An Offensive Apologetic

In a previous post I wrote about the importance of a Christian having sound reason behind faith; I urged that we be ready to defend our faith to those who would question it. This is true, certainly--one must never be caught “blindly believing” in anything--but it raises further questions yet.

I previously asked how one ought to respond to a question such as, “Why are you a Christian?”

Certainly one ought to have an answer, but then comes the question of how to respond? In what tone and with what purpose?

There is one area where I think Christian apologetics often has it very wrong--and that is in the the notion that to “apologize” for something (such as a belief) means to offer a defense. To be an apologist, it seems, might be comparable to allow oneself to be put perpetually on a witness stand and cross-examined like a common criminal.

To be fair, this is certainly very close to what apologetics is (the word apologia, quite literally, means “defense”), but I think there are nuances to the concept that mean all the difference in the world. More accurately, especially when it comes to Christianity, an apology is not meant to offer a defense, but to lay a groundwork upon which faith may rest. More importantly, it should not be focused inward, on the Christian who answers, but outward, toward the skeptic who asks.  

It is said time and again by Christians (and by me, particularly), that we need always to be ready with a defense of our faith. The idea is appropriated from 1 Peter 3:15: “...always being prepared to make a defense to anyone who asks you for a reason for the hope that is in you…” The translation may be accurate, but the idea is wrapped up, not in that one word--”defense”--but in the larger context. We are told to be prepared with an answer when someone asks for a reason for our hope. But here is the key: if someone is asking for a reason for our hope, we are not put in a defensive position. They are not asking about our sins or about our faults, but about our hope. They are asking about something that they desire for themselves! Our answer, therefore, is not defensive; our opponent has not dealt a blow, but has rather opened up their own defenses, and it is we who must strike!

This truth that is overshadowed by the word “defense” is that, truly, Christianity ought never be on the defensive. Christianity is really only effective when it is on the offensive; when it is eagerly and avidly moving forward. When it attempts a defensive posture, struggling to answer every foolish question and explain away every faulty premise devised by the logic of the world, it becomes gangly and awkward and truly difficult to manage.

When one is on the defensive, it means that he is being accused of something for which he ought to feel some shame. But Christianity is offering, not something shameful, but hope! It is offering grace and truth! Are these really things that need to be defended? Does a child have to be convinced to be excited about Christmas morning? Do the parents need to defend their decision to shower him with gifts? Of course not; the child, being wiser than many elderly skeptics, knows that a good thing may be either believed or disbelieved, but it need not be defended. Likewise, does the winner of the lottery have to be persuaded by the lottery commission to accept the prize?  Of course not; there is no hemming and hawing by the winner over whether or not this newfound wealth is really “right”. No time is taken for thinking or contemplating over whether or not the contest ever existed in the first place. The award is seen as good; it is simply claimed and spent. As Christians we often forget that this ought to hold true, as well, for a gift that is far greater than any lottery! Our posture should be that of conquerors who hold the secret that the world continually seeks! We have the answer, and we offer it freely to all--and yet, the world somehow succeeds, time and again, in putting us on the defensive.

When one responds to, “Why are you a Christian?” with a steady and rehearsed bundle of facts, it is a defensive response; it is the feeling that we are being told that we have done something wrong and feel, as a child being accused by a parent of breaking something valuable, as if we must explain ourselves for our own sake. But that is not how it ought to be.  Our response to “Why are you a Christian?” really has nothing to do with us. It has everything to do with the one who asks the question. We are answering, not for our own sake (for that would be defensive), but for theirs!

Jesus, it should be remembered, was never--not once--put on the defensive, though he was attacked at every turn. Though he was asked to explain himself on every controversy. Here, in the gospels, we see a true master of apologetics in action: one who knew that an attack was not an opportunity to defend oneself, but to parry and strike. No wonder so many of His attackers left the encounter sulking in bitterness and anger, for their attempts had failed to elicit so much as hesitation, and instead forced them to question their own assumptions. When asked about the ethics of paying taxes, Christ did not turn to scriptures in order to offer up some complex theological or political response; he merely asked, “Whose picture is on the coin?” and so demonstrated the foolishness of the initial question.

