VOLUME 22.1 I WWW.RZIM.ORG
THE MAGAZINE OF RAVI ZACHARIAS INTERNATIONAL MINISTRIES
JUST THINKING
Seeking Allah, Finding Jesus PAGE 2
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FOR THE SAKE OF THE ELECT PAGE 16
MAKING SENSE OF IT PAGE 22
THE MOST DIFFICULT QUESTIONS PAGE 30
Just Thinking is a teaching resource of Ravi Zacharias International Ministries and exists to engender thoughtful engagement with apologetics, Scripture, and the whole of life. Danielle DuRant Editor Ravi Zacharias International Ministries 4725 Peachtree Corners Circle Suite 250 Norcross, Georgia 30092 770.449.6766 WWW.RZIM.ORG
TAB LE of CONTENTS VOLUME 22.1
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Seeking Allah, Finding Jesus
Nabeel Qureshi, a medical doctor by training, shares his story of growing up in an American Muslim family and how his passion for Islam opened the door to a budding friendship with an equally devout Christian.
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For the Sake of the Elect
Ruth Malhotra relates her personal reflections after a decade of work in politics at the national level and her growing conviction that ultimately government is not the answer to people’s deepest need.
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Making Sense of It
Cameron McAllister examines some of the key differences between the Christian and secular imagination by comparing the worldviews of C.S. Lewis and science fiction author and avowed atheist H.P. Lovecraft.
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Think Again
The Most Difficult Questions “Out of the scores of letters that I have received over the years,” writes Ravi Zacharias, “one in particular stands out. The writer simply asked, ‘Why has God made it so difficult to believe in him?’ The question ultimately gains momentum and parks itself in our hearts’ genuine search for meaning, belongingness, and relationship to our own creator.”
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lay prostrate in a large Muslim prayer hall, broken before God. The edifice of my worldview, all I had ever known, had slowly been dismantled over the past few years. On this day, my world came crashing down. I lay in ruin, seeking Allah.
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Excerpts taken from Seeking Allah, Finding Jesus by Nabeel Qureshi. Copyright © 2014 by Nabeel Qureshi. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved. ading footsteps echoed through the halls of the mosque as the humid summer evening drew to a close. The other worshipers were heading back to their homes and families for the night, but my thoughts were still racing. Every fiber of my being wrestled with itself. With my forehead pressed into the ground and heart pounding in my chest, my mind scrutinized each word my lips whispered into the musty carpet. These were not new words. I had been taught to recite this Arabic phrase 132 times, every single day, from a time before I even knew my name. It was the sajda, the portion of the ritual prayers in which Muslims lower themselves before Allah, glorifying His loftiness. The words had always flowed with ease, but this day was different. As my lips exercised their rote rituals, my mind questioned everything I thought I knew about God.
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Subhana Rabbi al-ala. Glorified is my Lord, the Highest. “Glorified is my Lord … Who is my Lord? Who are You, Lord? Are You Allah, the God of my father and forefathers? Are You the God I have always worshiped? The God my family has always worshiped? Surely You are the one who sent Muhammad (SAW)1 as the final messenger for mankind and the Quran as our guide? You are Allah, the God of Islam, aren’t You? Or are You …” I hesitated, fighting the blasphemy I was about to propose. But what if the blasphemy was the truth? “Or are You Jesus?” My heart froze, as if indignant at my mind for risking hell. “Allah, I would never say that a man became equal to You. Please forgive me and have mercy on me if that’s what I said, because that’s not what I
mean. No man is equal to You. You are infinitely greater than all of creation. Everything bows down before You, Allah subhanahu wata ‘ala.2 “No, what I mean to say is that You, O Allah, are all powerful. Surely You can enter into creation if You choose. Did You enter into this world? Did You become a man? And was that man Jesus? “O Allah, the Bible couldn’t be right, could it?” As if on parallel timelines, my lips continued to pray in sajda while my mind relentlessly fought with itself. The Arabic phrase was to be recited twice more before the sajda would be complete. Subhana Rabbi al-ala. Glorified is my Lord, the Highest. “But how is it conceivable that Allah, the highest being of all, would enter into this world? This world is filthy and sinful, no place for the One who deserves all glory and all praise. And how could I even begin to suggest that God, the magnificent and splendid Creator, would enter into this world through the birth canal of a girl? Audhu billah3, that’s disgusting! To have to eat, to grow fatigued, and to sweat and spill blood, and to be finally nailed to a cross. I cannot believe this. God deserves infinitely more. His majesty is far greater than this. “But what if His majesty is not as important to Him as His children are?” Subhana Rabbi al-ala. Glorified is my Lord, the Highest. “Of course we are important to Him, but Allah does not need to die in order to forgive us. Allah is all powerful, and He can easily forgive us if He chooses. He is al-Ghaffar and ar-Rahim!4 His forgiveness
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flows from His very being. What does coming into this world to die on a cross have to do with my sins? It doesn’t even make sense for Allah to die on the cross. If He died, who was ruling the universe? Subhanallah,5 He cannot die! That is part of His glory. There is no need for these charades. He can simply forgive from His throne. “But how can Allah be just if He ‘simply forgives’ arbitrarily? God is not arbitrary. He is absolutely just. How would He be just if He forgave arbitrarily? No, He cannot ‘just forgive us if He chooses.’ The penalty for my sins must be paid.” Rising from the ground and sitting on my heels, I recited the takbir. Allah-hu-akbar. God is great. “God, I know that You are great in reality, but some of what the Holy Quran teaches is far from great. I am having a very difficult time understanding it, Allah. Please, have mercy on me. I don’t mean to doubt You, and I ask for Your mercy on my lack of knowledge and understanding. Please, Allah, may all this doubt not anger You. I must have misunderstood something, but there’s no way You, being good and loving, would have given some of the commands found in the Quran. I have found so much violence and contempt in its pages, the pages of a book I have read and loved every day because it is Your word. “But maybe You are showing me that the Quran is not Your word after all? So much of what I’ve been taught about it has turned out to be false. I was taught that it has never been changed, but hadith and history show that it has. I was taught that it has supernatural knowledge of science and the future, but when I asked You to help me see it with my own eyes, I could find none. So much that I thought I knew about the Quran simply is not
true. Is it really Your book? O Allah, have mercy on me. “Who are You?” At-tahiyyatu lillahi, was-salawatu wat-tayyibatu. As salamu ‘alayka ayyuha n-nabiyyu wa rahmatullahi wa barakatuh. As salamu ‘alayna wa-’ala ‘ibadi llahi salihin. All compliments, prayers, and good things are due to Allah. Allah’s peace be upon you, O Prophet, and His mercy and blessings. Peace be on us and on all righteous servants of Allah. “I praise You, Allah. All homage is certainly due to You. But there is so much I do not understand. Why am I speaking to Muhammad (SAW) in my prayer? He cannot hear me. He is dead! I should not be praying to any man, even if it is the Prophet. And why am I wishing peace upon him? I am not his intercessor. I know these words were first recited when he was alive, but why does Your greatest prophet need anyone to pray peace over him? Could You not have given him assurance and peace? If he cannot have peace and assurance as the Prophet, what hope is there for me?” Following the traditions of the Prophet and the guidance of my parents, I pointed my forefinger skyward while reciting the proclamation:
Dr. Nabeel Qureshi
is is a member of the speaking team at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries. He holds an MD from Eastern Virginia Medical School, an MA in Christian Apologetics from Biola University, and an MA from Duke University in Religion.
