CHAPTER SEVEN From Textbook to Real Life
CHAPTER SEVEN
From Textbook to Real Life
Apologetics is not a craft confined to the seminar room—it is a vital resource for all engaged in Christian ministry. It is important as a resource for more effective evangelism; it also enables those who are already Christians to deepen the quality of their faith, reinforcing commitment with understanding and conviction. In this final chapter, we look at some ways of grounding apologetics in situations that really matter by exploring some practical issues that are too often overlooked in textbooks on this theme.
I am not for one moment suggesting that successful evangelism is simply concerned with the development of good technique. Rather, I am concerned to stress that apologetics includes both theoretical and practical components. Sadly, experience suggests that mastery of the former rarely extends to the latter. This final chapter aims to make the vital transition from the textbook to real life by addressing some of the difficulties and obstacles faced by many who have wrestled with unbelief at the level of ideas and who now want to engage with unbelief as it is found in real life. We begin by stressing the need for careful listening as a first step in effective apologetics.
A. APOLOGETICS AS DIALOGUE
Traditionally, apologetics textbooks have concentrated on more academic issues than some of those discussed in this work. They often have focused on familiarizing their readers with the history and theory of Christian apologetics. But that is only part of the story. Explaining the theory of an internal combustion engine does not enable someone to drive a car, any more than explaining the percussion mechanism of a piano turns someone into Arthur Rubinstein. The science must be supplemented by the art, in apologetics as elsewhere. Creative apologetics means a passionate and caring commitment to the people who have yet to discover the gospel of Christ, and a willingness to take the trouble to relate the gospel to their needs. If God went to all the trouble of becoming like us in Christ in order to redeem us, it seems perfectly reasonable to expect apologists to imitate this excellent example set for them in Christ.
Consider the consulting room of a medical practitioner. The doctor in question has been trained in the science of medicine and has a fund of knowledge without which she would be powerless to deal with the situations she encounters.
But there is more to medicine than knowledge. Many of my medical friends complain that their patients often seem reluctant to tell them what the real problems are. Perhaps they are embarrassed by their symptoms. Perhaps they are afraid of what the implications of those symptoms might be. But the doctor has to be able to relate to the patient and discover what the problem really is. There is an art of cultivating a good bedside manner, being a good and attentive listener, gaining the patient’s confidence, and enabling the patient to disclose his or her anxieties.
Only once the problem has been fully exposed can the science of medicine be fully applied. The art and the science go hand in hand, the former enabling the latter to be brought into play to maximum effect. The apologist is like a sensitive doctor, prepared to talk to individuals and listen to them, in order to establish what the real problems are, so that the appropriate aspects of his fund of apologetic resources may be brought to bear upon the situation. An essential part of his or her task is that of gaining the dialogue partner’s confidence.
For, as we have stressed, the obstacles that prevent some people from coming to faith are not merely academic difficulties. Often, there are deeply personal barriers to faith. One might think of the business executive who is having an affair with his secretary and feels that the guilt of the situation prevents him from ever relating to God. Or one might think of the woman who has been alienated from her local church through the personal failings of her pastor or because of strongly negative associations dating from her childhood. The apologist must be one who is prepared to gain that person’s trust, listen, and be able to bring the full resources of the gospel to bear on what is uncovered during the dialogue.
The medical model allows for another insight. Carl Jung once penned the following words: “Only the wounded physician can heal.” A friend of mine has asthma. He always makes a point of seeing the same doctor. “Everyone else treats me as if I am making a lot of fuss about nothing,” he said. “But this guy understands me.” Why? Because he too is an asthma sufferer! He can be sure of a sympathetic reception, genuine compassion, and a real awareness of the possibilities for treatment. If you have had a problem yourself, it is very easy to relate to the needs of others going through the same thing.
There is a real piece of apologetic insight in that observation. Effective apologetics at a personal level rests on an ability to relate to the problems faced by others as they contemplate Christianity. It helps if you yourself went through a period of wrestling with similar issues before you became a Christian. Not only will you have worked through the issues yourself, you will be able to appreciate the mental state of people in this position of indecision.
But even if you have not been through this kind of experience, you can enhance your effectiveness as an apologist by talking to people who have come to faith through wrestling with difficulties. Ask them how they overcame their barriers to faith. Ask them to tell you how they felt at every stage in this process of turning to Christianity. This will help you to think yourself into the situation of people who are close to faith yet are held back by an obstacle—an obstacle they hope you will be able to remove.
It is one thing to tailor your apologetic approach to individuals. But what about larger audiences, such as congregations?
B. APOLOGETICS AND PREACHING
How is apologetics related to preaching? It is helpful to make a distinction between evangelistic preaching, often linked to special events and occasions, and the regular preaching ministry in a congregation. Apologetics has a significant, yet different, role to play in each context. We may begin by considering its role in evangelistic preaching.
The role of effective apologetics in evangelistic preaching may be summarized as follows:
a. to identify points of contact for the gospel (discussed in detail at pp. 30–47);
b. to allow the preacher to lodge the gospel proclamation in the experiential world of his or her audience (see pp. 26–29);
c. to anticipate and answer some of the obstacles to faith that are experienced within the audience (pp. 94–143);
d. to challenge the existing non-Christian worldviews present within that audience (pp. 144–86);
e. to create an intellectual and imaginative atmosphere favorable to faith (pp. 48–56); and
f. to explain how assent to Christianity becomes faith in Christ (pp. 56–60).
The evangelist is thus basically an apologist who preaches with passion and power, bringing the science and art of apologetics to bear on his or her audiences.
