The Godless Congregants

http://news.yahoo.com/atheist-mega-churches-root-across-us-world-214619648.html

http://missoulian.com/lifestyles/faith-and-values/religion/atheist-mega-churches-effort-spreads-in-u-s-after-success/article_ad9199fe-5395-11e3-ab58-001a4bcf887a.html

http://www.usatoday.com/story/news/nation/2013/11/10/atheist-mega-churches/3489967/

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/eliyahu-federman/atheist-megachurches-may-_b_4278761.html

Should I ever have the misfortune of becoming an atheist (you'll have to indulge me in a quick hypothetical flight-of-fancy), the first thing I should want to do is reclaim my Sunday mornings. I would want to sleep as long as possible and perhaps indulge in a weekly half-dozen donuts or some French Toast. If I decided that it would be a good day to spend with friends, I would want to wait, at the very least, until the afternoon. Second, even as an atheist I should want to immediately acknowledge that the Jews and Christians have gotten at least one thing right, and that is the beautiful idea of the Sabbath. Just as a stopped clock is right twice a day, so also the God of Israel, fabricated pseudo-deity that He is, somehow got one thing right. Why would anyone argue with a religion that is dogmatic about the fact that its adherents ought to get some rest?

I have been left utterly dumbfounded, therefore, as I have read (or skimmed) story after story about the sudden, unexpected rise in "Godless Mega-Churches" across the United States. At the very least, it is an admirable piece of publicity. Whenever a number of almost identical “news” stories about anything that is not really news begin appearing across the journalistic spectrum, one must really assume that it really has more to do with a sudden influx of capital into a marketing department than anything truly alarming. Further, I happen to know, from those who have had the misfortune to attend, that these sorts of congregations have been around for years, and though they may have grown, they remain just as inexplicably self-defeating as ever.

It’s not a particularly big deal, of course. It is not as if Christians ought to feel in any way intimidated by the fact that the godless have chosen to imitate them. Flattered, maybe, but confused, certainly. That a person should want to waste a perfectly good Sunday morning in celebrating something as incorporeal as a lack of belief is almost impossible for me to believe; as strange as if an historian suddenly began devoting a day each week to acknowledge that they refuse to believe in the War of 1812. I suppose it shouldn’t matter much to me that they refuse to believe in the event, but it is undeniably strange (and a bit sad) that they should feel like it is worth wasting a perfectly good weekend in celebrating.

But there is precedent for all of this. There was a strange tendency after the French Revolution, a time in which secularism seemed to have taken a foothold among the French (though only after the brutal murder of hundreds of priests and bishops—an achievement which ought to haunt the skeptic much in the same way the crusades haunt the Christian), to sell churches at public auction and to turn churches into “halls of reason”. Suffice it to say the effort was brief and destined for failure, though that didn’t stop it from being copied, first in Communist Russia and now, of course, in America.

Yes, these ill-fated “cults of reason”, after dying quickly in France (after their absurdity was realized), have been revived in America (and, according to many of the articles, in a number of other “progressive” nations), where it seems our godless communities are forever slow to learn the lessons of history.

I see only two possible explanations for the current influx of anti-god churches (and I suspect that the truth involves a combination of the two): First, I think that, in part, it is all intended as a parody, though as parodies are generally supposed to be funny, one can only assume that this particular parody has been either poorly considered or poorly executed (or both). As far as I know, having (thankfully) not exposed myself directly to these cults, there is nothing particularly funny about these services. Second, and far more important, I would suspect that there is a very genuine desire, even among the godless, to experience the beautiful things that have always been found perfectly naturally within Christianity, but which are only rarely tasted by those on the outside. It is about time, quite frankly, that the skeptic  should come around to understand this.

Christ told His disciples that they would be known for their love for one another, and this remains true today. The love of God, shared between believers, continues to be the defining feature of true Christianity, and it is often demonstrated in our Sunday gatherings. Indeed, this love has long been one of the forces most capable of drawing the wandering masses to the church. It was only a matter of time before someone outside the church considered that they might be able to fabricate this love by imitating the communion of the saints, even if it means leaving out both communion and saintliness.

I can only assume that these services have perfectly mastered some of the superficialities of the church—they surely have talented musicians leading the masses in hymns devoted to nothingness; they likely have inspiring “sermons” by talented motivational speakers. But I can only imagine that attending these services must be something like spending an evening at a movie theater, with arms full of candy and soda, only to find that someone has forgotten the film. I hardly envy someone being forced to stare at a blank screen.

It really should be the most obvious statement in the world, but God is the only thing that makes a church service worthwhile; without Him, there really can be no church. One may go for community, but it is only a belief in God that allow for a true community; it is only the example of His love that allows true love between brothers and sisters. To be perfectly honest, if it was not for the very presence of God, it would take a team of oxen to drag me to church. And yet, it is one of God’s great modern miracles that I do not merely go to church; I go joyfully, because He is there.

To make this phenomenon even stranger, it has been said that these new congregations have been known to draw, not just the purely godless, but also those who fall into the "spiritual but not religious" camp. But this is to be expected, for one can hardly imagine a sadder or more misguided camp than this, and while the Christian ought generally desire to see the Christian church filled with all types of people, these included, I have always found it difficult to understand or explain those who have lost all sense of truth and fallen into the deep, dark pit of “spirituality”; those who reject the objective, of whom God said, “because you are lukewarm, and neither hot nor cold, I will spit you out of my mouth”.