If He had been asked, “Why are you a Christian?” how might Jesus have answered (setting aside, for a moment, the absurdity of asking this of He who put the “Christ” in Christian)? I cannot imagine Jesus attempting an answer founded on science, logic, or theology. I doubt that he would have attempted to bait his questioners into some philosophical trap. He would not have felt the need to defend himself--for He would know that the question was not being asked for His sake. I am convinced that He would have answered with a question of His own--perhaps something as simple as, “Why do you reject Christianity?” For the question may have been asked in order to force a defense; but it is really the questioner who ought to be put on the stand, to defend their refusal--for indeed one ought to have an answer for why they have refused such a  gift--and Jesus would have seen this as an opportunity to strike.

Faith and First Principles

“Why are you a Christian?”

“Because I believe in God, and…”

“Yes, of course, but why do I believe in God?”

“Because I have faith.”

“But why?”

This is a conversation for which most Christians are woefully unprepared. Christians long to be known by their works (though for many of us this is just as challenging), but dread the moment when they must offer a clear, convincing argument for their beliefs. As such, we really ought to take a moment every now and again to consider how the conversation ought to go.

It is worth considering, first of all, that whenever anyone asks a question like, “Why are you a Christian?” they are not looking for answers that only beg more questions. At least, they shouldn’t be. A person who asks, “Why are you a Christian?” should really be looking for something more fundamental. They should be looking for first principles; they should be looking for an answer that is irreducible and axiomatic. Something observable and undeniable. The same is true in science, for anyone who asks, in a science classroom, a question like “What are we made of?” is not looking for a stopgap answer, but for an answer founded on first principles. Anyone genuinely searching for an answer may be satisfied, at first, with something as superficial as, “We are made of atoms,” but it is only a matter of time before they recognize the obvious next question, “But what are atoms made of?” And, of course, the answer that follows (atoms are made of protons, neutrons and electrons), leads to yet another question, and another. An infinite regression.

A first principle is what we are left with in those unique moments when the last question has been answered. It is something that demands no further questioning; and it is something that is surprisingly rare, especially in science.  As C.S. Lewis observed, “The laws of physics decree that when one billiards ball (A) sets another billiards ball (B) in motion, the momentum lost by A Exactly equals the momentum gained by B.  This is a Law. That is, this is the pattern to which the movement of the two billiards balls must conform. Provided, of course, that something sets ball A in motion. And here comes the snag. The law won’t set it in motion. It is usually a man with a cue who does that.” This is a question of first principles. When we say that something is a law, the law is not a first principle--the first principle is whatever lies behind the law. A first principle is are what is left when every question has been answered--something basic enough to be readily accepted by all. As far as the question, “What are we made of?” the truth is that the first principle remains very much unknown. The first few questions in the series can be answered, but the first principle still eludes us, if, indeed, there is a first principle to be found.

But the question “Why are you a Christian?” is infinitely more important than the question of matter (I would much rather be certain about Christianity than about atoms), and as such we really should be searching for first principles. The genuine seeker who asks “Why are you a Christian?” will only be satisfied for so long (if at all) with any non-absolute answer. “I am a Christian because I feel that it is true.” “I am a Christian because I believe in Jesus.” “I am a Christian because I know that God loves me.” These may be answers, and they may be, in part, true, but they are not the answer. They all lead to still more questions.

Often, the answers given by Christians are founded on faith. “I am a Christian because I have faith.” But faith is not a first principle. Faith cannot (at least, should not) exist on its own merits. It must be founded on something.

“Faith,” as is recited so often that it has become almost cliché, “is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” Further, “…without faith it is impossible to please (God), for whoever would draw near to God must believe that He exists and rewards those who seek Him.”