Ashhadu alla ilaha illa llahu wa ashhadu anna Muhammadan ‘abduhu wa-rasuluh. I bear witness that there is none worthy of worship except Allah, and I bear witness that Muhammad is His servant and messenger. “O Allah, have mercy on me. How can I bear witness that Muhammad (SAW) is Your messenger? It used to be so easy! Ammi taught me to love Muhammad (SAW) because he was the greatest man
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who ever lived, and there was no close second. She taught me that his generosity was abundant, his mercy was incomparable, and his love for mankind was beyond measure. I was taught that he would never wage war unless he was defending the ummah,6 and that he fought to elevate the status of women and the downtrodden. He was the perfect military leader; he was the ultimate statesman; and he was the exemplary follower of Allah. He was al-Insan al-Kamil, the perfect man. He was Rahmatu-lil alameen, God’s mercy personified for all the world. It was easy to bear witness that such a man is Rasul Allah, the messenger of God. “But now I know the truth about him, and there’s too much to sweep under the rug. I know about his first revelation, his raids on caravans, his child bride, his marriage to Zainab, the black magic cast upon him, his poisoning, his assassinations, his tortures, and…” My thoughts slowed as they arrived at the one issue that I simply could not overlook. “And how could Muhammad (SAW), my beloved Prophet, have allowed … that?”
known and asked Muhammad for his guidance. Muhammad’s face flushed and began perspiring. He was receiving revelation from Allah.7 When he announced it to his soldiers, an evil glee spread across their faces. They disappeared into their tents, eager to proceed. Allah had sanctioned their activities. For a moment, all lay calm. Suddenly, an unbearable noise pierced the desert sky and my soul. It was my mother, screaming. My eyes shot open as I snapped back to reality. I was still in the mosque, still praying the salaat. My overwhelming revulsion toward Muhammad suddenly met with immediate contrition. I had been impudent before Allah. Muhammad was still my Prophet. I still swore allegiance to him. I had gone too far. How could I continue like this? Astaghfirullah.8 Quickly, I finished the rest of the ritual prayers, ending by turning my head to the right and the left: Assalaamo alaikum wa rahmutallah. The peace and mercy of Allah be upon you.
So much that I thought I knew about the Quran simply is not true.
After a pause, I let my face fall into my hands. Tears blurred my sight. The ritual prayers had ended, and now it was time for my heart’s prayer.
Awash in empathy, my mind drifted from the prayers. I was still grappling with what I had come across while investigating the Quran. How could he? I envisioned the horror from the vantage point of the victims. What if that had been my family? Where was the Prophet’s famed mercy? I imagined that I was there, under the red sky of the desert, at that very moment. Anger quickly swelled within me as I surveyed the ruins of my people. Blood and death. A few young soldiers hungrily made their way through the corpses and approached Muhammad. They made their barbarous desires
“God, I want Your peace. Please have mercy on me and give me the peace of knowing You. I don’t know who You are anymore, but I know that You are all that matters. You created this world; You give it meaning; and either You define its purpose or it has none. “Please, God Almighty, tell me who You are! I beseech You and only You. Only You can rescue me. At Your feet, I lay down everything I have learned, and I give my entire life to You. Take away what You will, be it my joy, my friends, my family, or even my life. But let me have You, O God.
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“Light the path that I must walk. I don’t care how many hurdles are in the way, how many pits I must jump over or climb out of, or how many thorns I must step through. Guide me on the right path. If it is Islam, show me how it is true! If it is Christianity, give me eyes to see! Just show me which path is Yours, dear God, so I can walk it.” Although I did not know it, that peace and mercy of God which I desperately asked for would soon fall upon me. He was about to give me supernatural guidance through dreams and visions, forever changing my heart and the course of my life. PRAYERS OF MY FATHERS
At dawn across the Islamic world, sonorous voices usher the sun over the horizon. The core beliefs of Muslims are repeatedly proclaimed from rooftops and minarets, beginning with the takbir: Allah-hu-akbar! Ashado an-la illaha il-Allah! Ashado an-na Muhammad-ur-Rasool Allah! Allah is Great! I bear witness that there is no god but Allah! I bear witness that Muhammad is the messenger of Allah! It is the start of the adhan, the call to prayer. The call reminds Muslims to dedicate their lives to Allah the very moment they awaken. From memorized occasional prayers to elaborate daily rituals, devout Muslims are steeped in remembrance of Allah and performance of Islamic traditions. The adhan calls the Muslims, resonates within them, rallies them, and brings them together in unified prostration before Allah. To the alien observer, it might seem that the adhan is the very thing that rends the night sky, separating dark from day, infusing life into the Muslim lands and people.