Now, being aware of all this—that the Christian church is only worthwhile because of the presence of God, and that it only stands because it is built upon an objective truth—it is difficult to feel any fear or intimidation about these congregations. One can hardly compare a momentary, bitter, flash-in-the-pan imitation movement to the one, true, consistent Church that has been growing and thriving for 2,000 years, showing no signs of stopping. No matter how much momentary media attention they may garner now, the fad of secular churches and godless congregations is destined to destruction, for one cannot conceivably unite over a belief in nothing. Just as schoolboys may find momentary pleasure in forming clubs, uniting over the giddy simplicity of themes such as, "No Girls Allowed", it is inevitable that they will discover, later, that girls may not be so bad after all, so also will godless churches inevitably collapse under the realization that they were founded under a premise that could never carry any weight. 

G.K. Chesterton: Vendor of Words

When one begins to read the works of G.K. Chesterton, the first impression is that the man has a way with words. If anyone claims any other first impression, it might very well signify that the person has not yet learned to read, for this much, at least, is obvious even to those who fervently disagree with him—who might claim that his competency masks his ignorance. He was the master, so it is said, of the epigram. He possessed the uncanny ability to take almost any phrase, turn it on its head, and make it dance; to take any idea, no matter how prosaic, and turn it to poetry. If a debate over some great issue ever turned into nothing more than a battle of clever phrase-turning (which, in fact, seems to be the case much of the time), there is little doubt that Chesterton would come out looking very large (pun very much intended, for Chesterton was a famously massive individual, both in terms of girth and in literary accomplishment), while making his opponent, or his opponent's ideas, seem very, very small.

While there is certainly something admirable about Chesterton's way with words, a certain clarification must be made: There is a very real difference between an accomplishment with words and an accomplishment of ideas, just as there is a difference between the concrete and the abstract. If there was no such distinction, I might be just as influenced in my ideas by Shakespeare, Shaw or Wilde as I am by Chesterton. But as much as Chesterton's ability to string together a fanciful sentence makes his words eminently readable, it is the heart of his ideology that make his words worth reading in the first place. Words may have some value on their own, but no words are more lasting than those that convey something true. This is why no mere nursery rhyme will ever have the lasting value of the Psalms, just as no romantic novel will ever compare to the Song of Solomon.

There are far more than words in many of Chesterton's works (I cannot say for certain that this holds true universally, as I'm not certain that even Chesterton has read his complete works; and the prolific nature of his writing certainly led to the occasional worthless essay or droning novel, worth little more than the paper on which it was printed). Hidden beneath the clever sentences and the endless epigrams is something missing from most eminent writers: there are often very real (and very consistent, which is no small achievement) ideas. Very important ideas.

There is nothing superficial, for example, about the steady progression of logical and reasonable leaps that make up Chesterton's seminal apologetic work, The Everlasting Man, which uses anthropology and history to show the futility of humanism. There is far more within the pages of Orthodoxy than clever sentences. 

Even much of his fiction is founded very much on truth, for one of the underpinnings of Chesterton's entire philosophy was that there was often more truth found in myths and fantasies than in “proper” history, for in fantasy the truth of the soul is revealed, while a book of history only says anything about a person's ability to perform some research. There is something truly human in fiction—even the most fantastic fiction—that is necessarily absent from even the most accomplished work of history. I, for one, have probably found far more value and inspiration in Chesterton's little-remembered novel The Ball and the Cross than from any work of theology. 

The Ball and the Cross is, in part, a work of pure fantasy, opening with a fanciful scene of a futuristic flying machine, driven by a demon, soaring over the streets of London and ends with the dramatic rescue of an angelic being from an insane asylum. There is never a sense that the events of the story are anything but an allegory, and yet, as is the hallmark of any good allegory, one cannot help but believe every word. Between these fantastic bookends is the story of two men, a devout Christian and a devout atheist, whose attempts to kill one another over their ideological differences leads to a tremendous friendship and the realization that the true enemy is a world that no longer cares; a message that has never stopped resonating. It is as searing an indictment against the apathy of our present world as against that of 19^th century London.

Not to be ignored are Chesterton's Father Brown stories and perhaps his most well known novel, The Man Who Was Thursday. The larger and more lasting themes of these works may be less overt, but they are there, certainly, hiding just beneath the wit and cleverness of the words.

It is fair to wonder why I should mention so much about Chesterton’s works and so little about his life or personality. When I wrote previously about Malcolm Muggeridge I wrote almost exclusively about his story and what it meant to his theology. The reason is simple: When I consider Muggeridge, it is as a man inseparable from his life; his theology was a direct result of the events that shaped them. With Chesterton, there is certainly a life there—and an interesting one—but when I think of Chesterton I do not think of his life; I think of his words.

Still, there are many similarities between Muggeridge and Chesterton, which others have described at length. Both were British. Neither was raised in a particularly religious home, both, after accepting the truths of Christianity, began as Protestants and later converted to Catholicism. Both were inveterate journalists, making their living as "Vendors of Words." Chesterton died before he had reason to know anything of Muggeridge though it is fair to say that Muggeridge was, at least in part, influenced by Chesterton (though his reviews of Chesterton’s works are often quite mixed). “The only time I ever saw him in the flesh,” Muggeridge wrote, “he was seated outside The Ship Hotel at Brighton shortly before he died. His canvas chair looked preposterously small, as did a yellow-covered thriller he was reading. It was a windy day, and I half-expected him to be carried away. Though so huge, he seemed to have no substance: more a balloon than an elephant.”