Evangelism, it is widely agreed, holds the key to the future well-being of the Christian church. The centrality of apologetics to evangelistic preaching is inescapable. But is it of value in other preaching contexts? What of those who are already converted? Is apologetics an irrelevance to them? Certainly not.
The sermon is unquestionably one of the most important resources of the Christian church. Here, week by week, the preacher has the opportunity to challenge and nurture the faith of the people of God. The sermon can be the key to enhanced levels of Christian understanding, new depths of commitment, and a renewed sense of vision in the Christian life. (On the other hand, it can be mindlessly boring.) The simple fact is that apologetics must become a regular part of the preaching program of the Christian churches. It is necessary for the growth and upbuilding of the people of God. Apologetic material should be incorporated into the regular preaching rhythm of the church. What would an apologetic sermon look like?
My concern is not to commend the preaching of entire sermons dedicated to the identification of problems that members of your congregation may be having, with eminently worthy and competent titles, such as “Some Difficulties Experienced Concerning the Christian Faith.” It is rather to draw attention to the fact that apologetic material can easily be incorporated, in small doses, into the regular course of preaching. How?
The preacher must anticipate the difficulties that will be experienced by ordinary Christians and indicate how they may be handled. The sermon must explain basic ideas and concepts of the Christian faith in order that Christian congregations can achieve new depths of understanding. And finally, the sermon must reassure Christians of the credentials of their faith. Let us look at each of these in more detail.
a. Anticipate. In the course of their day-to-day lives, Christians come across things that bother and puzzle them. It may be the questions posed by non-Christians. It may be anxiety about the goodness of God. The preacher can and ought to anticipate such difficulties and provide responses in advance. Make a list of difficulties, potential or real, and try to work through them over the course of a year or so. These apologetic threads can easily be woven into the fabric of a sermon.
For example, a sermon on Easter Day would naturally concentrate on the reality of the resurrection of Christ and all that it means and implies for believers. But some apologetic material could easily be integrated into the sermon. “Of course, there will be those who say that the Resurrection never happened. That it was some kind of cover-up job. Let’s just look at those points…“ In this way, real questions and difficulties—which may be experienced inside, as well as outside, the Christian church—can be handled, with appropriate responses and strategies being placed in the hands of those who hear such sermons.
b. Explain. The best defense of Christianity lies in its explanation. Often, people reject caricatures or parodies of the gospel, not realizing that they are doing so. Take time to explain the gospel, not taking anything for granted. Remember Augustine’s remarks about Christianity after hearing Ambrose of Milan preach: “I had yet to discover that it taught the truth, but I did discover that it did not teach the things I had accused it of.”
But there is another dimension to this—a real need to explain key Christian beliefs to ordinary Christians, who often become discouraged and confused about them and even begin to have doubts about their credibility. Take time to explain, not just what Christians believe about the Trinity or the divinity of Christ, but why they believe them. Not only will they be encouraged about the solidity of the foundations of their faith and be better able to explain and justify aspects of that faith to others, but they also will be enabled to attain new depths in their personal lives of faith.1
c. Reassure. Apologetics functions within the church at two quite different levels, which may be conveniently described as “objective” and “subjective.” Objectively, apologetics reassures those inside the church of the credentials of the Christian faith—of the historical reliability of the Gospels, the historical reality of the death and resurrection of Christ, and of the interpretation of these events in Christian doctrines such as the divinity of Christ. Subjectively, it creates a climate of credibility in which believers come to “feel good” about their faith in its broad totality. Apologetics builds up confidence in the total package of the Christian gospel and thus creates an atmosphere of confidence within the church—an atmosphere that in turn nourishes evangelism and church growth.
C. THE APPEAL TO THE IMAGINATION
Effective apologetics does not so much impose Christian truth on people as draw them into that truth in such a way that they can appreciate and appropriate it. One of the saddest features of some modern apologetic writing is that it makes its appeal purely to reason and neglects the human imagination—perhaps one of the most powerful allies at the disposal of the apologist.
“A picture is worth a thousand words.” We spend billions every year on television sets, video recorders, and photographic equipment—all to capture images. Television news editors often rate the importance of their stories in terms of the images that accompany the text. We live in an age of “the humiliation of the word” (Jacques Ellul). Commercial advertising discovered many years ago that it was not a closely reasoned and justified argument that sold products—it was superbly crafted images, making a direct and powerful appeal to the human imagination. Classical apologetics often seems blissfully unaware of this development and approaches the defense of the faith in the modern world with all the imagination of a dead duck. Instead of a picture, it gives us a thousand words—often, it must be said, deadly dull and unimaginative words.
Argument will always have its place in Christian apologetics. But it urgently needs to be supplemented by an appeal to imagery. “Imagination is not to be divorced from the facts; it is a way of illuminating the facts” (A. N. Whitehead).2 Arguments are precise; images are suggestive. We need to meditate on those remarkable words of some Greeks who came to Philip: “Sir, we wish to see Jesus” (John 12:21). Here is our task: to help people see Jesus Christ with their own eyes. Let us learn from Christ, who opened his parables, not with a definition (“The kingdom of God is…), but with an image (“The kingdom of God is like…). The parables themselves are remarkably effective in inviting their hearers to step inside their narrative worlds and in stirring the imagination. The parables excite; too often, arguments dull.
Or suppose I was trying to commend to you the merits of nectarines—a fruit you have not yet tasted. One way would be to tell you that it has pinkish-red skin and sweet, yellowish flesh. That is better than nothing—but not that much better. Or I could appeal to your imagination. I would get you to imagine what a nectarine might be like. Imagine a peach. It’s like that—only better. How? Well, imagine an apricot. It’s like that as well. Try to imagine the consistency, the fragrance, the taste of both; taste them in your mind, and savour their sweetness. Good apologetics is like that—a creative imaginative appeal to what your audience already knows, in order to get them interested in, even excited about, what they have yet to discover.