Faith is lauded throughout scripture, and we are promised that our faith will be rewarded; consequently, one is often tempted to rely on faith, as if it stood alone at the core of Christianity; further, we come to suspect that true faith requires no foundation of evidence, or, worse, that evidence must be avoided, for it means that faith is no longer needed. But the truth is that faith, while wholly necessary, is not a first principle.  One cannot be a Christian without faith, but one cannot have faith without knowledge. Real faith must be founded upon something more tangible. Just because faith is “the conviction of things not seen” doesn’t mean that it is a thing with no basis. Faith isn’t a feeling, and real faith is certainly never blind. This is something that I think is often misunderstood, even among Christians. It is not a burning in the bosom or the result of a vision from a dream. When faith is founded purely on the ethereal it is more often than not a means of justifying one’s own needs and desires. One may claim to act in the name of faith, but the faith is only a manifestation of some deeper desire.

It is clear in the Bible that to have faith is not as easy as just believing in something without reason. If it was that simple, one could simply follow their own urges and claim faith as justification for almost anything (in fact, this is exactly what does happen far too often in our world). The Christian often bristles at the thought that one should need to offer evidence to support Christianity, as if that would somehow circumvent the requirement that one have faith. But faith must be founded on something! It cannot possibly exist without a foundation.

There are matters of fact and there are matters of faith, and they are rarely as separate as they may seem; more often than not it is the fact comes first, and faith is what results. The new Christian takes the final step of faith only after a foundation of fact has been laid. One may scour the scriptures for the great demonstrations of faith, but only rarely (if ever) does one find that faith is not preceded by some fact. Abraham was not acting on feelings or urges when he agreed to sacrifice his son—it was only after hearing, directly, the voice of God, and well after God had already provided him plenty of proof.  Moses did not venture into Egypt to face Pharoah on faith alone—he did so after God Himself spoke to him out of a burning bush. Even Paul, so often lauded for the great faith that allowed him to be persecuted and, in the end, martyred, believed as the result of a face to face meeting with the risen Christ, and though it may have manifested itself as physical blindness, there was nothing blind in Paul’s faith. If Paul was asked why he was a Christian he would not have said, “Because I have faith.” He would have proclaimed, boldly, the facts of what he saw and experienced.

One generally does not begin believing in God by first believing in the parting of the red sea.  Rather, one first comes to believe in God, and only then obtains the faith that God worked that miracle. One does not first come to believe in the strange truth of the trinity and then accept Christianity; Christianity comes first, based on facts, and then one can come to faith that this profound mystery is true.  

Christianity really is based on facts first and then faith.  

Which leads us back, once again, to the initial question: What are the first principles of Christianity? What are the facts upon which the faith is founded?

There are two that seem to stand above the others: the fact of existence and the fact of sin.

I have spent too much of my own life in trying to prove things that ought to be taken on faith (obscure theological principles), and taking on faith things that really ought to be taken as fact (science and history). But it is a fact—no scientist would deny it (though the occasional philosopher might)—that we exist. It is a fact that there are, in fact, things in our universe and that somehow these things came to be, and though science has tried theory after theory, it is a thing with no absolute scientific explanation. That is the fact, and it is faith that leads me to believe that there is no scientific explanation to be found (just as it is faith that leads others to believe in the contrary). As Lewis explains: “…the laws of Nature explain everything except the source of events. But this is rather a formidable exception. The laws, in one sense, cover the whole of reality except—well, except that continuous cataract of real events which makes up the actual universe. They explain everything except what we should ordinarily call ‘everything’. The only thing they omit is—the whole universe.”

So, when someone asks, “Why do you believe in God?” I might begin here--with the fact of existence. Something that science still cannot explain, but which those who believe in God have understood for thousands of years.

Second, it is a fact that man, after coming to exist (see above), found, somewhere along the way, that something was terribly wrong. Man has always been defined most accurately by his imperfections. Is there a single historian who would deny that man is a broken, imperfect creature? The story of the growth of the Roman Empire is grand, but the story of its fall tells us far more about humanity.  Indeed, history offers no ambiguity as to the fact that man has been his own worst enemy for as long as he has been keeping records of his own failures. And it is a fact that evolution has failed time and again in ridding man of his weaknesses or curing society of its ills; we are neither better nor worse than we have always been.

It is a fact, as well, that both of these questions are resolved within the first pages of scripture, and with far more certainty than science or philosophy could ever hope to obtain.