Muggeridge would have been the first to note that the differences between he and Chesterton were stark (though, somehow, without being contradictory): Muggeridge was, even at his wittiest moments, almost endlessly solemn, while Chesterton could make light of even the most serious of issues (as is evident in his book Eugenics and Other Evils). Muggeridge excelled in taking the things that humanity finds great—governments, pleasures, wealth—and made them appear very small and worthless, for he knew that all earthly kingdoms pales in comparison to the Kingdom of God, while Chesterton considered things that were seemingly small and insignificant and made them appear very big and important. 

The most perfect example of this tendency—which permeates almost all of his writings—is found in the collection of essays known, appropriately, as Tremendous Trifles. Chesterton explores all sorts of seemingly mundane things and shows his readers that they are really very important, for in them one can discover great truths, both about men and about God.

On trying to purchase a piece of brown paper on which to draw, he writes: “I then tried to explain the rather delicate logical shade, that I not only liked brown paper, but liked the quality of brownness in paper, just as I liked the quality of brownness in October woods, or in beer, or in the peat-streams of the north. Brown paper represents the primal twilight of the first toil of creation, and with a bright-colored chalk or two you can pick out points of fire in it, sparks of gold, and blood-red, and sea-green, like the first fierce stars that sprang out of divine darkness.”

On the inviting prospect of drawing on his ceiling while lying in bed, he writes: “Nowhere did I find a really clear place for sketching until this occasion when I prolonged beyond the proper limit the process of lying on my back in bed. Then the light of that white heaven broke upon my vision, that breadth of mere white which is indeed almost the definition of Paradise, since it means purity and also means freedom. But alas! Like all heavens, now that it is seen it is found to be unattainable; it looks more austere and more distant than the blue sky outside the window. For my proposal to paint on it with the bristly end of a broom has been discouraged—never mind by whom; by a person debarred from all political rights—and even my minor proposal to put the other end of the broom into the kitchen fire and turn it into charcoal has not been conceded... I am sure that it was only because Michelangelo was engaged in the ancient and honourable occupation of lying in bed that he ever realised how the roof of the Sistene Chapel might be made into an awful imitation of a divine drama that could only be acted in the heavens.”

This was all meant, obviously, in good humor—for Chesterton was tremendous at making light of things while at the same time ensuring that the world is loved and seen as the brilliant place it is. His purpose, always, was to remind his readers that: “The world will never starve for want of wonders; but only for want of wonder.” This is where Chesterton’s theology begins and ends: with hope and happiness and the knowledge that this place, as the creation of God, does not merely offer the occasional miracle, but is, in itself, one endless miracle that goes, far too often, overlooked. That is the truth that he was endlessly revealing through his words.

The same joy and wonder he found in the world around him, Chesterton found ten-fold in the person of Christ. Chesterton realized that Christianity is not, as so many have said, a religion of woe or mourning. It is not a religion that makes one dwell on their sins or compels them to reject all earthly pleasures. “Joy,” he begins the closing passage of Orthodoxy, “which is the small publicity of the pagan, is the gigantic secret of the Christian. And as I close this chaotic volume I open again the strange small book from which all Christianity came; and I am again haunted by a kind of confirmation. The tremendous figure which fills the Gospels towers in this respect, as in every other, above all the thinkers who ever thought themselves tall. His pathos was natural, almost casual. The stoics, ancient and modern, were proud of concealing their tears. He never concealed His tears; He showed them plainly on His open face at any daily sight, such as the far sight of His native city. Yet He concealed something. Solemn supermen and imperial diplomats are proud of restraining their anger. He never restrained His anger. He flung furniture down the front steps of the Temple, and asked men who they expected to escape the damnation of Hell. Yet He restrained something. I say it with reverence; there was in that shattering personality a thread that must be called shyness. There was something that He hid from all men when He went up a mountain to pray. There was something that He covered constantly by abrupt silence or impetuous isolation. There was some one thing that was too great for God to show us when He walked upon our earth; and I have sometimes fancied that it was mirth.”   

Malcolm Muggeridge: Apostle of Experience

If I am going to take some time to describe some of God’s Spies, it seems only fitting that I should begin, not just with the man who inspired me to do so, but with a man who served, not only as one of God’s spies on earth, but as a very real spy in very human terms, having been involved, during World War II, in espionage while serving with MI6, the British Secret Service.

In the case of Malcolm Muggeridge, there is something refreshingly concrete to the analogy.

Anyone familiar with Muggeridge’s faith or politics later in life—that is, after he became famous—is surely surprised to discover that he who was destined to provide a bold voice to the cause of conservative morality; who used the pulpit of the media to rail against the futile efforts of men, was raised into an environment of pure, unrepentant socialism. Malcolm’ father, Henry, was one of the founders of London’s Fabian Society—a group of wealthy Londoners who were sympathetic to communistic ideals—and a Member of Parliament for the Labour Party (when that still meant something).

It is worth noting, of course, that this was a time before the horrors of these utopian dreams, put into practice, was really known. There may have been debate over whether the tenets of communism were really ideal or not, but the concept had not yet been linked to the great human evils that became inevitable under such a system; even a critic of communism would have found it difficult to believe that the system, devoted to equality, would lead, not just to great inequality, but to the death of millions.

Muggeridge was raised to believe that man was imperfect simply because he hadn’t yet done enough to save himself; he was raised to believe that human societies could, with the right laws, create a true earthly utopia. He came to believe in these things just as others come to believe in the Virgin Birth. In fact, he was sufficiently devoted to socialist ideals that, after discovering a passion for writing, he obtained a position at the Manchester Guardian—an anti-bourgeois paper devoted to the cause of the worker—and soon enough married Kitty Dobbs, a niece of Beatrice Webb (one of Britain’s premier socialists). Their communist sympathies led the young Muggeridge family, in 1932, to depart the evils of British capitalism and join the pilgrimage of mainstream journalists to Moscow, where he sought to inform the world of the glories of the Communist revolution.