It is no surprise, then, that Muslims use the adhan not just to awaken one another for the day but also to awaken one another into life. It is a hadith, a tradition of the prophet Muhammad, that every Muslim child should hear the adhan at birth. When I was born, my father softly spoke the adhan into my ear, echoing the words that his father had whispered to him twenty-eight years earlier. They were the first words ever spoken to me, in accordance with tradition. My family has always paid particular attention to following the hadith. We are Qureshi, after all, and the Qureshi are the tribe of Muhammad. When I was old enough to realize the prestige of our name, I asked my father if we inherited it from the Prophet. “Abba, are we the real Qureshi, like Muhammad (SAW)?” He said, “Jee mera beyta,” Urdu for “Yes, my son.” “Muhammad (SAW) had no sons who survived childhood, but we are descendants of Hazrat Umar.” Umar was one of the four khalifas, the men that Sunnis consider the divinely guided successors of Muhammad. Our lineage was noble indeed; it’s no wonder my family was proud of our heritage. When my father left Pakistan in the 1970s, love for his family and heritage was his motivation. He was driven to provide a better life for his parents and siblings. When he came to the United States, he joined the navy at the instruction of his older brother. As a seaman, he sent money from every paycheck back home, even when it was all he had. It would be a few years before he briefly returned to Pakistan, once his marriage to my mother had been arranged. Ammi, my mother, had also lived a life devoted to her family and her religion. She was the daughter of a Muslim missionary. Her father, whom I called Nana Abu, had moved to Indonesia with her mother, Nani Ammi, shortly after
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their marriage to invite people to Islam. It was there that my mother was born, followed by her three sisters. With Nani Ammi working to help support the family and Nana Abu often absent on mission, my mother had a large role in raising her younger siblings and teaching them the way of Islam. At the age of ten, Ammi returned to Pakistan with her siblings and Nani Ammi. The community received her family with great respect for dutifully performing the call of missionaries. Since Nana Abu was still an active missionary in Indonesia and returned to Pakistan only on furlough, Ammi’s caretaking role in the home intensified. Ultimately she had five siblings to manage and care for, so although she graduated at the top of her undergraduate class and was offered a scholarship for medical school, she declined the offer. Nani Ammi needed the help at home, since she invested much of her day volunteering as a secretary at the local jamaat offices. (Jamaat is the Arabic word for assembly, usually used to mean “group” or “denomination.”) Nani Ammi herself had spent virtually all her life sacrificing in the way of Islam. Not only was she the wife of a missionary but, like Ammi, she had also
the time, the man who whispered the adhan into my ears was a self-sacrificial, loving man who bore the noble name of Qureshi. The woman who looked on was a daughter of missionaries, an experienced caretaker with an ardent desire to serve Islam. I was their second child, their firstborn son. They were calling me to prayer. A COMMUNITY OF FOUR
As I grew, I felt like my family and I never really fit in with the people around us. I have always felt disheartened thinking about it. Aside from the Islamic traditionalism, my life was a mix of 1980s cartoons, plastic toys, and temper tantrums. I should have fit in with the other boys just fine. Unfortunately, people are afraid of what they do not know, and my Muslim heritage was a deterrent for many would-be friends and their families. I was very lonely. What made it even worse was that the navy moved my family fairly regularly. We never had time to develop any roots. Most of my early memories are snapshots of either moving out of a house, traveling to a new one, or settling in and learning to call a new place “home.” But these memories are still dear to me, and I vividly remember, for instance, our move when it was time to leave Virginia.
My Muslim heritage was a deterrent for many would-be friends and their families. I was very lonely. been the child of a missionary. She was born in Uganda, where her father served as a physician while calling people to Islam. Raised as a missionary child, transitioning into the role of missionary wife, and living her last able years serving the jamaat, she had garnered great respect and prestige from the community. Through it all, Nani Ammi was perhaps Ammi’s greatest role model, and Ammi wanted nothing more than to carry on the legacy through a family of her own. And so, though I did not know it at
As strangers took our furniture, I stood by the screen door on the front porch crying. I cried inconsolably, not understanding who these men were or what I had done to deserve this fate, but Ammi was there to comfort me. True, she chuckled at times, and I do remember some teasing when my favorite chair was taken away by a stranger. But I also remember her consoling caress and her comforting voice. “Kya baat hai?” she asked, as she took my face into her hands and drew it
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close in embrace. “Kya baat hai, mera beyta?” “What’s the matter, my son?” “They took the chair! The one with strawberries!” “And is the chair more important to you than your Ammi? I’m still here. And so are Abba and Baji. Allah has given you everything! What more do you need, Billoo?” Billoo was the nickname that only my parents used for me, and they used it specifically when they wanted to express their love. They rarely said “I love you” directly; that is too crass for traditional Pakistani ears. Love is implicit and understood, expressed through provision by the parents and obeisance by children. That implicitness is one reason why a child’s obedience is paramount in Muslim culture. In my teen years, Ammi would often reprimand my obstinacy by saying, “What good is it to tell me you love me when you don’t do what I say?” Later still, when I was considering following Jesus, I knew I was contemplating the one choice that would be far and away the greatest disobedience. Not only would my parents feel betrayed, they would be utterly heartbroken. But at the sheltered age of four, heartbreak and family strife were the farthest things from my mind. I just wanted my strawberry chair back. When everything was packed and we were ready for our journey, Abba gathered the family and said, “Let’s pray.” I raised my cupped hands to waist level, copying Ammi and Abba. We all prayed silently, asking Allah for a safe and swift journey. When we finally arrived at Abba’s new duty station, we were in Dunoon, Scotland. Looking back, I still feel like Dunoon was my first real home. It wasn’t that I built any friendships at school or that I knew many boys in the neighborhood—even the strawberry chair went missing in the move—it was that I grew closer with my family and deeper in my faith during those years. I had my Ammi, Abba, and Baji. I did not need anything besides them.