Definitions are closed off and imprison people in formulas; images are open-ended and invite their hearers to imagine them and be captured by them. We must avoid sounding like theological dictionaries and instead be able to appeal to the imaginations of those to whom we speak. The well-honed and carefully chosen word must be used to convey images of grace to our hearers. We need to shift our language from the abstract to the concrete. But how?
One of the most powerful ways of appealing to the imagination is through stories. The story is one of the least appreciated resources available to the apologist. In listening to a story, we enter into an imaginary narrative world in which we are carried along by the sheer impetus of the story itself. It is not like an argument, in which every stage of a complex network of interrelated ideas can be probed and dissected. An argument proceeds in stages, and the move to each successive stage is dependent on an understanding of earlier stages. A story propels us forward into a willing suspension of disbelief. Our natural tendency to want to know what happens next allows the stages of the narrative to be presented without interruption. We want to know how it ends.
It is this sense of intrigue, even of mystery, that so artfully leads us to pay attention to a story. It is perhaps only afterward that we begin to reflect on the implications of everything that has been said. We are, so to speak, captured by the narrative. Joseph Conrad expressed this feeling well: “Yet even then I hesitated, as if warned by the instinct of self-preservation, from venturing on a distant and toilsome journey into a land of intrigue and resolutions. But it had to be done.” And during the course of that narrative, our imaginations are engaged, ideas are explored, images are unfolded, and potential difficulties are neutralized or evaded—all within the course of the telling of a story.
Perhaps the finest example of the use of a story as an apologetic device is found in C. S. Lewis’s Chronicles of Narnia. Outwardly an entertaining series of imaginative adventure novels aimed at teenagers, the seven volumes weave together into a coherent narrative, a remarkable assortment of apologetic arguments. Unlike the straightforward allegorical style of John Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress (used earlier by Lewis in The Pilgrim’s Regress), in which every event and incident has some recognizable and direct connection with Christian doctrine, the Narnia works center around adventure stories and subtle theological associations. The gentle apologetics are absorbed along with the narrative, sustained and supported by the strength of the plot and characterization, itself a remarkable tribute to Lewis’s celebrated knowledge of English literature. That narrative character is obvious from the first moment of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe:
Once there were four children whose names were Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy. This story is about something that happened to them when they were sent away from London during the war on account of the air raids. They were sent to the house of an old Professor who lived in the heart of the country, ten miles from the nearest railway station and two miles from the nearest post office.3
Immediately, our imaginations are activated. What sort of house? What did the old professor look like? What starts off as a jolly adventure story set amid rummaging around in old houses soon turns into a theological journey of discovery, as the power of the human imagination is harnessed to enter an imaginary world in which theology subtly comes to life.
Consider the knotty theological problem that often surfaces as a real difficulty for apologetics. Are our images of God simply projections of human values and aspirations (see pp. 94–100)? Do we simply create God in our imaginations, using ourselves as models? Perhaps, God having created us in his image, we have simply returned the compliment?
As we noted earlier, this position is especially associated with the German Hegelian philosopher Ludwig Feuerbach (1804–72), especially his Essence of Christianity (1841).4 According to Feuerbach, the idea of “God” is basically a projection of human needs and aspirations onto an imaginary transcendental plane. God is not there, but we are. And we “project” or “objectify” our human feelings, and by doing so, create God in our own image. A series of “projectionist” theories of religion, including those of Sigmund Freud and Karl Marx, have their intellectual roots in this analysis of the notion of God. All the content of our ideas of God derives directly from human experience.
How can we counter this view? One approach might be to mount a sustained challenge to the Hegelian analysis of objectification on which this view ultimately rests. Such a challenge has already been presented, in conceptual form, earlier in this work (pp. 94–97). In other words, we could argue. We could write thousands of words, countering Feuerbach point by point. It would be intellectually convincing, but it would also be deadly dull.
Happily, Lewis uses another, totally different approach, considerably more effective in its impact. He tells a story. He plants a series of powerful images in our imaginations and leaves them there to bear their theological fruit. In The Silver Chair (an obvious, but exceptionally creative, reworking of Plato’s image of men in a cave), two children (Eustace Scrubb and Jill Pole) find themselves trapped with a Narnian prince in an underground kingdom. They have no direct knowledge of the world above the ground, save their memories. They are confronted with a witch, one of whose chief aims it is to convince the children that there is no outside world. The dialogue proceeds as follows:
“What is this sun you speak of? Do you mean anything by the word?”…asked the Witch…
“Please it, your grace,” said the Prince, very coldly and politely. “You see that lamp? It is round and yellow and gives light to the whole room; and hangeth moreover from the roof. Now that thing which we call the sun is like the lamp, only far greater and brighter. It giveth light to the whole Overworld and hangeth in the sky.”
“Hangeth from what, my Lord?” asked the Witch; and then, while they were all still thinking how to answer her, she added, with another of her soft, silver laughs, “You see? When you try to think out clearly what this sun must be, you cannot tell me. You can only tell me that it is like the lamp. Your sun is a dream; and there is nothing in that dream that was not copied from the lamp. The lamp is the real thing; the sun is but a tale, a children’s story.”5
How does this approach work? Lewis relies on his readers seeing the stupidity of the witch’s argument. They know all about the sun. They can easily enter into the story and see that there is no way that anyone can disprove the witch’s argument unless he or she has direct access to the “Overworld.” And they can see that, despite her fine logic and rhetoric, the witch is simply wrong. The sun may look like a lamp. A lamp may indeed be a convenient visual aid for the sun, allowing something that, by the nature of things, cannot be seen to be described in terms of things that can be seen. But that does not mean that there is no sun. The flaw in the argument is exposed, not through relentless demolition of the Hegelian notion of objectification, but through a simple and subtle appeal to the world of experience of a child. It lacks philosophical rigor, but it more than makes up for it by its appeal to the imagination and to common human experience.