The glories of Communism were not, of course, as evident as many had hoped. Though many journalists allowed themselves to be deluded by the Russian Politburo into thinking that present horrors were only temporary, Muggeridge’s disillusionment was almost immediate, as no amount of government control or censorship could keep him from noticing the truth of the bread lines or the famine spreading across the country, driven by the control of the Communist stormtroopers. After escaping the terrors of Russia, Muggeridge dramaticized what he found in Russia through his novel Winter in Moscow, which followed a group of journalists who allow themselves to ignore the horrors of Russia—it was as much an indictment of western journalism as it was the Soviet regime, and as a result it was practically unpublishable.

The failures of Communism—man’s greatest attempt at building a Kingdom of Heaven on Earth—left Muggeridge, as World War II approached, in a state of despair. He had traveled the world, from Moscow to India to Cairo, but had found no means of fulfillment, either for himself or for humanity. What he had not found in Communism, he now sought in war. Though he was a bit older than most recruits, which nearly prevented his enlistment, in the end he was accepted into the Secret Service and was shipped off to Lourenco Marques, Mozambique, a post that allowed him to start a new life, to live as a stranger, to practice espionage. And though life in Mozambique carried many new adventures and experiences, Muggeridge was led him to such depths of despair that, in what would be another defining moment of his life, he attempted suicide.

“One particular night,” he wrote in the second volume of his autobiography, Chronicles of Wasted Time, “after returning home, I lay on my bed full of stale liquor and despair; alone in the house, and, as it seemed, utterly alone, not just in Lournco Marques, in Africa, in the world. Alone in the universe, in eternity, with no glimmer of light in the prevailing blackness; no human voice I could hope to hear, or human heart I could hope to reach; no God to whom I could turn, or Savior to take my hand. Elsewhere, on battlefields men were killing and dying. I envied them; it was a solution and a solace of sorts. After all, the only bearable thing about war is the killing and the dying. That is its point. In the Blitz, with, as I thought, London falling about my ears, I had felt a kind of contentment; here in this remote, forgotten corner of the world, I fell into the final abyss of despair. Deprived of war’s only solace—death, given and received—it came into my mind that there was, after all, one death I could still procure. My own. I decided to kill myself.”

Muggeridge writes of swimming out into the ocean in an attempt to be swept away by the tide in order to drown in the Indian Ocean, never to be discovered. He swims far out, ready to do the deed, when suddenly he makes the mistake of looking back, of seeing the lights of town. “They were the lights of the world; they were the lights of my home, my habitat, where I belonged. I must reach them. There followed an overwhelming joy such as I had never experienced before; an ecstasy. In some mysterious way it became clear to me that there was no darkness, only the possibility of losing sight of a light which shone eternally; that our clumsy appetites are no more than the blind reaching of a newly born child after the teat through which to suck the milk of life; that our sufferings, our afflictions, are part of a drama—an essential, even an ecstatic, part—endlessly revolving round the two great propositions of good and evil, of light and darkness. A brief interlude, an incarnation, reaching back into the beginning of time, and forward into an ultimate fulfillment in the universal spirit of love which informs, animates, illuminates all creation, from the tiniest particle of insentient matter to the radiance of God’s very throne.” He turned and swam back to shore.

Something in his heart had begun to change. There was, as indeed there had always been, a nagging sense of spirituality hovering around him; he may not yet have been a Christian, but he knew, certainly, that there was no hope to be found anywhere else.

Returning from the war, Muggeridge returned to journalism. He spent the following decades growing in stature and public profile, first as the editor of Punch Magazine, then as a commentator on the radio and on the growing medium of television. Muggeridge writes with a deep sense of loss of these years, as, not yet a Christian, he fell deeply into the momentary solace of alcohol and adultery. But, as is the case when God is in control, even the greatest immoralities would be used for good, for through time wasted and false pleasures sought after, the truth of human life was becoming clearer to Muggeridge. Seeking after momentary pleasures and passions brought no lasting satisfaction, and no matter how hard men attempted to organize themselves in order to create a more perfect society, their attempts were destined to end in failure.

As these things became more evident, Muggeridge grew more and more conservative in his personal views. The context here is important: the change in Muggeridge’s views were not the consequences of his upbringing, nor of his education. His views were not founded on any preconceived political allegiances (his time in Moscow had cured him of those); rather, they arose as the natural consequence of decades of life experience. He had tried Communism, but found the very opposite of utopia; he had tried war, and found only that, rather than bringing a reason to live, it made him want to die; he tried sensuality and debauchery, but found that any pleasure was momentary and led to even greater emptiness.  If Malcolm Muggeridge could be certain of anything, it was that there was no hope to be found in earthly pleasures, and that the governments of men were just as incapable of offering salvation than the men who made them.

It all seems very cynical, and indeed it is hard to read anything from Muggeridge without a pang of hopelessness, but this impression really could not be more false. Yes, there is a sense of despair, but the despair is only lasting for one who has no hope outside of men. For those who place their hope elsewhere, the despair is momentary, giving way to a startlingly beautiful revelation! After a life of great, unceasing despair, Malcolm Muggeridge discovered great hope!