THE PERFECT BOOK
y the time I arrived in Scotland, I had not yet learned English well. We always spoke Urdu at home, and if we were going to learn any script, it would be Arabic. The reason for this was simple: the Quran was written in Arabic, and it was imperative that Baji and I learn to recite it. Muslims believe that every single word of the Quran was dictated verbatim by Allah, through the Archangel Gabriel, to Muhammad. The Quran is therefore not only inspired at the level of meaning but at the deeper level of the words themselves. For this reason, Muslims do not consider the Quran translatable. If it is rendered in any language other than Arabic, it is not Quran but rather an interpretation of the Quran. A book can be a true Quran only if written in Arabic. This is why it is such an important belief for Muslims that the Quran has always been exactly the same—word for word, dot for dot. Imams and teachers regularly declare that the Quran was perfectly preserved, unchanged from the moment Muhammad heard it from Gabriel and dictated it to his scribes. Of course, Muhammad had nothing to do with composing the Quran; he was simply the conduit of its revelation to mankind, and he dutifully preserved its exact form. Had he not, and had the words been even slightly altered, the Quran would be irretrievably lost. But such a tainting of the words was unfathomable; no one doubted the perfect transmission of the Quran. The words must be perfect. In fact, the emphasis on the words themselves leads many Muslims to neglect the meaning of those words. Muslims who recite the Quran regularly
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are regarded as pious, whereas Muslims who only contemplate the meaning of the Quran are regarded as learned. Piety is the greater honor, and most Muslims I knew growing up could recite many chapters of the Quran from memory, but rarely could they explain the meaning or context of those verses. Ammi had it in mind to teach us both the recitation of the Quran and the translations, but recitation was first. Every day as far back as I can remember, Ammi would put a traditional Muslim skullcap on my head, sit me down beside her, and teach me to read Arabic. We began with a book called al-Qaeda, “the Guide.” It taught us Arabic letters in their various forms with their respective sounds. Right after moving to Scotland, I “graduated” from the Qaeda to the Quran. I remember that moment vividly because my momentary elation was curtailed by horror. After finishing the last page of the Qaeda, Ammi reached next to her, picked up a Quran, and presented it to me. It was my Quran, the very first book I was ever given.
Muslims who recite the Quran regularly are regarded as pious, whereas Muslims who only contemplate the meaning of the Quran are regarded as learned. Piety is the greater honor. Thrilled, I ran to Baji to show it to her. Baji was playing on the floor near Ammi and Abba’s room, so I got down next to her, placed the Quran on the ground, and opened the front cover to show her my name. All of a sudden, I heard Ammi emit a heart-stopping scream while running in my direction. “Nabeel!” I was too shocked to respond. I had never heard her scream
like that, nor had I ever seen her run. In a flash she picked up the Quran. “Never put the Quran on the ground!” “Okay.” “Always raise it high. Put it in the most honored place, wash your hands before touching it, and only touch it with your right hand. This is not just any book, it is the word of Allah. Treat it with the respect He deserves!” “Okay.” “Jao, go.” She was deeply disturbed, and I did not hesitate to leave. From then on, whenever I carried the Quran, I raised it high. Baji also learned from my mistake, so the next time Ammi called us to read the Quran together, we came holding our Qurans as high above our heads as we could, arms fully outstretched. Ammi was smiling. This was not exactly what she meant, but she was pleased. Baji was the elder, so she went first. Ammi pointed to each word Baji was to read, slowly moving her finger across the page from right to left. Baji was not so much reading the words as singing them. We were taught to read the Quran melodically, making the sound of the recitation as beautiful as possible. Some men dedicate their lives to this practice, perfecting their pitch, tempo, pronunciation, and melody. But Baji and I were no experts. She had a few years’ head start on me, and she had only just learned to recite the Quran acceptably. When she finished, it was my turn. I had never read the Quran before, and I was terribly excited. “Billoo, what do we recite before we start anything?” “Bismillah-ir-Rahman ar-Raheem.” “And what does that mean?” “In the name of God, the Most Gracious, Most Merciful.” “Why do we recite this prayer?” “So that we remember everything belongs to Allah, and so that we do only good things.”
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“Shabash, good job. Do you know where this prayer comes from?” “No.” “It is found at the beginning of every surah in the Quran.” “Every surah?” “Every surah except one.” “Why did Allah leave it out of one surah, Ammi?” “Allah was very upset with people in that surah, beyta, so He didn’t give us the blessing of the bismillah there. But He loves us very much, so He put an extra one into another surah. And how many surahs are there?” “114.” “Shabash. And you will read them all soon, inshallah. Baji finished the Quran when she turned seven, and I want you to do it by the time you are six. Let’s go.” As the days progressed, I became increasingly familiar with the Quran. I learned that there were two ways the Quran was divided: one was into 114 chapters, and the other was into thirty parts. The latter is a system that Muslims devised long after the Quran was compiled, mainly so that the entire Quran could be easily recited during the thirty days of Ramadhan. But the thirty parts were important to me for another reason: whenever I finished one, Ammi bought me a congratulatory gift. The Mario Bros. trash can was my favorite. By the time I reached an acceptable pace, Ammi and I had developed a rhythm. We would sit down with my Quran, open it to the last page we had read, and Ammi would point to my ending spot for that day. For some reason I preferred to recite exactly eighteen verses. If Ammi picked more for the day, I would complain, and if she picked less, I would consider reading a few extra to make her happy. And so the days went on. I ultimately finished the Quran just before I turned six, much to Ammi’s delight. Concurrently, Ammi had helped me
memorize the last seven surahs to recite during the daily prayers. My favorite was Surat al-Ikhlas, number 112, because it was short, melodic, and memorable. Plus it was the first surah I memorized, and I repeated it many times a day during salaat. It was one of Ammi’s favorite chapters as well but for a different reason: in a hadith, Muhammad told his companions that Surat al-Ikhlas is so weighty and consequential that reciting it is like reciting one third of the whole Quran in one sitting. What was the message that Muhammad considered so important? Essentially this: God is not a father, and He has no son.