So, when someone asks, “Why are you a Christian?” I might begin here--with the fact of sin, and the fact that Christianity has provided, not only the only clear explanation, but the only clear answer.

All of this, of course, demands greater exploration, and these are by no means the only facts to be found in Christianity, but the principle remains: Christian platitudes aside, faith is beautiful, but it is something that must stand upon a foundation. Every Christian should stop and ask themselves why they believe before attempting to explain it to others.

“Saul,” says the book of Acts, “increased all the more in strength, and confounded the Jews who lived in Damascus by proving that Jesus was the Christ.” Paul did not demand of his listeners that they must simply have faith. He understood that his faith had a reasonable basis. He understood that there were facts that could lead his listeners to faith, and that is a beautiful thing.

The Enchantment of the Faith

Part 3 of a Dialogue on Faith

It was one of those rare, perfect nights where the moon was nowhere to be seen, and the clouds had parted in the sky, making way for one of nature’s few sights readily visible to every man: a luminous, shimmering blanket of stars swept across the sky vibrant and stunning. It is one of the few sights that does not diminish, even with time.

The Christian and the skeptic both lay on their backs in a grassy field, peacefully gazing heavenward, lost in the wonder of it all.

The skeptic broke a long silence.

“What do you think the ancients thought about all of this?”

“All of what?” the Christian asked, all too ready for a conversation, as he felt that this was really the perfect time for it.

The skeptic’s hand swept a wide arc toward the heavens.

“All of it,” he explained. “After all, we’ve only just come to understand it all ourselves.”  

“Have we really? I would say that perhaps we’ve just begun to understand it,” the Christian clarified. “Though certainly we’ve made a good start.”

“I think that maybe you’re prone to underestimating just how much we’ve learned in the past century.”

“I don’t know that I do. I am well aware of the successes of science, but I think that maybe none of us has any idea just how much there is left to know,” the Christian explained. “But of course we don’t—the very nature of ignorance is that one never quite knows just how much more is left to be learned. But I would suggest that we’re really not much closer to the end of the matter than we were when we began.”

“I thought you might say something like that,” said the skeptic. “And I’m sure you would never admit the one truth that every legitimate scientist knows: the more we know about the heavens the less need we have for religion.”

“No,” answered the Christian, “you’re certainly right about that. I would never admit to it. Only rarely do I admit to things that aren’t true.”

“And this is why we will never make any headway in our discussions,” the skeptic, quite seriously. “You won’t admit something that is plain to every thinking person. You are blinded from the truth by your willingness to believe in myths and superstitions.”

“Just because I won’t admit to it doesn’t mean that I’m not willing to discuss the question,” said the Christian quickly, “but you must allow me to question the premises of your assumptions.”

“Fine. Question them.”

“When you say that everything we have come to know about science has left us with less need of religion, where is that assumption from? Did you hear it from within religion? I highly doubt it. This may be the sorts of things that skeptics speak about together, patting one another on the back, but it’s certainly not something you hear within the walls of a church. I don’t remember ever hearing murmuring within Christianity of how woeful it is that the world has so little need of our faith. Where is the fear that Christianity should be feeling?”

“It’s something one learns just by looking at the world,” the skeptic declared.

“Looking at which parts of the world?”

“The facts of the world. Don’t you agree that scientists are seeking naturalistic answers the questions of existence in the universe?”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

“And don’t you also agree that, in some respects, science has done a remarkable job of explaining things that were previously though inexplicable?”

“A truly remarkable job,” the Christian admitted. “Science continues to move forward in thrilling leaps and bounds! In just a few hundred years we’ve explained gravity, motion, atoms and, most recently, the cosmos! I certainly would be lying if I said I wasn’t continually impressed.”

“Then you’re only a step away from admitting my point!”

“I do see how it would seem that way.”

“But of course you do! It is the most obvious point in the world! For centuries—for thousands of years, really—man has been inventing vast, intricate mythologies to explain the things that couldn’t be explained in any other way, and now science has solved the problem!”

“You’re speaking,” said the Christian, “of the ‘God in the gaps.’”