The seeds were planted, but it was only in the 1960’s that the first real steps toward Muggeridge’s spiritual awakening began. In 1969, Muggeridge produced a television special on a little-known Catholic Charity worker in India. The result was, not just a television special, but an accompanying book—Something Beautiful for God—which brought the first bit of international attention to Mother Teresa, while proving instrumental in Muggeridge’s acceptance of Christianity.

There was no single moment, no exact date, in which Muggeridge’s path toward conversion reached its culmination. What is clear is that by the end of the 1960’s, when he published a collection of essays entitled, Jesus Rediscovered, Muggeridge, the former womanizer, was now an evangelical Christian. St. Mugg, some called him in derision. His was one of the most public, and most controversial, conversions of the twentieth century, for he took his faith seriously; it was to guide the entirety of his public life for his remaining years.

The true glory of Muggeridge’s conversion is that, because it was really only the next step on the trajectory of his life, there was nothing truly dramatic about it. It was not an about-face—he just began to realize that he had been turning for some time and now found himself facing in an unexpected direction. Muggeridge did not stop studying current events in order to study theology—current events defined his theology. Or, rather, they reinforced his theology. The truth is that Malcolm Muggeridge’s theology was never very refined, as far as theology goes. He was never destined to be the next Martin Luther or Jonathan Edwards. He would never have been the sort of man likely to engage in a debate about the nuances of Calvinism or the essence of the trinity or even the differences between protestant and Catholic theologies (he did eventually join the Catholic church, but this was not exactly theological; it was, as he wrote, “the Catholic Church’s firm stand against contraception and abortion”). He was familiar with the scriptures, of course, but he always saw them, not as a matter of historical scholarship, but as a way of explaining the great and timeless struggle between God and Man. He saw them as representing beautiful spiritual truths rather than historical events (not that he disbelieved in their history; it simply wasn’t something he was concerned with).

The heart of Muggeridge’s theology (if it could be called that) was experiential. It was his first-hand observation (not faith) of the world. It was based on the failure of Communism, the futility of governments, the vapidity of sensuality. It was based on the continued, perpetual, persistent, failure of every one of man’s endeavors when they belong only to men. It was based, in short, on the truths of history, which are things not even the dourest of atheists could deny.

So there really is hope in Muggeridge’s theology, but it must begin with despair. The story of man striving after God is really the same story as Muggeridge’s own suicide attempt—for man, apart from God, really is one cosmic suicide attempt. Man seeks his own way until the moment he finally recognizes that he cannot do so any longer; and then he is faced with the choice: Life or Death. God is calling men to life. Muggeridge knew better than almost anyone what sort of death resulted when man made a conscious effort to abandon God and yet still try to achieve some sort of salvation. For Him there was nothing theoretical about any of it. There was no great leap of faith or shot in the dark. He simply arrived at a point in his life where he could no longer deny what had been patently obvious all along—he could no longer accept the desires of his flesh as the ultimate truth.

Muggeridge’s great contribution to Christian apologetics was to show that one needn’t strain themselves in an intellectual attempt to reason our way towards Christianity; not that Christianity is not reasonable, but that its truth is far more evident than we make it. When we struggle, intellectually, with Christianity, it is almost as if we are purposefully ignoring what the entire history of mankind (and the history of our own lives) has made obvious: we are, for whatever reason, trying to replace the perfect, joyous freedom of Christ with the freedom of man, which is really no different from slavery.

“A sense of how extraordinarily happy I have been,” Muggeridge wrote near the end of his life, “and of enormous gratitude to my creator, overwhelms me often. I believe with a passionate, unshakable conviction that in all circumstances and at all times life is a blessed gift; that the spirit that animates it is one of love, not hate or indifference, of light, not darkness, of creativity, not destruction, of order, not chaos; that, since all life—men, creatures, plants, as well as insensate matter—and all that is known about it, now and henceforth, have been benevolently, not malevolently, conceived, when the eyes see no more and the mind thinks no more, and this hand now writing is inert, whatever lies beyond will similarly be benevolently, not malevolently or indifferently, conceived. If it is nothing, then for nothingness I offer thanks; if another mode of existence, with this old, wornout husk of a body left behind, like a butterfly extricating itself from its chrysalis, and this floundering, muddle mind, now at best seeing through a glass darkly, given a longer range and a new precision, then for that likewise I offer thanks.”

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.

The Fears and Failures of Knowledge

Part 2 of a Dialogue on Faith

“Don’t think you can lecture me about what the world does and doesn’t need,” said the skeptic, quite coldly. “As far as I’m concerned, Christians long ago lost whatever credibility they may have gained through their ‘good works’.”

“I would never claim that Christians hold any sort of monopoly on “good works,” whatever you may mean by that. Still, I’m curious when you think we lost our credibility.” asked the Christian with concern.

“There’s no exact moment,” explained the skeptic. “But it certainly happened. I think it happened whenever you—that is, your religion—first became afraid of the world changing. Your religion saw the world threatening to leave you behind; everything was progressing while Christianity was staying the same, clinging desperately to old and outdated ways and beliefs. Your religion began to panic, for they still believed that the church had some relevance in the world; they continued to believe in miracles long after science had proven them wrong!”

“I’m sorry?” asked the Christian with a sort of laugh. “Science did what now?”

“Christians became afraid of science because science actively spoke out against the possibility of miracles, and they acted out of fear. That’s when you lost your credibility.”