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TESTING THE NEW TESTAMENT
My lips continued to pray in sajda while my mind relentlessly fought with itself…. BECOMING BROTHERS
There is a simple reason I never listened to street preachers: they didn’t seem to care about me. It wasn’t that they were annoying. I found their passion admirable, and I appreciated people who stood up for what they believed. Rather, it was that they treated me like an object of their agenda. Did they have any idea how their message would impact my life? Did they even care? Sure, there are street preachers who share their message while still greeting people kindly, getting to know others’ troubles, and praying over personal pains, but I never saw them. What I saw were men who would stand on street corners accosting the public with their beliefs. No doubt they reached a few, but they repelled many more. Unfortunately, I have found that many Christians think of evangelism the same way, foisting Christian beliefs on strangers in chance encounters. The problem with this approach is that the
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gospel requires a radical life change, and not many people are about to listen to strangers telling them to change the way they live. What do they know about others’ lives? On the other hand, if a true friend shares the exact same message with heartfelt sincerity, speaking to specific circumstances and struggles, then the message is heard loud and clear. Effective evangelism requires relationships. There are very few exceptions. In my case, I knew of no Christian who truly cared about me, no one who had been a part of my life through thick and thin. I had plenty of Christian acquaintances, and I’m sure they would have been my friends if I had become a Christian, but that kind of friendship is conditional. There were none that I knew who cared about me unconditionally. Since no Christian cared about me, I did not care about their message. But that was about to change. It took a few weeks after 9/11 for life to regain a semblance of normalcy. Baji and I started attending classes again, Abba was back at work, and Ammi felt safe enough to run errands. Although Islam was in the hot seat on the news and a general mistrust of Muslims still hung in the air, the wave of emotional attacks was not as bad as we had expected. True, our community mosque was vandalized, and we frequently heard of anti-Muslim sentiments, but we knew of no physical attacks against Muslims. We felt safe to return to our lives, and not a moment too soon. The first forensics tournament of the year was upon us. Unlike the tournaments in high school, collegiate forensics tournaments were multiday affairs, often in other states. Our team’s first tournament was slated for West Chester, Pennsylvania. On the day of our departure, Ammi decided to drive me to ODU so she could see me off. When we arrived at the
Batten Arts and Letters Building, one of the other students on the forensics team came out to greet us. I had spoken with him a few times at practice, but we were still getting to know each other. He rushed over to us and starting helping with my bags while introducing himself to Ammi. “Hi, Mrs. Qureshi. I’m David Wood.” Ammi was glad to meet someone from the team before sending me off to who-knows-where. “Hello, David, very nice to meet you. Are you going with Nabeel on this trip?” “Yeah. He told me you might be concerned, but we’ll take good care of him. Don’t worry.” Nothing David could have said would have made Ammi happier. “Nabeel, I can tell this is a good boy. Stay close to him!” “Acha, Ammi, I will.” “Keep your phone on you, okay Nabeel? Call me when you get to the hotel so I know you’re safe and so you can give me your hotel room number.” “Acha, Ammi, I will. I’ll be okay. Don’t worry.” Telling Ammi not to worry was like telling her not to breath, so she just ignored me. “And don’t forget to call Abba, too, so he knows you’re okay.” “Acha, Ammi!” Ammi then looked to David. “Remind Nabeel to call us. He’s very forgetful.” David couldn’t hide his smile. “I’ll make sure of it!” Ammi was finally satisfied. “Thank you, David. I’m so glad I got to meet one of Nabeel’s friends. After the trip, you should come over to our house for a meal. I’ll cook you real Pakistani food.” There was no hesitation in David’s voice. “You don’t have to say that twice. Thanks, Mrs. Qureshi!” “Okay boys, have fun. Be good! Nabeel, call me. And don’t forget to pray the salaat!”
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Ammi took my face in both her hands and kissed me on the cheek, just as she used to do when I was four years old, except now I was the one bending over. David was almost beside himself with repressed glee, expecting me to be embarrassed by Ammi’s show of affection. But this was normal for our family, and I rather enjoyed receiving this much love from her. As she started to get back in the car, she called out a traditional Pakistani valediction. “Khuda hafiz, beyta.” May God protect you. “Khuda hafiz, Ammi. Love you.” As she drove out of the parking lot, David just stared at me, a comical smile painted on his face. “What?” “Oh, nothing, nothing. She does know you’ll only be gone for three days, right?” “Yeah, but I don’t leave home very often.” I picked up some bags and started walking into the building to meet our team. “Uh-huh.” David picked up the rest of the bags and followed, his silly smile unrelenting. “Hey, you know what? It’s been a while since you talked to your mother. You really should call her.” I stopped and glared at David, then turned around and looked out at the main road. Ammi was still there, waiting at a red light to take a left turn. She was watching us walk into the building. Out of playful spite, I turned back to David and said, “You know what? I will. Thanks, David, for your heartfelt concern about my relationship with my mother.” I pulled out my cell phone and called Ammi. David chuckled to himself. And so our friendship was off to a flying start, skipping right past the niceties and straight into brotherly teasing. In the days to come, many would comment that David and I were foils of one another. We were both exactly the
same height—six feet, three inches—but I had dark skin and black hair, while David had light skin and blond hair. I was a slender 175 pounds, while David easily had forty pounds of muscle over me. I was very meticulous with my appearance and image, while David preferred jeans and T-shirts. I had a pampered childhood, while David came out of trailer parks and a gritty past. But what I did not know about David was to be the starkest contrast of all. David was a Christian with strong convictions who had spent the previous five years of his life studying the Bible and learning to follow Jesus. Even though the gospel was his passion, he did not bombard me with his beliefs straightaway. The discussions arose much more naturally, after we became friends, and in the context of a life lived together. In fact, I was the one who brought it up.
Effective evangelism requires relationships. There are very few exceptions. OPENING MY EYES
… So the night continued in lighthearted frivolity. When we finally made it to the hotel, our coach told us there were two rooms to be shared among the four guys on the trip. It was a no-brainer for us, and before long, David and I were getting settled. The rest of the team wanted to go out and celebrate. Most members left to go drinking or dancing at a nearby bar, while some of the others went looking for a suitable place to smoke various things. I had never engaged in any of these activities, and I was not looking to start. David also decided against joining them, which intrigued me. I wondered what made him different from the rest of the team and more like me.