By the end of the witch’s exposition, we are left with a smile on our face. There seems to be something built into human nature that allows us to enjoy seeing a sophisticated argument deflated. The reader is left with a faint sense of smugness. We know something that the witch doesn’t. And that knowledge exposes her argument as superficial and flawed. Yet how does this insight arise? By telling a story. By appealing to the imagination. Point taken?
Art and literature abound in images—images that can make a deep and evocative appeal to the imagination. Obviously, you need to know your audience. There is no point in appealing to Fyodor Dostoyevsky or Marcel Proust if you are speaking to a group of steelworkers from Pittsburgh. A central task here is ascertaining what reading or viewing you may have in common with your audience. If you are going to use appeals to the arts or literature, you are going to have to take risks. Happily, the rewards often enormously outweigh those risks. They are profoundly worth taking. But they must be taken on the basis of information, not guesswork. This point is so important that it needs further illustration.
D. APOLOGETICS AND LITERARY FORMS
Most people read. What they read varies enormously—in frequency, in volume, in level, and in seriousness. Literature can embrace just about anything from Dante’s Divine Comedy to newspaper cartoons. What people read gives you openings, ways in which you can begin to make contact with their worlds of thought.
As we saw in the previous section, stories have a disarming ability to get around the “watchful dragons” (C. S. Lewis) of rational prejudice against Christianity. When you argue with someone, you have to go through stage after stage before you finally come to your conclusion—that Christianity makes sense, and is something greatly to be desired. It is like touching the bases in baseball. You cannot get to second base without getting to first. Telling a story does not bypass those stages; it simply takes us through them, without interruption. It allows us to tell the entire story, rather than having to tell it piecemeal.
But what specific types of story are appropriate? We have noted how imaginative fantasies of the C. S. Lewis or J. R. R. Tolkien type have considerable value in relation to apologetics. But what of other types of narrative? Let’s look at one type that has enormous (if neglected) potential for the Christian apologist. I refer to the detective novel. Television networks have long known about the enormous appeal of mysteries to their viewers. It is time that Christian apologists woke up to the possibilities that this genre offers us. Apologetics may present itself as the science of the detection of God, and, by doing so, make a deep-rooted appeal to one of the most popular modern literary genres. The apologetic possibilities of this literary genre first impressed me some time ago.
The place—one of Oxford University’s seminar rooms on a hot summer’s afternoon. It was the end of a long day of teaching, and I had been up late the night before marking examination papers. The seminar was on some aspect of New Testament scholarship—I have long since forgotten what. The speaker was probably one of the most distinguished scholars in his field. He was also deadly dull. If a Nobel prize were ever to be given in the field of utterly tedious ways of delivering lectures, this gentleman would have been shortlisted by acclamation.
As he droned on, I began to drop off. It wasn’t entirely his fault. I was tired, and it was a hot day—but then, he hardly encouraged me to remain awake and alert! Only half-awake, I caught occasional phrases of his lecture. Some of these lingered in my mind. “The messianic secret” and “the mystery of the messiah” were two of them. And as my mind wandered aimlessly, searching for something more interesting to think about than the lecture itself, a ridiculous thought passed through my mind. “He might as well be talking about detective fiction, using phrases like that.” And an additional thought passed through my mind—”Surely Raymond Chandler or Agatha Christie could make a better job of his material than he ever could.” Looking briefly around the remainder of the seminar audience, I came to the reassuring conclusion that some related thought may have been passing through at least some of their minds. Those who were still awake, anyway.
That thought remained in my mind long after the main business of that afternoon was forgotten. Were there not quite a few parallels between the Gospels and detective novels? Might not this cast fresh light on familiar material? And so my mind began to work.
Detective fiction appeals to our basic feeling that the world is ordered. The natural scientist, like the criminologist, believes that the world is structured. The biblical writers noticed this ordering as well. The great Old Testament theme of “wisdom” echoes this observation. Things do not just happen at random. The world is not some kind of accident. Its incredibly detailed structuring is itself a witness to the creative power and providence of God. Just as the plot of a crime novel links events together, so the knowledge that God is creator brings together the incredible workings of the universe in a single pattern and process. The plot is the thread of continuity thinking events; the creatorship of God is the bond coupling the events of the vast panorama of the world.
But how is this ordering uncovered? How do the great sleuths of the printed page realize what has been going on? How do they detect the common strands that explain the way things happened? The answer, of course, is clues. A clue is something that opens the way to understanding a mystery. But how do you recognize a clue when you see one?
A clue is something that may at first sight seem utterly insignificant. It could easily be missed. But to someone who knows what to look for, it can speak volumes. It points to a possible explanation of events. It suggests ways of making sense of a jumble of seemingly unrelated things. Clues set us on the right trail, allowing us to make sense of hitherto puzzling events and eventually disclosing the identity of the murderer.
The essence of every good detective novel lies in engaging the reader in the detective’s search for the murderer. The reader is set alongside Miss Marple or Philip Marlowe as she or he uncovers clues and gradually builds up an understanding of events. It is only at this point that we, the readers, find out whether we have noticed all the clues and worked out their significance.