“I’m sorry, but that may be the most absurd thing I’ve heard in some time! What does science have to say about miracles? Science can no more prove a miracle impossible than it can prove that there are angels dancing on pinheads! What sort of faith do you have in science, friend? You think that it took some great leap of science to tell men that it was impossible for a man to rise from the dead? Do you really think it took a mind like Newton’s to finally convince the world that, scientifically speaking, death is a very ultimate thing, and, scientifically speaking, one simply cannot rise from the dead? Or do you think the disciples were really more ready to believe in the resurrection because, somewhere in their primitive minds, they thought that maybe science hadn’t quite ruled out the possibility of it happening?”

“No—you don’t understand what I’m trying to say! In the middle ages-”

“I think I do understand it. I really do. I actually don’t think you’re wrong on every point, but you have to be careful not to say something ridiculous like science has disproven miracles.”

“But it has! Every bit of science tells us that there are unbreakable natural laws!”

“That much is more or less true, and yet, one can’t possibly believe in miracles without first believing in science.”

“How is that?” said the skeptic... skeptically.

“Because no one can recognize that a law is being broken if the law does not exist. Because the disciples really did believe that, scientifically speaking, Christ was dead and in a tomb. If they did not believe that, His resurrection may have been seen as an aberration, but it could not possibly have been recognized as a miracle. Only when one accepts natural laws can they possibly notice that they have been turned on their heads.”

“Fine, your point is taken. Now, you said that I wasn’t wrong on every point. Where do you agree with me?”

“You said that Christians have responded to science out of fear.”

“That much is obvious,” the skeptic said, nodding.

“Obvious and regrettable. I can admit that Christians have made many mistakes in their response to science. I deny, however, that this says anything at all about the truth or value of Christianity.”

“Of course it does! It says that yours must be a frail, pitiful religion if it is so afraid that science will prove it wrong.”

“All men have their frailties. Men have, on occasion, been afraid of science. Christianity, on the other hand, has never had reason to fear. That being said, I think we can both be thankful that the regrettable fear of some Christians—who might, indeed, have wished to slow or stop the progress of science—was never successful in slowing science.”

“Now that is absurd,” said the skeptic with some force. “Christians are perhaps more responsible than anything else for slowing science!”

“Really? I must have missed something. When did we do that?”

“You’d probably think it cliché if I brought up the trial of Galileo, but that’s the most obvious example.”

“Of course it is! It’s the most obvious because it’s so very unique! It’s the event that skeptics bring up because it is the only one! The persecution of Galileo is held up as some sort of symbol of a greater epidemic of persecution, when in fact it was, for the most part, a singular incident.”

“Now that is absurd! It is indicative of a certain stubbornness on the part of religion.”

“Yes, it is. Stubborn we certainly are. And I will defend the stubbornness of Christianity to my dying breath. But, really, the persecution of Galileo has really been blown comically out of proportion. It was a singular incident, in which the church wrongly considered heretical a man espousing a view that wasn’t even original, simply because a few of the clergy failed to understand that their scriptures were never intended to say anything about scientific things. Galileo has, ever since, been treated as a martyr, as if he was burned at the stake or fed to lions, when in fact he was asked to recant and placed on house arrest, where he comfortably pursued scientific matters until his death. If only all persecution was so benign!”

“Again, you’re missing my point! It is a matter of principle!”

“Yes, and on principle, the church was certainly wrong.”

“And it has remained wrong ever since! The church was doing everything they could to stop scientific progress.”

“Again, you’re quite wrong. The church, in that one instance, made a meager attempt to put a stop to that one theory—but, of course, they did not even slow it down, for the theory was accurate. It was too easily tested by other scientists, too numerous even for the church. Finally, the church was forced to accept the value of the theory, only to realize that, low and behold, it did absolutely nothing to weaken the faith! That is the real lesson in all of this, I think: from time to time Christians have come to believe that they ought to defend their faith from “progress”, and every time progress has continued unabated, and it turned out their faith had no need for such defense.”

“Then you think Christianity ought to embrace progress at last?”

“It really depends on what you mean by that. If you are asking whether or not Christianity ought to allow and encourage the pursuit of science and the expansion of knowledge, of course it should. If you are asking whether Christianity itself ought to change with the times, then my answer is very much no. The beauty of Christianity is that it has no need to change. It has no need to persecute scientists or philosophers because it stands in no danger from them. The truly interesting thing about the history of science is that it is continually disproving itself; one theory comes along and seems almost perfect, but then it is replaced by a new, even greater theory, sometimes simpler, sometimes more complex. Science is a serpent continually eating its own tail, but no matter how grand its theories grow, they have never said a word about Christianity. So much has come and gone in two thousand years—one really would expect that a book like the Bible would have become irrelevant. It simply hasn’t.”

“That is a very hopeful attitude,” the skeptic said hesitantly. “But it misses the reality of history.”

“And what reality is that?”

“The reality in which Christians have never stopped persecuting scientists!”

“Oh... so an alternate reality, then?”

“What? Of course not! Just look at this past century, where Christians have fought adamantly to destroy the theory of evolution!”

“Yes, of course,” the Christian said, nodding. “Evolution is the great modern example, and it does prove difficult, doesn’t it?”

“Hardly! The only things Christians hate more than evolution are evolutionists!”

“Hate is a very strong word,” the Christian offered, “but your point is well-taken. It could hardly be argued that Christians have embraced the theory of evolution, but, aside from some minor incidents, their opposition could hardly be considered contribution. Is science really so weak that it cannot bear scrutiny? Has the theory really suffered so terribly because of Christianity?”

“But the scrutiny is not based on evidence? It’s based on ideology! That makes all the difference!”

