"In the Name of Christ, Stop!" On St. Telemachus and Charlie Kirk

Theological Letters

The following letter is written to “Julian,” who wrote to me asking my thoughts on the recent assassination of Charlie Kirk. While I have a great many thoughts on the matter, I’ve chosen the path of brevity. My hope is that what I do say is beneficial to all who read it.

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Dear “Julian,”

I’ve hesitated to speak publicly on the murder of Charlie Kirk for several reasons. First and foremost, I’m not one to comment publicly on events within the news cycle, so I fear that doing so in this case may carry the appearance of capitalizing upon tragedy, which I would never want to do. But just as importantly, I fail to see what benefit my words might add to the tumult of conversations surrounding his assassination. Thus, I’ve thought it best to remain silent, processing these grave happenings in solitude.

I offer these thoughts now for the sole reason that you seem resolute on breaking my silence. Forgive me if I choose the road of brevity in answer to your inquiry, limiting my own commentary in order to allow the fathers of the Church a greater say.

I have no doubt that, like countless others, the happenings of September 10, 2025 will linger in my mind’s eye for the rest of my days. For my part, I found myself more near to the event than expected: A dear friend who works with Turning Point USA was running an event of theirs at the very moment of the shooting, and I then found myself by sheer coincidence in Phoenix at the time of Charlie’s Funeral.

Upon my return home, I sat amidst a dimly-lit stack of patristic volumes, reflecting anew on the tragedy and its significance. Thinking upon the global response to his murder, as well as the countless mourners I beheld with my own eyes in Phoenix, I could not help but call to mind the story of St. Telemachus, recorded with unadorned witness by Theodoret of Cyrus in his Ecclesiastical History. I trust the reasons why this happening comes to mind will become clear in the recounting of the tale. So, I share this story in the hope that you and I might profit together.

Our story begins in Rome. The year is 404 A.D. The city clings to her glory from a time now fading, the Western Empire fraying at its edges. The young emperor Honorius, barely twenty, sits upon his throne in Ravenna, his rule a shadow cast by General Stilicho, whose iron fist steers a realm under siege. Barbarian tribes circle like wolves around prey, their raids gnawing at Italy’s borders, the memory of their clash at Pollentia two years prior still fresh in the minds of all. The empire’s heart, once Rome, now beats faintly in Ravenna’s halls, where courtiers whisper of betrayals and taxes bleed the poor to fund her crumbling legions.

Christianity, crowned the state’s religion since Theodosius’ edict in 380 A.D., has supplanted pagan altars with crosses, but the blood-soaked legacy of the old gods still lingers in the Colosseum, rank with the smell of death and trembling with the echo of bloodlust by enthralled crowds. In this epicenter of entertainment, the gladiatorial games persist, despite Christian murmurs and homilies decrying its savagery — an unrelenting echo of a fading pagan heritage.

Into the restless city steps Telemachus, a monk from the East. The aged ascetic is a hesychast, one who has devoted himself, not to battle with flesh and blood, but with the his own passions and the Devil, striving to tame the flesh through prayer without ceasing. His face is gaunt from fasting, his simple monastic robe worn thin by pilgrimage and endless prostrations. For reasons not yet known to him, he finds himself drawn to Rome. He arrives on January 1, 404 A.D. In stark contrast to his quiet cell, the city swells and bustles with festival, hailing a hollow victory over the Goths. Soon, the old monk finds himself swept up by a crowd, moving in unison like a swarm of insects toward something, though he knows not what.

As the crowd converges on its destination, Telemachus finds himself funneled into a looming stone structure that stretches to the heavens. The shadow of its gaping mouth envelops him as he enters, until he emerges on the other side to discover its inner sanctuary. Realization washes over Telemachus’ face: He has entered the Colosseum. The weathered stone tiers of the ornate monument to death is packed with fifty thousand souls. The deafening gathering is filled with rich and poor alike — senators adorned in gold, the masses clutching wine-soaked bread — but all hungry for a common spectacle.

Suddenly, trumpets blast, cutting through the air thick with anticipation, and the games begin. Into the blood-stained sandy bowels of the arena steps two gladiators, one with a curved blade, the other with a net and trident. The two men stare at one another, knowing a loss means death and the only path to victory is to slay his adversary. As the warriors clash weapons, the crowd erupts with a roar, eager for blood, thirsting for death.

Telemachus watches in horrified disbelief, his heart pierced by the sight. The old monk’s heart no longer remembers hate or indifference for his fellow man. Rather, it beats only with the love of Christ. Ablaze with the love of God, the old ascetic rises to his feet with urgency, desperate to stop the bloodshed before it begins and bring sanity to a crowd that no longer remembers its Maker.

With agility once lost to age, the monk races down the stone steps, pushing his way through crowded tiers, shouting over the deafening crowd, “In the name of Christ, stop!” His frail voice is swallowed by the chants for blood and death.