In certain vital respects the Gospels parallel the type of writing found in detective fiction. The reader of the Gospels is set alongside the disciples as they listen to Jesus preach, as they watch him in action, and as they finally see him die and rise again. But detective novels are “whodunits”; the Gospels are “whowasits.”
The gospel writers allow us to see and hear what the disciples heard and force us to ask much the same questions they themselves must have asked before us. Who is this man? And just as the writers of detective novels single out, or draw our attention to, significant things (in other words, clues) we might otherwise have overlooked, so the gospel writers do the same.
The difference, of course, is that we already have the outcome. But the Gospels take on a freshness when we are willing to suspend our after-the-fact knowledge of who Jesus is and read the Gospels as if we do not know—when we evaluate the clues the gospel writers provide and see if the story is convincing. For example, read Matthew’s gospel as “The Mystery of the Murdered Messiah.” It is evident that Matthew initially wants us to draw the conclusion that Jesus was the Messiah, the long-expected descendant of King David who was expected to usher in a new era in the history of Israel. The first part of his gospel is therefore littered with clues pointing to this conclusion. Thus the gospel opens with a list of Jesus’ forebears (Matt. 1:1–17) which establishes that Jesus was legally the son of David. And immediately we are confronted with a clue. Isn’t the Messiah meant to have been the son of David? We are then given an account of the birth of Jesus in which Matthew makes sure that we notice the remarkable parallels between the circumstances of that birth and certain key prophecies of the Old Testament. Matthew draws our attention to this point no less than five times in his first two chapters (1:22–23; 2:5–7, 16, 17–18, 23).
Mark’s gospel, on the other hand, opens by establishing the credentials of John the Baptist. John is the long-expected messenger who prepares the way for the coming of the Lord (Mark 1:2–3). Immediately our suspicions are aroused: is the Lord about to arrive? Having aroused our interest, Mark then records John’s statement that someone even more significant will come after him (1:7–8). We are even more attentive now. Who is it whom Mark immediately introduces to us? Jesus of Nazareth suddenly appears on the scene (1:9). The conclusion Mark wishes us to draw is obvious.
Although some of the clues concerning the identity and significance of Jesus are pointed out with some force, others are left to the readers to pick up for themselves. For example, Jesus regularly addresses God as “Father” in his prayers—a very presumptuous practice by the standards of the time. At one point, Mark even gives us the Aramaic original of the word for “Father”—Abba, a remarkably familiar term impossible to translate into English (“Papa,” “Dad,” “Daddy,” are often suggested as the nearest equivalents). The gospel writers do not bring out the full significance of this practice, which clearly points to Jesus understanding himself to have a remarkably intimate relationship with God.
Equally, the parallels between the “righteous sufferer” of Psalm 22 and the accounts of Christ’s passion are not made explicit but are left unsaid. Jesus’ words “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Matt. 27:46; the only point, incidentally, at which Jesus does not address God as “Father”) draw our attention to this mysterious figure, who is mocked by those who watch him die (Ps. 22:6–8)—as is Jesus (Matt. 27:39–44). The “righteous sufferer” has his hands and feet pierced (Ps. 22:16)—as would most victims of crucifixion, including Jesus. The “righteous sufferer” sees his tormentors casting lots for his clothes (Ps. 22:18)—as does Jesus (Matt. 27:35).
Another remarkable parallel exists between the crucifixion of Jesus Christ and the account of the “suffering servant” of Isaiah 53, which only Luke notes explicitly (Luke 22:37). This famous Old Testament prophecy speaks of a suffering servant of God, who was “wounded for our transgressions, and bruised for our iniquities” (Isa. 53:5). Perhaps the most significant part of this prophecy relates to the fact that the servant is “numbered with sinners” (Isa. 53:12), which is clearly understood by the gospel writers to be fulfilled in the death of Christ, in two ways. First, Christ died by crucifixion, which was a form of execution reserved for criminals. In other words, Christ was identified with sinners by the manner of his death. Second, Christ was not crucified alone, but along with two criminals (Matt. 27:38), one on either side of him. Jesus was thus surrounded by sinners at the moment of his death. In both ways, Christ’s death was recognized as a parallel of an important Old Testament figure. In fact, it seems that the first Christians could not help but notice the obvious connections between the life and death of Jesus and certain significant prophecies of the Old Testament and take a certain degree of delight in pointing them out to their readers, or allowing them to discover them for themselves.
Let’s develop the idea of a clue slightly further by looking at two points. First, it is not always obvious at the time that an event is a clue. Thus in Arthur Conan Doyle’s story Silver Blaze, the full significance of the fact that the dog did not bark during the night becomes evident only at a late stage. The fact was observed, but its significance becomes apparent only when Sherlock Holmes has begun to make connections between seemingly unrelated happenings of the night as to the horse’s disappearance.
There is every reason to suppose that something similar has happened in the case of the Gospels. The first Christians appear not to have realized the full significance of some of the things Jesus said or did until after his resurrection, when they suddenly saw things in a completely new light. An apparently insignificant fact thus assumed a new meaning once its full significance was realized. Thus in John’s gospel, we find an explicit reference to this process. Jesus makes a remark that appears to refer to the temple at Jerusalem, whereas after the Resurrection his disciples realized that it referred to Jesus himself (John 2:18–22).
It is clear that some clues concerning the identity and significance of Jesus were impossible to overlook—the Resurrection itself being the most obvious example. Others, however, appear to have been more subtle. They were recognized for what they really were only after the Resurrection. This point serves to remind us that the gospel accounts are meant to be read in the light of faith in the Resurrection, which the early Christians evidently took as fundamental to their beliefs about Jesus.