“As much as I think your very premise is wrong—Christians have argued time and again based on evidence—couldn’t the same accusation be made in reverse? This is the strange phenomenon of our modern times—and the reason one must absolutely stop talking about the persecution of science by the church: science has, in this age, become the source of persecution rather than the subject.”

“What do you mean by that?” said the skeptic defensively.

“I mean that it is the church that is being attacked today, not science. Galileo, for all that is said about his row with the church, considered himself a Christian, as did the majority of European scientists up until very recently. He may have run afoul of the church, but he never would have considered himself an opponent of it—even after his “persecution” he never stopped being a Christian. Most scientific training throughout the middle ages took place in universities founded by the church. Newton and Pascal would be considered religious extremists today. Things have quite obviously changed. The reason it seems that Christians attack evolution is that they feel forced to react to the attack from evolution. I still hold that we have nothing to fear from any such theory, but it is difficult to convince others to simply accept such persecution.”

“You would really call it persecution, just because science has discovered something that opposes the Bible?”

“Not because it opposes the Bible, no. Evolution is different, not because it stands as a threat to Christianity, but because many of its proponents see it as a tool that might be used to destroy religion, and the scientific method is forsaken in lieu of bitterness. The subject of the persecution really has been reversed—though I would hardly begin to complain about it, as I think the truth will inevitably win out. I can only hope that Christians today will soon come to realize that, as always, the foundation of their faith is strong enough to weather any storm. We need not stand in the way of science, but we need not be swept away by it, either. One of the beautiful things about Christianity it has remained solid and steadfast while the thoughts and opinions of the world ebb and flow like the tide. Science may appear to run afoul of our beliefs from time to time, but that is only the product of fallible minds stumbling over themselves trying to obtain a firm grasp on the complexities of the universe. So they observe and theorize and retheorize, hoping that their ideas will have some lasting value. The ideas of the Christian, however, have remained true and consistent far longer than any scientific theory. We need only stand firm and wait for science to float back to the truth.”  

On Atrocities and the Survival of the Faith

Part 1 of a Dialogue on Faith

“Do you really suppose Christianity is worth saving?” asked the Skeptic in perfect sincerity.                                “I certainly would,” the Christian returned casually, "if I thought it was in any danger."

“Any danger? But surely you can see that your faith is already dying!”

“Is it? I hadn't noticed.”

“Of course! How could it not be dying? Christianity is an ancient, ignorant myth, after all, and the only reason it has survived as long as it has is because it has been forced on children by parents and on people by their governments.”

“Well, that does sound pretty awful,” the Christian admitted. "When was the last time you visited a church?”

“Not since my childhood. Why would I?”

“Only to see if the situation was really as dire as you've come to believe. I find it funny that the people who are so adament about God dying and Christianity becoming obsolete are the people with the absolute least knowledge of what the church is doing.”

“I don't need to step into a church to know that your beliefs are outdated. Even if it is not happening already, it's only a matter of time.”

“I would agree with that,” the Christian said with a smile. “Only a matter of time before the world comes to realize that Christianity is not as vulnerable as it may seem. Only a matter of time before you all learn that God is not a being who can be killed.”

“But that’s absurd! What could possibly save your faith from human progress?”

“Only the knowledge that human progress is not always what it seems. No, that’s not a satisfactory answer, is it? Fine. Christianity will survive any attack simply because it is founded on truth, and it is more absolute than any truth to be found on the Earth.”

“Science is based on truth."

“Hardly! Science is based on a truth that changes with every new observation. It is a worthwhile pursuit, to be sure, but it is foolish to mistake it for anything absolute.”

“Be that as it may, it takes some arrogance to believe believe that your truth is somehow greater than every other truth. There are plenty of things that people have believed to be true that turned out to be wrong, you know.”

“Oh, sure. And there are plenty of other things outside of Christianity that seem perfectly true, but the truth of Christianity is unique in that it is one of the few truths that is really worth living and dying for.”

“All truth is important.”

“Truth is not some holy thing in and of itself. A thing may be true and still not matter in the least. A clod of dirt is perfectly true, but a person would hardly fight for it. There are some perfectly valid beliefs found through science, as well, but if I was ordered to denounce my understanding of the force of gravity or risk death, do you think I would hesitate for even a moment? Do you think that I would think twice about renouncing any scientific principle if my life depended on it? It may be a logical mistake to refuse to believe in electricity, but it there would be nothing fundamentally wrong with it. There are many things that are true but are not worth any great sacrifice, but in Christianity there is a truth that is so profound and so mysterious that men find the idea of sacrifice for its sake absolutely joyful! No, I can’t explain it, because it really is a profound mystery—and recognizing the mystery only draws me yet closer to those truths. That is why Christianity can’t be destroyed.”

“Anything can be destroyed.”

“It may seem like it, but Christianity truly can't, unless it is destroyed from within. What you don’t understand is that Christianity is a self-healing faith. It can recover from any wounds inflicted upon it because its wounds make it stronger. The world can do its best to create conditions that make it more difficult to be a Christian, but as soon as the world realizes that Christians continue to hold fast and remain joyful, all the work will be undone. We could be burnt at the stake or fed to lions and the world would have no choice but to ask why we were so willing to suffer. Blessed are ye who suffer trials of many kind for the testing of your faith produces perseverance. This truth was demonstrated explicitly time and again in the early church, and it has proven itself resoundingly true for two thousand years.”