JUST THINKING • VOLUME 22.1
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I did not have to wait long to find out. While I was unpacking, David sat down in an armchair in the corner of the room and kicked up his feet. He pulled out his Bible and started reading. It’s difficult to express just how flabbergasted I was by this. Never in my life had I seen anyone read a Bible in his free time. In fact, I had not even heard of this happening. True, I knew Christians revered the Bible, but I figured they all knew in their hearts that it had been changed over time and that there was no point in reading it. So in the same moment I found out David was a Christian, I also concluded that he must be especially deluded. Since there were no barriers between us, I just asked him.
Where did he get this information? Why hadn’t I heard it before? “So, David,” I began, still unpacking my clothes. “Are you a … hard-core Christian?” David looked amused. “Yeah, I guess I am.” “You do realize that the Bible is corrupt, right?” “Oh yeah?” “Yeah. It’s been changed over time. Everyone knows that.” David looked unconvinced but genuinely interested in what I had to say. “How’s that?” “Well, it’s obvious. For one, just look at how many Bibles there are. You’ve got the King James Version, the New International Version, the Revised Standard Version, the New American Standard Bible, the English Standard Version, and who knows how many others. If I want to know exactly what God said, how am I supposed to know which Bible to go to? They are all different.” “Okay. Is that the only reason you think the Bible isn’t trustworthy?”
David’s calm and controlled response was surprising. People were usually caught more off guard. “No, there are tons of reasons.” “Well, I’m listening.” Breaking away from my suitcase, I collected my thoughts. “There have been times when Christians take out whole sections of the Bible that they don’t want anymore, and they add stuff that they wish were there.” “Like what?” “I don’t know the exact references, but I know that they added the Trinity into the Bible. Later, when they were called out, they removed it.” “Oh, I know what you’re talking about. You’re talking about first John five.” I had no idea what “first John five” meant, but I practically jumped him for admitting the flaw. “So you’ve known all along!” “I know what you’re referring to, but I don’t think you’re seeing it right.” “How am I not seeing it right?” “It’s not that Christians are just adding and removing things, as if there is some grand conspiracy with people controlling the text of the Bible. I mean, let’s just imagine for a second that someone did want to add stuff. Do you think he could just change all the Bibles in the world?” “Well, maybe not all,” I admitted, approaching my bed and sitting across from David, “but enough.” “Enough to what?” “Enough to effectively change the text.” He looked unimpressed. “Nabeel, are you telling me that Christians the world over would just let someone change their holy texts … and that this massive change would not be recorded anywhere in history? Come on.” “Not the world over, but I can imagine someone getting away with that in a specific region.”
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“So you agree, then, that if there were an interpolation in a specific region, we would find copies of the Bible without that interpolation elsewhere in the world?” “I guess so.” “Well, there you have it,” he said with an air of finality. “That explains the multiple versions of the Bible and the issue with first John five.” “Umm, what?” I felt as if I had been playing a game of chess with David, and he had unexpectedly declared “checkmate.” “The fact that there are manuscripts of the Bible all over the world means we can compare them and see where changes have been introduced. It’s a field of biblical study called ‘textual criticism.’ If anything is changed, like the verse about the Trinity in first John five, then we can easily find the alteration by comparing it to other manuscripts. That explains the major differences between various versions of the Bible. But don’t get the wrong idea; there are only a handful of major differences between them.” “What about all the minor differences?” “Well those are just stylistic differences in translation, for the most part. There are different translations of the Quran, aren’t there?” “Yeah, but they’re all using the Arabic text to translate, not foreign language transmissions.” “Well, it’s the same with the Bible. Most of the differences between Bible versions are just matters of translation, not the underlying Hebrew or Greek.” I let all this new information sink in, and I looked at David in a new light. Where did he get all this information? Why hadn’t I heard it before? I found it all hard to believe. My incredulity won out. “David, I don’t believe you. I’ve got to see this for myself.” He laughed. “Good! You’d be letting me down if you didn’t look into this
further. But if you’re gonna do this right, you better bring it!” I got up and started walking back toward my suitcase. “Oh, don’t worry. It’s been brought.” After I finished unpacking, we focused on final preparations for the tournament. All the while, I kept thinking about our conversation. I was still fully convinced that the Bible was corrupt, but I had to deal with more advanced arguments than I had previously heard. I was excited to return home and dive more deeply into these matters. Nabeel Qureshi is a member of the speaking team at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries. 1
This symbol represents the Arabic phrase sall Alaahu ‘alay-hi wa-sallam, which means “peace and blessings of Allah be upon him,” a standard Muslim formula after mentioning the name of Muhammad. 2 This formula, subhanahu wata ‘ala, is often repeated after the name of Allah, meaning “glorified and exalted.” 3 A common Muslim formula meaning “I seek refuge in Allah,” it is verbalized after something dishonorable, blasphemous, or otherwise negative is stated or suggested. 4 In mainstream Islam, it is commonly understood that Allah has ninety-nine names. These are two, translated “the forgiver” and “the merciful” respectively. 5 A very common formula meaning “glory be to Allah,” it is often exclaimed whenever good news is heard or something positive is stated. 6 An Arabic term meaning “community,” referring to all Muslims. 7 Sahih al-Bukhari 6.61.508: “the Divine Inspiration descended upon him… . The Prophet’s face was red and he kept on breathing heavily for a while and then he was relieved.” See also Sahih al-Muslim 5763: “Allah’s Apostle sweated in cold weather when revelation descended upon him.” 8 A common formula of repentance meaning “I seek forgiveness from Allah.”
JUST THINKING • VOLUME 22.1
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[true citizenship]
For the Sake of the Elect by Ruth Malhotra
I am often asked, “What is the biggest lesson you learned from the campaign trail?” To many people’s surprise, it wasn’t about technology or turnout or demographics or economics. It was this: People need Jesus.