Second, a clue can be just as much about something not happening, as about something that did happen. Let’s take up the Silver Blaze mystery once more. The horse had been guarded by a dog. Yet the dog didn’t bark in the night when it should have as the racehorse Silver Blaze was stolen. Holmes notes this fact and realizes its significance—that the dog knew the intruder and did not feel threatened by his presence.
The same sort of clue emerges in the Gospels. For example, Mark notes that Jesus was silent before his accusers (Mark 14:61). But why? Surely Jesus would have been expected to defend himself. The significance of this silence can be seen in the light of the silence of the suffering servant (Isa. 53:7) before his accusers. Mark appears to want us to pick up this clue and lead us on to see other parallels between Jesus and this mysterious Old Testament figure.
So the literary genre of the detective novel can be invaluable to the task of Christian apologetics. It allows the Gospels to be read in a new light. It allows connections and discoveries to be made. The reader can be taken up into the gospel narrative and be allowed to capture the sense of mystery—and rejoice when that mystery is gloriously resolved.
I give this simply as one example. There are many other types of literature available: the novel, the tragedy, or the personal journal. Each of these has considerable potential for the apologist. I refer to the detective novel because it is one I happen to like myself and which I know is liked by many of my friends—and so has proved invaluable in my own experience as a way of making sense of at least some aspects of Christianity to an audience open to having its imagination stimulated. It is up to individual apologists, knowing their audiences, to work out what literary forms are most helpful for them.
E. THE APPEAL TO CULTURE
Know your audience! If this theme is becoming tediously familiar in this book, it is simply because of its importance. The effective apologist must be able to identify with and enter into the experiential world of his or her audience. We have already explored the enormous apologetic importance of points of contact, which allow the apologist to correlate the gospel with human experience. In one sense, however, this only begins to tap the enormous resources available to the intelligent and creative apologist. One such resource is the cultural milieu of the audience. If apologetics is concerned with the creation and fostering of an imaginative and intellectual climate favorable to faith, then contemporary culture provides resources for the creation of such a climate which the apologist dare not neglect.
The word “culture” has overtones of intellectual elitism which some will understandably find offensive. But the word is used here in its broad sense, meaning the literature, art forms, and music with which people find they can identify. As far as the apologist is concerned, “culture” designates whatever his or her audience may enjoy reading, watching, or listening to, irrespective of whether this can be regarded as “cultured” in the narrow sense of the word. The words of a popular song; some lines from a much-read contemporary novel; a scene from a top-rated television movie; some lines from a major box-office hit—all have potential in the hands of the sensitive and intelligent apologist.
The most effective defense and communication of the gospel is not likely to come from the lips of a stranger to the culture in which the gospel is to be proclaimed. The indigenous apologist, familiar with his or her own situation, is in the best position to identify and exploit the hints and clues provided by that cultural milieu. The gospel is too easily made to appear a stranger to a culture; the apologist must ensure it is seen as a friend, interlocking with the ideas and values of that culture wherever possible. Before the gospel can transform a culture, it must first take root within it.
So how can this be done? Some practical hints are worth infinitely more than theoretical analysis.
a. Keep talking to people in known or anticipated audiences. Get to know their ways of speaking, what they like reading or watching, and their hopes and fears. Aim to bring out how the gospel is—or can become—an insider to their culture. Take care to use language that naturally relates to that audience rather than a way of speaking that instantly marks you—and your message—as an outsider. Os Guinness is among the most practiced exponents of this approach, and his books are worth reading for hints and pointers.
b. The words of popular songs often bring to conscious expression some of the feelings that are common in potential audiences. Listen to them, or get someone to listen to them for you. Those words often identify a felt need (such as hopelessness or the fear of meaninglessness) to which the gospel can relate. Michael Green is an especially skilled practitioner of this apologetic art; explore his writings, especially those aimed at students.
c. Become aware of the tensions and perceived inadequacies of the culture. Can you discern a sense of frustration with the way things are and a feeling of powerlessness to change them? The writings of Francis Schaeffer are especially illuminating here, indicating how cultural developments often show up the incapacity of secular worldviews to satisfy human longings. A sensitive critic of modern Western culture can often discern chinks in a secular cultural armor and allow the gospel to gain cultural credibility as a result.
F. WE HAVE TIME FOR A FEW QUESTIONS…
I preach sermons and give talks worldwide, in about equal proportions. People sometimes ask about the difference between a sermon and a talk. Theoretically, there are all kinds of differences, which homileticians write endlessly about; pragmatically, the difference is quite simple—after a talk, you are asked questions. And you have to make sure you answer them well. You may be a first-rate speaker, but you can lose your credibility instantly if you handle a question badly. It is a central, and neglected, aspect of practical apologetics. Learn to field questions well. My own experience could be distilled in nine points.
1. Anticipate Questions
Many of the questions you will be asked are predictable. Take time to plan out in advance answers to possible questions, perhaps jotting down outlines of those answers on index cards. The more speaking you do, the more confident you will become through exposure to the key questions. It helps to try out your answers on a sympathetic audience—perhaps some friends or colleagues—to get reactions. Talk through possible questions and answers, and spot strengths and weaknesses in advance.
At Oxford recently, I organized an “apologetics workshop” in which students were each given a commonly asked question relating to the Christian faith in advance—for example, “Can you prove that God exists?” Simulating the conditions of a lecture room, they were each allowed three or four minutes to answer the questions. The group then debated the quality and effectiveness of the response, making suggestions for improvements. The collective wisdom of the group often resulted in marked improvement of the quality of the reply.
