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Pro-science people need to admit we still don’t know a lot of things. People of faith need to admit God hasn’t told us all we’d like to know.
“Why do you submit to the Bible?” “Why do you allow it to dictate how you live?” “Why should anyone give allegiance to a book that discourages looking out for number one?” “Isn’t your Bible racist, sexist, and anti-science?”1
By presenting factors that lead someone to read the Bible, we let the Scriptures authenticate themselves rather than trust our extrabiblical arguments to seal the deal.
There may have been a time when most people already had read much of the Bible. If they were familiar with its message but did not believe it, apologetics persuaded them of the Bible’s authenticity, historicity, reliability, and trustworthiness. But those days are gone. Today, most people don’t even know the parts of the Bible that once were standard fare. Therefore, today’s apologetics should encourage literacy before defending historicity. We must challenge people by asking, “Why don’t you read it?” more than, “Why don’t you believe it?”
Plausibility is the first factor. Similar to what was presented in chapter 3, we propose to our inquisitive friends, “Isn’t it reasonable to believe that a God who created us could, if He wanted to, communicate with us? And further, couldn’t He do so through the vehicle of inspired writing?”
couldn’t these very qualities give credence to the Bible’s claims of inspiration and sacredness? Maybe the Bible’s messiness corresponds to our messiness, making it the perfect revelation to get us out of our mess. Perhaps its use of various genres corresponds to our complex nature—the intellectual, emotional, volitional, social, and physical components of our personhood. Maybe God inspired the Bible to suit our total being.
If you pick and choose what you want to believe and reject the rest, how will you ever have a God who can contradict you?
Only if your God can say things that outrage you and make you struggle (as in a real friendship or marriage!) will you know that you have gotten hold of a real God and not a figment of your imagination.
Unlike the Bible’s story, the narratives of other worldviews fail to connect with reality. They promise more than they can deliver. Some narratives deny the personal nature of God, calling Him a force or a concept. Other narratives reject the specialness of people, what Francis Schaeffer called “the mannishness of man.” Still others suppress our fallenness. None of these narratives can save, and all of them will disappoint.
If they seek truth from God’s revelation, they escape the despair, emptiness, falsehood, or arrogance that comes from believing their own revelations.
Martin Luther once said that the Bible is like a lion. If people criticize it, you don’t defend it—you let it out of its cage. Even in these skeptical times, when the Bible is tossed into a pile of irrelevant books written by dead white males, the lion still roars and the cage still must be opened.
A topic for which “judge not” is used with increasing frequency deals with issues relating to homosexuality. Judge not, lest ye be judged is shorthand for “How dare you Christians tell people who they should sleep with!”
We must also look at all the words that Jesus spoke, not just the ones that fit on bumper stickers.
Notice that homosexual behaviors are just part of a list—a list containing behaviors with which many of us, regardless of sexual orientation, struggle daily. Your name and mine are attached to almost every one of them. In one sense, homosexual behavior is no better or worse than greed. The list of offenders in 1 Corinthians, for example, contains those who are “idolaters.” What an odd term for us to apply in the twenty-first century! The notion of bowing down to a statue and offering our devotion to it seems so alien. But is it? Hasn’t sexuality become a god to us? Don’t we sacrifice for it,
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Seeing the idolatry in our hearts brings to light its degenerative nature. When we set our affections on something that cannot satisfy, demanding of it something that only God can provide, we lose the glory of being fully human.
Some of us have a plank of superiority. We think that LGBTQ+ sin is worse than any of the sins we struggle with. We use a different vocabulary and tone of voice when talking about homosexuality than for talking about “the tragedy of divorce,” “the unfortunate circumstances of an unplanned pregnancy,” or “the struggle with addiction to pornography.” Some of us have a plank of denial. We don’t call our sins of greed, lust, or immorality what God calls them—“idolatry” (see Col. 3:5). We call them “slipups” or “only natural,” or we excuse them as unavoidable.
Some of us have a plank of hatred. If we’re honest, we’d admit that we have contempt for gays. We’re angry they’ve won the culture war.
We thoughtlessly utter the platitude, “Hate the sin but love the sinner,” but a serious examination of our hearts might show that, in actuality, we hate both.
Some of us need to remove a plank of fear. We really don’t trust that the kingdom of God can withstand the sin of LGBTQ+ behavior.
A plank of disbelief causes us to doubt that homosexual behavior can be changed. But all the sinners listed in 1 Corinthians 6:9–10 (the sexually immoral, idolaters, adulterers, homosexual offenders, thieves, the greedy, drunkards, slanderers, and swindlers) are included in Paul’s reminder—“that is what some of you were” (v. 11, emphasis added).
Some of us have a plank of a cold heart. We feel no compassion for those with SSA. “The Bible is clear,” we reason. “Homosexuality is a perversion, and that’s all there is to it.” But to tell a young man or woman that God’s best for them is a lifetime of celibacy and denial of feelings that seem so natural, and to tell them so without the slightest sense of compassion, is terrible. Such coldness cries out for our own need of cleansing and change.
If I profess with the loudest voice and clearest exposition every portion of the truth of God except precisely that little point which the world and the Devil are at that moment attacking, I am not confessing Christ, however boldly I may be professing Christ. Where the battle rages, there the loyalty of the soldier is proved, and to be steady on all the battlefield besides, is mere flight and disgrace if he flinches at that point.
Sex uniquely engages all of our being—physical, psychological, spiritual, emotional, and intellectual. It is unparalleled as both pleasurable and profound. No wonder it so captivates our hearts. No wonder the devil so wants to distort it!
Settling for partial victories is more necessary here than in most evangelistic conversations.