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When I first came to RZIM, I had the privilege of meeting with Ravi Zacharias and found myself in a wide-ranging conversation with him about everything from Indian culture to American politics. As we discussed the state of our country, I described my previous involvement in the political arena and offered my perspective on the 2012 elections. Ravi then asked me two questions: “Do you believe you are being called away from politics as a profession at this time?” and “Do you think your background and experiences have prepared you for this position?” My answer to both questions was “yes.” Here’s why.
I
t was just a month after the November 2012 election. I was sitting in a conference room at a gathering of influential political leaders and conservative grassroots activists from around the country. We had come together to commiserate over the recent election defeat, share lessons learned from the campaign trail, and exchange strategies and ideas for the future as we assessed the state of our country. I had been invited to give a presentation on “Outreach to Millennials: Targeting Young Voters While Harnessing New Technology.” Leaders in the conservative movement were rightly concerned about the youth vote, as both exit polling and demographic research indicated that an increasing number of young people were
not voting our way, were departing from traditional moral values, and lacked a basic understanding of fiscal and social responsibility. Organizers had asked me to tackle questions such as, “How can we reach the younger generation with our message?” “How can we better appeal to them to vote based on biblical values?” “What are some examples of effective marketing techniques?” I had planned to show a sophisticated PowerPoint demonstrating the latest trends and technology ideas. I was all prepared to talk about creating smartphone apps and infographics and utilizing social media and other creative communication methods to tell stories and illustrate statistics.
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But in the back of my mind, I knew none of this was the answer. In fact, I wasn’t even sure we were asking the right questions. So just an hour before my presentation, I scrapped the entire plan and instead scrambled together a few quick slides from a completely different angle. Instead of focusing on turnout and technology, I emphasized worldview and belief system. Instead of talking about election exit polling, I talked about how so many young people are exiting the church during their college years. Instead of quoting politicians and pollsters, I quoted pastors and seminary professors. In fact, I started my presentation by quoting Dr. Al Mohler’s column from the day after the 2012 election, where he contended, “We face a worldview challenge that is far greater than any political challenge, as we must learn how to winsomely convince Americans to share our moral convictions.”1 You see, throughout the campaign season there was so much talk about “voting your biblical values,” “making moral decisions,” and “following Judeo-Christian principles.” But how can we expect people to “vote their values” when they can’t even define what those values are, and they struggle to articulate what they believe and why they believe it? And instead of focusing so much on how to creatively market our message, shouldn’t we be focusing more on developing core values and instilling a truth compass? Don’t we need to cultivate moral convictions before trying to tackle surface actions? Unless we focus on that first and get it right, I told the audience, no amount of technology or turnout efforts will help. That wasn’t the presentation I was planning to give to a group of political leaders, but it was the one I felt compelled
to share… and I even got a few “amens” from the crowd. It was in this moment that I knew God was calling me out of partisan politics for the next season of my life and into something that would address the more fundamental questions and challenges of our day—and the needs and longings of every human heart. THE DEEPER ISSUE
I am often asked, “What is the biggest lesson you learned from the campaign trail?” To many people’s surprise, it wasn’t about technology or turnout or demographics or economics. It was this: People need Jesus. It sounds so simple, perhaps even simplistic. But in every state and city and community I visited during election season, that was the one common denominator. My political adventures and campaign travels took me across the country to places and people I never thought I’d encounter… from Boston and Denver to Detroit and Chicago. By far, the most time I spent outside my home state of Georgia was in the swing states of Florida and Ohio, during the final months of the 2012 campaign. While in Florida, I spent significant time in West Palm Beach and Boca Raton, visiting some of the most picturesque and affluent areas I’ve ever seen. I met people who admittedly had more money than they knew what to do with, wealthy retirees who had worked hard all their lives and now seemed to have every imaginable material pleasure. But far too many of them were lacking a sense of life purpose, and oftentimes their restless conversations focused on deep regrets about their past or uncertainties about their future. In the midst of asking them to “max out” and write big checks
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to our candidates, all I could think of was this: these precious people need Jesus. They needed to know that there was a God who could give them meaning at every stage in life, that their identity was so much more than their previous professional titles, that they could invest their resources in things of eternal value. I often thought about G.K. Chesterton’s observation that meaninglessness does not come from being weary of pain; rather, meaninglessness comes from being weary of pleasure. And I saw too much evidence of this along the trail. From pristine Palm Beach Gardens I was sent to Akron, Ohio, for the final weeks leading up to the election. In what was a drastic change of scenery, I spent the next several days in Akron’s industrial areas and Canton’s underdeveloped neighborhoods where I met one person after another who was one step away from bankruptcy. I talked to young single moms who were working three hourly jobs and concerned about keeping the heat on in their homes, older men who were struggling to pay their child support and put gas in their cars at the same time. Yes, some of these people had made bad decisions early in their lives and were now faced with the consequences, but my heart broke for them. Here we were, trying to convince them to vote for our candidates, the guys
who we said would fix the economy and create jobs. And while I truly believed in our team and our message, I felt even more strongly that in that moment, what these struggling people needed most was Jesus. They needed to know that there was a God who forgave and could redeem their past, a God who was bigger than the environment in which they felt trapped, a God who was powerful enough to provide for their physical and spiritual needs. And no political party or elected official could give them that assurance. THE ONLY TRUE HOPE
We are living in a culture without a compass right now. In each segment of society, we see people wandering without direction. At the same time, leaders in every arena—from government and media to education and entertainment, and, sadly, even in some churches—are increasingly advancing a message that downplays personal responsibility and emphasizes moral relativism, ignoring life’s fundamental questions and instead focusing on superficial solutions. We can talk about the sanctity of life and marriage, and we must. But to truly create a culture of life and family, shouldn’t we first approach these issues at a deeper level, convincing people of life’s origin and destiny, of meaning and purpose and design?