2. If It’s a Good Question–Say So!
Be affirmative of the questioner. It’s no substitute for a good answer, but it helps create a good atmosphere. It also buys a few precious seconds of time to help you frame your answer better.
3. Take a Few Seconds to Think Before Replying
Picture a small gathering of people, perhaps seven or eight, being addressed by a speaker. The talk comes to an end. The speaker remains standing to take questions. Now hear someone ask a question. The speaker replies (a) immediately—that is, less than a second after the question has been put; (b) after a pause of three or four seconds.
Which of those two response times creates the better impression? You might feel that the first would create much the superior impact in that it demonstrates intellectual brilliance. In fact, it does not. It creates the impression of an unthinking, mechanical response. It suggests that the questioner has simply triggered a preprogrammed response on the speaker’s part. A pause of a few seconds is perfectly acceptable and creates the impression of a thoughtful response to the question. Even if you can give an answer to a question without the need for much thought, take those few seconds.
4. If the Question Is Difficult, Buy Time
Important, difficult, or unanticipated questions need careful responses. And that may mean that you need a little space to think up a good answer. But audiences become anxious, perhaps even suspicious, if you take more than about four seconds to respond to a question. For this reason, you need to be able to buy time. Former Soviet President Leonid Brezhnev was rumored to speak English perfectly well. But at international press conferences, he would always wait for his interpreter to translate questions from English into Russian before replying. Why? Because it gave him more time to think about his answer.
All speakers develop ways of buying precious time in order to give better answers to those hard questions. Here are some of them.
a. Sit down after answering each question. The physical action of standing up to answer the question will buy you three or four seconds.
b. Thank the questioner for raising the issue. This buys you up to five seconds.
c. Repeat the question for the benefit of those who did not hear it. This is often a necessity if you have a large audience and the only microphone is at the speaker’s podium. This can buy you as much as thirty or forty seconds.
But be warned: if you cannot think on your feet, buying time will just delay the inevitable—a bad answer. Learn to think quickly, jotting down in your mind—or on some paper in front of you—the main points you want to make. And be encouraged: most people get better at answering questions as they gain in experience and confidence.
5. Don’t Be Iffy
Imagine that you are a member of an audience that has just heard a distinguished speaker talk about the Christian faith. Let your mind build up a picture of the scene, creating images of the auditorium (large? small? a church? a lecture room? a theater?), the audience (how large? how are they dressed? what age range?), and the speaker (male or female? how old? what sort of voice did he or she have? what did he or she wear?). Now hear a member of that audience ask this question: “Do you really believe that Jesus Christ was the Son of God?” And now imagine the following responses, and try to understand how they feel to that audience.
1. Well, it all depends what you mean by “the Son of God.” [The speaker then outlines a few options before finally indicating that he or she believes it in one specific sense.]
2. Yes, I certainly do. Let me just clarify what that phrase means. [The speaker then outlines the same options as above, making it clear which specific sense he or she believes to be right—the same choice being made as above.]
How would you characterize each reply? What kind of impression does each create? The first option gives an impression of uncertainty and hesitation; the second projects a much more positive note. Yet, in terms of their substance, both replies are the same. Both recognize that the phrase can mean several things; both accept that Jesus is the Son of God in the same sense of the term. Yet the first reply is “iffy”; its opening almost leads its audience to think that the speaker does not believe that Jesus is the Son of God. It is the form of the reply, not its substance, that has registered.
If you are asked questions that genuinely demand clarification of terms, try to avoid the “well-it-all-depends-what-you-mean” kind of reply. It is unnecessary. You can introduce qualifications and explanations in the course of the reply after giving a firm and positive response with your opening words.
6. Don’t Give Hostages to Fortune
Your answer to a question may well raise far more serious questions in the minds of your audience. A crucial skill is that of giving concise answers that raise new issues only if you want them to raise new issues. An unskilled answer can quickly lead you into a minefield for which you are unprepared. Again, imagine a situation in which a speaker has been asked this question: “Why do some people seem to react more positively to Christianity than others?” Now try to sense how non-Christians in the audience would react if the speaker included the following in his reply:
Of course, there’s always the issue of predestination here. God predestines some to respond favorably to the gospel and others to reject it. So the reason why some seem to react more positively than others is basically that God determines their reactions to the gospel. And that is a fairly central theme of Christian theology in the Reformed tradition.
This is a classic example of a “hostage to fortune”—an unnecessary weak point that allows critics an immediate advantage. What has been said is fair enough, but it shifts the ground of debate to a quite different area. Predestination makes sense only within the context of faith; there is little point in trying to explain it to an audience of outsiders who will find it baffling and probably offensive.
The rule is simple: if you want to open up fresh ground—fine. You can develop the question in such a way that you move on to this ground. But do not get sidetracked unless you can handle the new ground.
7. Go Out on an Upbeat
When you answer questions from people in the audience, feel free to give them more than they asked for. They may want to tackle you over a difficulty; answer the difficulty and add in some extra helpful material. The impression you create will be positive and affirmative. A positive aftertaste is left behind by your answer.
Imagine that the following question has been asked: “How can God allow suffering?” That is a big question. It puts you on the defensive. You want to deal with the difficulties. You will probably feel the need to concede that, in the final analysis, we cannot give a watertight explanation of why there is suffering in the world. If you end your answer there, you will leave behind an impression of uncertainty and unconviction. You will have been heard to say “I don’t know.” That is the kind of loose end that cannot be left dangling. Tie it up. Try to imagine how a concluding section like this would sound:
So in the end, I am not sure why there is suffering in the world. Nobody is. But what I am sure of is this. The God who gave his Son to suffer and die on the cross is a God of love. He is a caring God. He is committed to us. He suffered in Christ. So I am prepared to trust that there is some loving purpose behind the suffering that we see. The God we’re talking about just isn’t the kind of God who would allow suffering without reason.