“Amid the seemingly endless partying on America’s college campuses lies a thick layer of melancholy, insecurity, and isolation that no one can seem to shake.”
What’s so good about marriage is that it creates, fosters, and strengthens security.
What’s also good about marriage is that it soothes our vulnerability. Being vulnerable is difficult because it’s risky. When you open yourself up to someone, that person might reject or hurt you. Nevertheless, the case for marriage is a case for vulnerability—despite the risks.
Part of the soothing process’s power, though, comes from its very secretiveness. By protecting sex from outside pollutants, a married couple can heal each other at their deepest level of hurt. They can unify what has been fragmented. Sex loses that power if it is allowed to be dissipated or made public. It is no longer sacred.
How ironic (and tragic) that our current climate of sexual “openness” actually makes sex void of meaning rather than full of mystery.
Sometimes we’ve not bickered out loud, but in our hearts we’ve festered and fumed, marveling how we could have ever married someone so stubborn, illogical, spiteful, or just plain sinful.
On one particular morning several years ago, we didn’t argue. We weren’t even upset. We simply remarked how different we are from each other, and relaxed in the realization that we don’t have to change each other. (It took twenty-two years to figure this out!)
Progress, so it seems, goes from anger (“Why are you driving on this stupid road?”) to dominating (“Why don’t you listen to me and go the way I want?”) to self-righteousness (“Why can’t you see the superiority of my way of doing things?”) to acceptance (“It’s okay for us to have differences.”) to joy (“Isn’t it great that we see things so differently!”).
Marriage makes us better because it shows us how bad we are. Lifelong, unconditional commitment makes us more giving because it exposes how selfish we are.
One common misconception is that profession equals possession. In reality, not everyone who claims to be a Christian is one. Unlike other religions into which a person can be born, Christianity is something into which a person must be born again. In other words, no one is born a Christian. Thus, people who never were authentic born-again followers of Christ have committed a great deal of evil and sin in the name of Christianity.
The eternity that is planted in our hearts finds its initial fulfillment in our Savior’s cross, yet it longs for total fulfillment in the very presence of that Savior. The church’s being earthbound bothers us because we’re destined for heaven, not for earth. Simply put, then, hypocrites are in the church because the church is still on earth, not in heaven.
But anything (a sports team, a car, a possession, a career, a relationship, a dream, an intellect, an accomplishment, pleasure, pain, the past, the future, an experience, approval, revenge, desire, or even a regret!) can be an idol.
Religious noise pollution on campus has become a perennial problem.
“Wow! You sound really upset about this. Is this a painful topic for you?” “I guess I touched a nerve. I’m really sorry. Should I change the subject?” “I hope I didn’t offend you. What is it about spiritual things that seems so upsetting to you?”
The problem of residual anger affects us more than we realize. Specifically, it hurts our efforts at evangelism far too much. A lot of residual anger in the Christian community stems from the three triggers—hurt, fear, and frustration—and that anger comes out when we interact with non-Christians.
We Christians get hurt a lot, and we must be aware that it will happen. We also must be aware of our fear. We’re fearful about all sorts of things. We’re afraid we’ve lost the culture war and the horrors of sin will destroy the lives of people we love. We’re fearful because our marriages are threatened more than ever. We’re worried that our kids might get sucked into pornography on the internet. We’re afraid because of the rise of violence in our streets, the increase in drug usage … and I could go on indefinitely.
Barry was embarrassed by a Christian subculture that failed to answer sincere inquiries by intelligent people.
“Do you ever think about spiritual things?” “At what point are you in your spiritual journey?” “Along the way, what part, if any, has God played in your life?”
“How do you feel about your standing before God?” “Do you ever wonder about life after death?”
“Has anyone ever taken the time to explain to you how a personal relationship with Christ is possible?” “What do you think it means to be a Christian?” “At times like this, what inner resources do you draw on?” “Have I ever told you what a difference my relationship with God has made in my life?” [Or some other introduction to your prepared short testimony. Remember, a testimony that emphasizes the daily differences that result from your faith in Christ is more valuable than the how-I-became-a-Christian variety.]
“If you were to die tonight, how sure are you that you’d go to heaven?” “If you were to die tonight, and God were to ask you, ‘Why should I let you into heaven?’ what would you say?” “I get the idea that you’re ready to make this decision. Is that right?” “Are there any lingering questions that would prevent you from trusting in Christ right now?”
when we hear about a car accident, an illness, the breakup of a relationship, or something similar, we react with a knee-jerk response: “Me too!” We don’t always use that expression but we’re tempted to match their pain with a story of our own. So we tell about our car accident, or our brush with illness, or our similar trial. Rather than sensing empathy, our friend might feel dismissed or uncared for.
Real conversations, the ones that connect hearts and transfer understanding, need breathing spaces.
“Let me see if I’m hearing you correctly. You’re saying …” “So, are you saying that …?” “It sounds to me like you believe …” “If I’m hearing you right, the point you’re making is …”
“It sounds like this is something you feel very strongly about.” “You sound upset as you tell me your thoughts.” “Wow. This is something that touches a nerve, isn’t it?” “As you tell me your thoughts, I’m sensing some anger in there. Am I right?” “I noticed you laughed when you answered my question. Does this topic make you uneasy?” “I sense there’s more going on inside you than just telling me your thoughts. Am I right?” “It sounds like you’ve been through some hard times.”
“I see how you could believe that.” “I used to believe something along those lines.” (Only say this if it’s true!) “That makes sense to me. I’m not sure it takes everything into account, though.” “I think you’re right that life has a lot of puzzles to it. What have you found that makes sense out of it all?” “I don’t blame you for thinking there are no answers. There are more questions than answers, that’s for sure. But I think I know some of the answers.”