“Exactly. You’ve said yourself that science has answered questions that previously seemed unanswerable, and with every answer, religion is rendered more impotent.”

“That is true of some religions, certainly,” the Christian admitted. “For example, Ra is almost certainly unnecessary. Who has need for a sun god when we have a working understanding of nuclear fission? Likewise, meteorology means we don’t need a god of thunder; modern medicine means we don’t need any gods of healing.”

“I’m surprised that you would admit it so easily!”

“Hardly. I’m admitting that we don’t need the panoply of gods invented by men to explain things that could not be explained. I’m admitting that we don’t need mythology. It’s fortunate that I don’t worship any of the gods of mythology—I worship the Christian God, about which science has had absolutely nothing to say!”

“But it says everything! Science has opened up the secrets of the universe! We finally know just how great and awesome this universe is thanks to modern cosmology. Christianity is so focused on man and the earth, that has never been able to comprehend the universe! It’s sad, really.”

“It might be sad,” said the Christian, “if it were at all true. But it simply isn’t. Christianity may believe that there is something special about men, and something unique about the earth—and though scientists have done everything in their power to prove otherwise, both of these statements are supported by an overwhelming weight of evidence—but it has never had any illusions as to the vastness of the universe.”

“But how could a religion so narrowly focused on man possibly comprehend the universe?”

“Simply because Christianity has never focused on man! Or, rather, it was never supposed to. Other religions are about men, Christianity is entirely about God. And when the focus is rightly placed on Him, man is put in his place.”

“And what place is that?”

“A very odd place indeed! Man may be important—he is certainly the glory of creation!—but he is also humbled, because he is always seen in relation to his creator. It’s no wonder that King David wrote, ‘What is man that you are mindful of him, or the sun of man that you care for him?’ Do you really think that in saying this David really misunderstood the insignificance of man? Or what about the book of Job? Remember that God asked, “Can you bind the chains of the Pleiades or loose the cords of Orion? Can you lead forth the Mazzaroth in their season, or can you guide the Bear with its children? Do you know the ordinances of the heavens? Can you establish their rule on the earth?” In saying this do you really believe that He was somehow making something small of the heavenly constellations? Of course not! God’s message to Job—a message that continues to this day—is precisely the opposite: who are you to even begin to fathom the magnitude of my creation?”

“But that’s just it! We have begun to fathom it! Maybe you’re right—maybe Christianity has always believed that the universe was great, but that only proves my earlier point! God was invented because man thought he would never be able to understand everything—but what a difference a few thousand years makes!”

“What a difference indeed!” the Christian acknowledged. “It has offered detailed explanations of quantum mechanics and general relativity.”

“Indeed it has.”

“And by them we know why planets revolve around stars, why we stick to the earth, and what kind of things we’re made of.”

“Yes!”

“We can survey the paths of stars and galaxies and turn back the clock to discover just where they were in the past. We can follow it all the way back to the very beginning, where everything is compressed into a neat, infinitesimally small point, outside of even space and time.”

“And what could be more beautiful than that?”

“That is certainly impressive—but don’t you admit that this is where science ends?”

“Of course it is! That is the moment in which the laws of physics, as we know them, break down.”

“Right. It is the point, beyond which, we really can’t know anything. The point beyond which we need to have faith.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I’m sorry that it’s not appropriate scientific terminology, but it seems perfectly straightforward to me. There is a point, beyond which, we all, Christian and humanist alike, admit that we cannot empirically know something. It is the point, beyond which, faith is required of every man. Humanists have faith that there is some physics at work beyond the physics that we know; Christians have faith in God. The difference is not that of faith versus non-faith, the difference lies in the fact that I acknowledge and embrace my faith, while yours is hidden and ignored.”

“Even if that’s true, my faith is based on science,” said the skeptic.

“No,” the Christian responded, “your faith is based on the hope that somewhere, outside of what we can observe, there is something that is simply not God. My faith is in precisely the opposite. And, to be perfectly honest, I can’t help but thinking that my faith is considerably more rational. I don’t suspect that you would agree

“I certainly don’t.”

The Christian smiled.

“That only means the dialogue will have to continue.”