In this edition of the Paul Truesdell Podcast, I will forgo the usual disclaimer and closing. What follows was sparked by inspiration during—and reflection after—Charlie Kirk’s funeral. I shall begin.
Picture a crowded room where the air itself feels electric. On one side of history, it is Jerusalem, first century, stones warming in the sun, a young deacon named Stephen standing before a council that already made up its mind. On the other side, it is a modern campus stage with white lights and microphones, a young organizer named Charlie Kirk answering hard questions with a calm that comes from many miles and many nights on the road. Two scenes, separated by two thousand years, sharing one pulse: speak truth, count the cost, and do not flinch.
Stephen tells the story from Abraham to the prophets, not to flatter a court but to call a people back to its purpose. He does not hedge. He does not bargain. He prays. He forgives. The crowd surges. The stones fly. What looks like an ending becomes the beginning of a scattering that carries a message farther than anyone could plan. In that crowd stands a young man named Saul, keeper of cloaks and ledger books, convinced he is serving righteousness. He is an unlikely hinge in a brand-new movement. Soon, the persecutor will be the preacher. Soon, Saul will answer to Paul, planting churches, writing letters, and turning fragile faith into durable practice.
Now walk with me to the twenty-first century. A teenager from the suburbs chooses a folding table over a dorm room. He launches Turning Point USA with borrowed space, volunteer energy, and the stubborn belief that ideas deserve a voice on campus. Early donors take a chance. A mentor named Bill Montgomery gives his blessing and his time. Chapters appear, not because a memo demanded them, but because young people asked for them. A campus here. A high school there. The flywheel creaks, and then it turns: chapters create content, content draws crowds, crowds become communities, and communities reinforce the courage to keep speaking.
Turning Point USA grows the way most living things grow—by finding the next edge. First it is tables, debates, and speakers in hostile rooms. Then come gatherings with names that stick: Student Action Summit, AmericaFest. Students travel across states for three days that feel like three years of formation—stories swapped in hallways, first-time speakers taking the mic, mentors giving the playbook that no textbook will ever print. A daily show starts. Podcasts multiply. The message leaves the room and rides phones and car stereos into places a campus flyer never reaches. A sister organization, Turning Point Action, takes shape to focus on the ground game—precinct leaders, canvassing, the thousand small steps that turn applause into outcomes.
This is not an accident. It is a cadence. Calendars matter. Repetition matters. What the world calls “viral” is almost always the child of discipline.
Then comes September 10, 2025. A Utah stage. A rifle shot. Sirens, shock, questions that have no satisfying first answers. The camera angle changes, but the question from Jerusalem remains: is this an end, or a beginning disguised as grief. In the hours after, the machine of a modern movement reveals its true design. Leaders step forward. Teams keep the schedule. Chapters hold meetings not only to mourn but to plan. Erika Kirk accepts the burden of continuity. The message does not disappear into rumor; it is carried by many voices who already learned how to stand without a teleprompter and make the case with clarity and calm.
If you are listening to this and wondering what to do with your fear, your anger, your sorrow—listen closer. Stephen’s death did not kill the church; it scattered the seed. Saul’s presence did not mean the end; it meant a story was bending in a way no one saw coming. The same pattern is available now. Movements do not become durable because they never face loss. They become durable because they choose the right work after loss.
So here is the work.
Speak plainly. Stephen did not tailor the truth to win a polite nod. He told the whole story. TPUSA grew by putting whole stories on tables in the very rooms where those stories were not welcome. Keep that habit. Say what is true, not what is trendy. Calm beats clamor. Clarity beats volume.
Practice courage with charity. Stephen’s final words were prayers for his killers. That is not weakness. That is mastery. In our time, it means refusing the cheap thrill of rage for the long strength of persuasion. It means knowing that the person arguing with you today might lead with you tomorrow. Saul was not converted by mockery. He was converted by a collision with truth and a memory of grace shown under fire.
Build for endurance. Early believers met in houses and built leaders instead of icons. Turning Point’s advantage has never been a single microphone. It is chapters, regional directors, campus debaters, event crews, legal help, media production, and a field operation that takes ideas door to door. Deepen that bench. Train more hosts, more teachers, more organizers. If one voice is taken, ten are ready. If a door closes, a thousand screens open. If a campus cancels, a chapter meets across the street.
Guard your people while keeping your doors open. Security is not fear. Security is stewardship. The aim is not to retreat behind walls; it is to protect the courage of those who still step forward to speak. Ask wise questions about venues, routes, and procedures. Then keep doing the thing that built the movement—showing up.
Refuse bitterness. The camera will reward outrage. The algorithm will applaud extremity. Resist both. The undecided do not follow bitterness. They follow people who carry conviction with steadiness and hope. Stephen’s calm in the storm remains the standard. Paul’s letters drip with steel and mercy. Aim there.
Keep the cadence. Calendars are not just logistics; they are witness. Continue the tours. Hold the events. Publish the episodes. Visit the chapters. Do not surrender rhythm to grief. Rhythm is how grief becomes grit.
There is one more thread I want you to hold. In Jerusalem, the first movement learned that growth lives in dispersion. In America, the next chapter of this movement will live in decentralization. Chapters are not decorations. Chapters are the beating heart. Where people gather face to face—classrooms, coffee shops, living rooms—confidence returns, skills are practiced, and courage compounds. The national microphone matters, but the local table changes lives.
If you lead a chapter, lead it like a craft, not a hobby. Learn the rules. Learn the campus policies. Learn how to invite a speaker, defend a budget, file the paperwork, and keep your team safe. Teach one more student to make an argument without anger. Mentor one more eighteen-year-old who wonders if it is worth it. It is worth it.
And if you ask where hope comes from, it comes from this: a martyr who forgave, a persecutor who converted, and in our time, a builder who left behind an engine designed to run without him. The story does not demand that you be Stephen, or Paul, or Charlie. The story asks you to do your piece with courage and charity. To speak when it is easier to go quiet. To forgive when it is easier to hate. To organize when it is easier to post. To show up when it is easier to scroll.
From Jerusalem’s stones to a Utah stage, the call is the same. Speak truth. Endure suffering. Train successors. Keep going. That is how a movement grows up. That is how grief becomes momentum. That is how a mission outlives any one of us.