A plum of dust erupts as Telemachus leaps into the heart of the arena. Desperate to stop the pagan spectacle of senseless death, the monk races to the two gladiators, now locked in mortal combat. The old ascetic again shouts, “In the name of Christ, stop!” He thrusts his gaunt frame between the two muscle-bound warriors, his arms outstretched like his crucified Lord, shouting once again, “In the name of Christ, stop!”

The gladiators falter at the strange sight, confusion washing over their faces — or perhaps memory of the image of God long buried beneath the passions. The crowd too is unsure what to make of the strange spectacle. But the pagan gods, who are no gods at all but demons, quickly stir the gathering once again, reminding the people of the bloody deed for which they paid good money.

The fleeting moment of sobriety quickly fades, swallowed up by cursing and rage toward the old monk who stilted the games the gawking crowd came to see.

In his demonic rage, one spectator takes up a rock and hurls it at Telemachus. The stone meets its mark, striking his weathered face. The monk stumbles, then touches his brow — blood. The other spectators give ascent, each one taking up stones, casting them at the elderly ascetic. Rocks blot out the sun, raining down like hail upon the frail hesychast, striking his brow, his limbs, his torso, and his praying lips.

Telemachus’ body falters under the flurry of blows, and then gives way, collapsing upon the sand of the Colosseum. His holy blood mingles with the blood of countless souls murdered within the arena. The monk gasps, choking on his own blood as he mutters one final time, “In the name of Christ, stop.”

The sun retreats over the horizon as a horse, covered in dust and sweat, tears across the landscape, carrying a courier to Ravenna. The messenger dismounts, bringing word to the emperor of the shocking event at the Colosseum. As he recounts the tale to Honorius, the young ruler’s heart rends, unable to push away the image in his mind’s eye of the holy monk murdered at the hands of a crowd, astir with demonic frenzy. Moved to sobriety by the story of Telemachus’ witness, the emperor issues a decree: The gladiatorial games are finished, never again to resume, the arena’s bloodlust silenced forevermore.

January 1, 404 A.D. marked the final day of the Gladiatorial games. The death of St. Telemachus was the last death to take place within the Colosseum, his martyric example shocking its onlookers back to their senses, bidding them to recover their humanity.

The thing that is clearest to me in the wake of Charlie’s murder is that the sight of his death had a profound effect on onlookers throughout the world. Many of us, myself included, have expressed a certain perplexity at why the death of a man who we did not know nor listen to nor give much thought to would affect us so deeply, stirring tears, grief, and deep reflection.

I suspect the reasons have much to do with the nature of the man himself. Charlie was not a politician — not in the proper sense. His views were rather commonplace, and his demeanor was far from provocative. At his core, he seemed to be a faithful husband and father, who harbored a sincere and unashamed faith in Jesus Christ. And his mission seemed exemplary, regardless of whether one agrees with his views: He chose to sit amongst those with whom he disagreed and have open rational discourse.

The thought that such a man would be murdered so publicly and in cold blood was a shock to the system of countless people, myself included. And it seems that shock has rippled throughout the world, much like the way the shock of Telemachus’ martyred rippled throughout Rome.

Like in the case of Telemachus, I have seen a great deal of good fruit born from the seed of his blood. Countless stories of people returning to faith and church — sometimes even by visitations in dreams — have come my way. A zeal to follow Charlie’s example has stirred in many, often focused less on his politics and more on his unashamed faith. And the demonic delight in Charlie’s murder by those who disagree with him has been a wake up call for scores of people.

Of course, I have also seen a great deal of outrage and anger — all understandable. The passion to lash out is native to our animal nature, and this naturally breeds a lust for revenge if given safe harbor. I certainly do not wish to conflate a desire for justice with a desire of revenge, but the line between such desires is often thin when passions run hot.

For this reason, I see a yawning golf opening in the road before us. The strict dichotomy is between the love of Christ, which breeds forgiveness of the kind offered by Charlie’s widow, Erika, and the lust for revenge, which desires to return evil for evil. This is the fork in the road that our culture — and perhaps the globe — faces in the wake of such a happening.

Which path will win, I’m unsure. But I will say this. Both the witness of Telemachus and the witness of Charlie testify to a common truth: The imitation of Christ is far more powerful, far more world changing, than the path of vengeance and hate. I would think it a great tragedy if the impact of Charlie’s assassination — an impact that was so outsized precisely because his life reflected his love for Christ — was used to justify a course of action contrary to the life Charlie strove to live, one of faith, hope, and love.

My sincere hope is that the love of Christ and the love of enemies, modeled by Erika, is the path that wins across the globe, having a transformative effect akin to the kind wrought by the martyrdom of Telemachus.

Through the prayers of St. Telemachus, may Christ have mercy upon us and save us. And may Charlie’s memory be eternal.

Sincerely,

Dr. Jacobs