That section would add about thirty seconds to your reply. But it will transform the way in which your reply is seen because you end positively, with conviction and commitment. You still have every opportunity to talk about the issues suffering raises, but you make sure that your audience knows that such difficulties can coexist with faith and hope.
8. Be Prepared to Challenge Assumptions Lying Behind Questions
Often, it helps to explore some of the assumptions lurking in the background of a question. Unstated assumptions often prejudice people against faith; by identifying and engaging with them, a question can often be robbed of its force. Take the following question: “How can you ask us to believe in God when we can’t be absolutely certain that he exists?” How would you respond?
One approach might be to take the questioner on a little ramble through Thomas Aquinas’s Five Ways. But that does not really answer the question; it might also bore the remainder of the audience to tears. A more creative approach would be to note the assumption lying behind the question: we need to be absolutely certain about things. You could provide a very effective response to the question along the following lines.
Now you seem to think that we need to be absolutely certain about something before we can accept it. But let me ask whether this is really true. After all, we can be absolutely certain about very few things indeed. Two and two make four, sure, and we can be absolutely certain about that. But so what? What about the really big things in life? I can’t be absolutely certain that democracy is better than a dictatorship—but I will still fight for democracy any day! Anyway, let’s just think about atheists for a minute. They can’t be absolutely certain that God doesn’t exist either. Nobody really knows. But I can tell you, from where I am standing, God is for real…(and you might go on to explore the implications of the resurrection and personal experience, to name but two obvious resources at this point).
The real issue may lie in the assumptions behind the question, not necessarily in the specific question itself. Be prepared to explore behind the question.
9. Appeal to Authorities
I once had to give a talk to a group of students at Oxford on the relationship between Marxism and Christianity. We had gathered in a lecture room at Magdalen College. The lecture had been accepted well, and I had not had real difficulties with any of the questions afterward. The chairman looked at his watch. “I think we have time for just one more question,” he announced. A young man stood up. He asked his question. And as he asked it, I thought, “I have not the slightest idea how to answer this.” Panic began to set in. I thought, “C. S. Lewis used to teach here at Magdalen. I bet he could have answered that question.“ And even as that thought died, it was replaced by another: “He did!” And the basic features of his answer came to mind. So I waited for the young man to finish asking his question. I smiled, waited three seconds, and replied: “That’s a difficult question. But the answer is really quite simple.…”
Knowing the resources available to you can be very helpful, as I discovered on that occasion. But knowing about the key ideas and arguments of leading writers can be helpful for another reason: it lends weight and authority to your replies. It helps to appeal to authorities. It sounds far more impressive and convincing to declare that “the Oxford philosopher Austin Farrer says that…” than to say “I think that…”—even if the opinion happens to be the same! Immerse yourself in authorities. Pick up some key quotes and commit them to memory. Note arguments and be prepared to use them, making sure that they are supported by credible authorities. But what is meant by that word credible? Know your audience. Know whom they take seriously or whom they are likely to admire. If you don’t know, ask.
Some of the most powerful arguments you can use in fielding questions come from anti-Christian writers. For example, suppose you are asked the following question: “Our problem is that we feel alienated from God. It’s just a subjective impression. So why all this nonsense about the cross and objective ideas of alienation?” This view may be countered by appealing to the writings of Karl Marx, specifically the Economic and Philosophical Manuscripts of 1844. Marx argues that the human situation is characterized by alienation.6 He distinguishes two different kinds of alienation. The first is alienation from your rights and your property—a sort of objective alienation. You are alienated. The second is subjective, a more psychological or existential idea of alienation. You feel alienated from yourself. Marx’s insight is quite simple: you feel alienated because you are alienated. If your social and economic situation is disastrous, you are going to feel bad about it.
Marx then goes on to argue the case for a social and economic revolution. Part of his argument is of interest to us. No amount of tinkering around with our feelings, he declares, is going to solve our problems. They are but symptoms of a deeper problem that remains unresolved by emotional therapy. If you are oppressed and exploited, you are going to feel alienated. The only way you are going to get rid of this feeling of alienation is by changing your social and economic situation. An objective change will result in a subjective change. And so, you would argue, it is with the cross. Our feeling of alienation from God rests on an objective alienation from him—and thus the feeling of alienation can be abolished only by dealing with its root cause.
So get to know your authorities. Read widely; listen hard; and talk to people.
G. CONCLUDING REMARKS
An ancient Greek proverb says (translated somewhat freely), “A big book is a big bore.” The time has come for this book to end. It has aimed to provide a creative approach to apologetics, suited for modern use, that is firmly grounded in the Christian doctrines of creation and redemption and remains anchored within the great Christian tradition of taking rational trouble over our faith—not least for the benefit of outsiders.
We have stressed that apologetics is both a science and an art. It is an academic discipline, rigorously grounded in Christian theology and passionately concerned to demonstrate and defend the truth of Christianity. But it is also a craft, a creative attempt to ensure that the gospel proclamation meshes as closely as possible with the needs and concerns of human existence. Like an ellipse, Christian apologetics centers on twin foci: on the one hand the truth and reliability of the Christian revelation, and on the other the need to relate it to, and demonstrate its transformative potential for, the human situation. It is a vital and necessary part of the equipment of all Christians, above all those concerned with preaching and evangelism. To repeat the closing statement of the introduction, “Apologetics is not about winning arguments—it is about winning people.”