jan do.
Sometimes, when you live too much in left-brain mode — all analysis, endless nuance, hanging on your own interpretations of events — you can end up moving in tight, closed circles. You are constantly refining your picture of what “real Christian love” is supposed to look like. You adjust and polish and correct, until the standard of love in your mind no longer comes from Scripture or from the historic church, but from a mental model you built yourself.
At that point, the word love stops being a gift you receive and a command you obey; it becomes a tool you use.
Any practice you do not understand? “Unloving.” Any tone you do not prefer? “Unloving.” Any Christian who won’t adopt your posture of quietism and detachment? “Unloving,” “divisive,” “dangerous.”
The path runs like this:
“I love Jesus” → “I define love like this” → “Everyone who does not act like this is unloving” → “Unloving people are dangerous” → “Dangerous people are basically… fascists, Nazis, culture warriors.”
It is all done with soft words, with sighs, with references to the Sermon on the Mount and the gospel of peace — but the functional outcome is brutal: any Christian who refuses your model of quiet, apolitical, conflict-averse faith ends up morally grouped with the worst villains of history.
This is how “love” becomes a club: not a standard we all kneel under together, but a weapon you swing at brothers who will not imitate your temperament or your political instincts.
Instead of, “Does this align with the Word of God?”, the question becomes, “Does this align with my idea of love?” When the answer is no, the person is not just wrong; they are, by transitive property, a “hater,” a “radical,” a “Nazi.” Once they are in that bucket, you no longer have to learn from them. You no longer have to grapple with the uncomfortable possibility that their courage exposes your passivity.
Real love “rejoices with the truth” (1 Cor 13:6). It doesn’t erase brothers because they fight battles you would rather avoid. When we baptize our comfort and call it love, we are not protecting the gospel; we are protecting ourselves — from the cost of obedience.
In the next post, we tackle the hardest accusation head-on: “Wouldn’t Jesus and Paul be labeled fascists by today’s standards?” We bring in the sociological frameworks, answer the smear without flinching, and hear what the early church fathers had to say about truth, power, and persecution.
Next in the series: “Would Jesus Be Called a Fascist?” — The modern smear answered with Scripture, sociology, and the voices of the first Christians who bled under Rome.
