The Most Difficult Kind of Love By John Mappin | IF Magazine There is a peculiar modern belief that love requires silence. If you love someone, apparently, you must never contradict them. Never ask the uncomfortable question. Never disturb the convenient consensus. The loving friend nods sympathetically; the troublesome friend insists upon knowing what actually happened. It is a wonderfully comfortable doctrine. It is also not Christianity. Christian love — agape — is something altogether more formidable. It is not mere affection, nor politeness, nor the avoidance of offence. It is the willing of the true good of another human being, irrespective of the cost to oneself. And Christianity makes an extraordinary claim about that good: It cannot ultimately be separated from truth. St Paul could hardly have put it more precisely: love “rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth.” That, I believe, is the proper Christian lens through which to understand what Candace Owens @RealCandaceO is doing. Her purpose, as I understand it, is more precise than simply “asking questions.” It is to establish the truth about the death of Charlie Kirk wherever she believes that truth remains incomplete, obscured or unresolved; to honour the obligation she feels towards her dead friend; and, by bringing what is hidden into the light, to serve the living people who remain behind. That is the purpose. Her criticism of Erika, where it occurs, is not the purpose. It is incidental to it. This distinction is absolutely essential. Candace is not pursuing Erika. She is pursuing truth. If that pursuit sometimes requires her to challenge something Erika has said, believed or been told, then the challenge is a consequence of the mission, not its object. And that mission is, at its heart, one of fidelity. Fidelity to Charlie. Fidelity to conscience. Fidelity to the proposition that the truth about a human life does not cease to matter when that life ends. Candace loved Charlie Kirk. Death does not cancel the obligations of friendship. In the Christian understanding, it deepens them. She cannot now protect Charlie in the ordinary sense. She cannot telephone him, counsel him, warn him or stand beside him. But she can refuse to permit unanswered questions concerning his death simply to disappear into the fog of public memory. She can remember. She can investigate. She can speak. And she can insist that what is true matters more than what is convenient. This is where her purpose becomes unmistakably Christian in character. Christianity is a religion of revelation. Its movement is perpetually from concealment towards disclosure, from darkness towards light. “For every one that doeth evil hateth the light,” says Christ, “neither cometh to the light, lest his deeds should be reproved.” Candace’s purpose, understood in its highest form, is precisely this movement towards the light. Not to manufacture a predetermined answer. Not to condemn somebody in advance. But to bring everything that can be known into the light and allow truth to reveal itself. That is very different from accusation. It is discernment. And Christian discernment is not passive. The command to “prove all things; hold fast that which is good” requires examination. It requires discrimination. It requires the courage to distinguish what merely appears to be true from what actually is true. That process can be uncomfortable. It can even wound. But Scripture has a phrase for this too: “Faithful are the wounds of a friend.” This becomes particularly important when we consider Erika. If Candace believes Erika herself may not possess the whole truth about circumstances surrounding Charlie’s death, then Candace’s purpose is not ultimately to defeat Erika in an argument. It is to discover whatever truth Erika herself deserves to know. That completely changes the moral geometry. @piersmorgan @PiersUncensored @RealAlexJones