“And what a two thousand years it has been!” the skeptic scoffed. “Two thousand years of bloody crusades and inquisitions! Two thousand years of putting men of science and philosophy on trial simply for asking questions—and more often than not for being correct! You say that you cannot be destroyed, but I say that no one has yet had the courage to truly try.”

“I thought you might bring up those things,” the Christian admitted.

“Of course you did. Why wouldn’t I bring them up? They’re proof that there is nothing particularly moral in Christianity.”

“Well, in that we certainly disagree.”

“You think there was something noble in the crusades?”

“Not in the killing, of course, but in that there was a time when man believed in something enough to cross a continent on foot; to leave their families and their lands and to accomplish something for God. That being said, the moment the first innocent blood was shed on the battlefield, whatever nobility was forsaken. The crusades, at least at first, represented something good, but resulted in something tragic—a stain against our own faith--a stain that will be remembered for as long as man cares about his own history.”

“A stain well-deserved. So you admit that religion has a tendency to kill.”

“I can’t speak for religion.”

“Then why are we having this conversation?”

“So I can speak for Christianity.”

“Then speak for it.”

“Christianity has murdered no one.”

“You’ve already admitted to the atrocities of the Crusades! Millions died!”

“I agree that it is atrocious whenever one man murders other, certainly.”

“And what of when Christians murder?”

“Then they have only proven themselves to not understand Christianity.”

“Nevertheless, it certainly happens.”

“No, I really don’t think it does. Don’t you see the fallacy of your argument?”

The skeptic tilted his head in curiosity.

“What fallacy is that? The fallacy of observation? Of historical research?”

“No, the fallacy of believing everything that a person says about himself. You’ve fallen prey to the fallacy of believing that every man who claimed to be a Christian is a Christian, and it is just as clear a fallacy as any. You believe that if a knight announces his intention to fight for God, and prays for God’s help in killing Muslims, then the blood ought to be on God’s hands rather than the knight’s. You believe that if Hitler offered some perversion of Biblical quotations before condemning Jews to the gas chambers then the Bible itself is somehow guilty of the crime, or if some nights claim to be on an errand from God then God is culpable for their actions. You believe these things even though a child could tell you that these actions are explicitly forbidden in the same book they claim as their guide! If a man wanders into your home claiming to be a plumber and, instead of fixing your pipes, robs you blind, would you forever blame all plumbers for the theft? If a man wanders into the Himalayas and dies because he is carrying a guidebook to the Swiss Alps and loses his way, would you condemn the publisher of that book, or would you rightly blame the man who believed that it would guide him? When you open up the Bible—when you look to the words of Christ and his Apostles—do you see anything that would suggest that the actions of the crusades are justified? Do you find that any murder is justified? Doesn’t the Bible clearly tell its readers that when we are acted against we ought to endure rather than retaliate? Aren’t you appealing to some baser instinct when you issue such condemnation? Aren’t you appealing to your own flight from the hound of heaven? In my experience, those who strive the hardest against Christianity are those who are at the same time fleeing from it in fear—fear of being transformed to some uncomfortable newness.”

“I’m not fleeing from Christianity,” said the skeptic, taking offense at the accusation. “People who run from things are willing to just leave them alone. I’m not leaving Christianity alone—I’m trying to destroy it.”

“A hopeless pursuit,” said the Christian confidently.

The skeptic shook his head.

“I think Nietzsche was right. God is already dead. Some are just forever lost in the past and haven’t realized it yet.”

“Or, on the other hand, maybe Nietzsche was wrong and you just haven’t realized it yet. After all, it’s been well over a century since he made that claim—you would think that we would see some signs of God’s demise, wouldn’t we?”

“More nations were progressive enough to rid themselves of faith in the twentieth century than ever before! I call that progress.”

“And you would dare accuse the Christian of atrocities?” the Christian allowed some emotion into his voice. “You thought the crusades and the Inquisition too bloody for your taste, and yet you hold the atheist regimes of the twentieth century up as pillars of progress? Don’t you know that the nations that ‘progressively’ sought to kill God are the nations that saw the most bloodshed?”

“Atheism can hardly be blamed for genocide. I’m an atheist and I’ve got no patience for murder. Denying the supernatural doesn’t make one evil.”

“But the atheist has no doctrines explicitly forbidding it, apart from those drafted by men—but men can be wrong.”

“Maybe so, but that is the benefit of civilization—the same progress that Christianity seeks to put a stop to.”

“Surely I don’t need to tell you that western civilization is a direct product of Christianity, but never mind that, I’ll let the ignorance of that accusation go for a moment in order to address the more important question: Civilization didn’t teach us not to kill, it just codified what we already knew. We all know that it’s wrong to kill. God’s given enough grace even to the atheist to know that much. And you’ve helped make my point. Horrors may have been committed alike by those who profess Christianity and those who profess atheism, but if a Christian commits an offense it is entirely opposed to the nature of his belief—it is a sign that he does not understand the faith he identifies with. If an atheist commits an offense… well… then it is really just that. He has only broken the laws of men; so he really has broken no law higher than himself.”

“I really don’t see your point.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to. My point is only that one cannot possibly commit an atrocity while actively pursuing Christianity; one cannot be simultaneously filled with both hate of another and love of God. Evil is precisely the opposite of what Christianity stands for. While I don’t deny that there are bad men who claim to be Christians, I can very confidently say that their evil is an aberration, and not the result of their allegiance. My point is that the same cannot be said of the humanist.”

“I can’t say that I’m entirely comfortable with your conclusion,” said the Skeptic uneasily.

“You really shouldn’t be. But that is both why Christianity will never die and why it will always be worth saving.”