That wasn’t the presentation I was planning to give to a group of political leaders, but it was the one I felt compelled to share … and I even got a few “amens” from the crowd. It was in this moment that I knew God was calling me out of partisan politics for the next season of my life and into something that would address the more fundamental questions and challenges of our day–and the needs and longings of every human heart.
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We can fight for religious liberty and free speech, and a personal passion of mine, academic freedom and higher education reform—and we must. But what good are all the First Amendment freedoms in the world if students can’t articulate what they believe and professors aren’t willing to stand up for their convictions in the marketplace of ideas? We can seek to hold individuals in authority accountable—from university administrators to elected officials to members of the media—when they unashamedly mock God and undermine biblical principles, and we must. But unless people have a relationship with the One who created them and understand his plan for their lives, can we really expect them to act any differently?
on the campaign trail. As the church, and as individuals, we must focus on foundational elements first before expecting people to agree with us on policies or candidates. We know that the only true hope is found in Jesus Christ and Him alone. And his name is the one our country—and our world—needs to hear. All the public policy initiatives we promote and activism causes we engage in are important, and indeed can be an effective avenue for promoting biblical principles and sharing Christ with others in direct and indirect ways. However, ultimately we know government is not the answer to people’s deepest need. We must never forget that, and our own passions and priorities must reflect this knowledge.
I am especially heartbroken that so many young people who claim the name of Christ cannot articulate even basic biblical beliefs, let alone explain or defend anything about how their faith informs their values and decisions—and I saw this time and again on the campaign trail. As the church, and as individuals, we must focus on foundational elements first before expecting people to agree with us on policies or candidates. Yes, the political challenges are great. But the worldview divide is even greater. My involvement in the political arena—as exciting and rewarding as it has been—has only deepened my burden for reaching the lost with the gospel message and helping believers view everything through a biblical lens. I am especially heartbroken that so many young people who claim the name of Christ cannot articulate even basic biblical beliefs, let alone explain or defend anything about how their faith informs their values and decisions—and I saw this time and again
THE LENS OF ETERNITY
I still believe in America. I am incredibly grateful for the countless ways God has blessed this great land, and humbled that He has providentially allowed me to call America my home. But more than that, I believe in the One who created the universe and holds eternity in his hands, and I want to commit myself anew to living with an eternal perspective and taking his redemptive message to a world that needs a Savior. Over the past ten years God opened doors for me in government where I
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sought to influence those in authority and help advance biblical values, and I have no regrets. As Eric Metaxas often says, the question for Christians is how— not whether—to be involved in politics. God desires to use his children to impact every arena of society, and with America at a crossroads, the needs in today’s government are monumental. Throughout the ages, from the Old Testament to the present day, we see believers who were placed in strategic roles of influence and approached their public platform through the lens of eternity. As C.S. Lewis stated, “If you read history you will find that the Christians who did most for the present world were just those who thought most of the next.... It is since Christians have largely ceased to think of the other world that they have become so ineffective in this.”2 So even as we seek to stand up for scriptural principles today and contend for life and liberty in the public square, we must do so with a compassion for the hurting and an understanding that our true citizenship is in heaven. In his 2013 Baccalaureate address at Liberty University, Ravi Zacharias challenged graduates to go courageously into a formidable society, taking heart in the eternal power of the gospel. “You are facing a tough world. You are facing a changing world. You are facing a resistant world. You are facing a hostile world. But the gospel story is always used to rising up and outliving its pallbearers. Take the message: it is alive; it is powerful; it is transforming.” That’s timely advice, and not just for the Class of 2013. So as I approach this next season of my life, my priorities have shifted. Instead of talking in terms of opinion polls and electoral majorities and changing demographics, I want to focus on faith and hope, on living boldly in a dark world, on the constant truth of God’s Word and the only One who is mighty to
save. I feel strongly called to invest my time and energy in evangelism and apologetics, and I am delighted that God has provided unique avenues for me to do just that through RZIM. On a personal note, to the many people who have encouraged me along the way, I am so grateful for your support and would value your prayers for this next step in my journey. To my friends and former colleagues in the political arena who are faithfully pursuing God’s calling in a challenging environment, I applaud your courage and will continue to pray for your witness as salt and light among today’s leaders in our government. Finally, for all of us, we must never forget who it is we are ultimately serving in life. Not a political party or movement, not even a church or ministry, but the God who created us in his image and sent us his Son who died on a cross that we may have life. Always rely on the ultimate truth of Jesus Christ instead of men’s fleeting promises. Take confidence in his infinite justice and love over secular notions of fairness and success. Derive your identity from a personal relationship with God rather than the accolades of others, and—no matter what field you are in—live in light of eternity, making your limited time on earth count for what matters most to our Lord. Ruth Malhotra is Marketing Associate, Public Relations, at RZIM. 1 See Albert Mohler, “Aftermath: Lessons from the 2012 Election” (November 7, 2012), accessed online at http://www.albertmohler.com/2012/11/07/ aftermath-lessons-from-the-2012-election/. 2 C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity (New York: Macmillan Publishing Co., 1960), 118.
JUST THINKING • VOLUME 22.1
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Making Sense of It by Cameron McAllister
H.P. Lovecraft and C.S. Lewis crafted their respective visions of ultimate reality around the same time period. Both were keenly aware of a vast cosmos that remains largely inscrutable to human minds. And yet, once these two men drew their conclusions, stark differences emerged.
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[comprehending the universe]
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W
hen I was in third grade our class took a fieldtrip to a large Catholic church. We assembled at school before departing. I well remember gazing out the window of the bus as our class passed by my home. (Our family occupied a large apartment above a supermarket in those days.) It was disorienting to see it during school hours. I thought of my mom up there, serenely going about the business of living without me; at the time, it seemed like the strangest idea in the world. This all took place in a small town just outside of Vienna, Austria, where I grew up. Presumably, this fieldtrip was for the benefit of our class’s cultural enrichment, Austria being a nominally Catholic nation. But most of us just treated it much like we would treat a trip to a museum; we muted our laughter and tried our best not to touch anything. I recall precious little of the architecture of the actual building except that it looked as ancient as it was cold. A few candy-colored sparks of stained glass now suggest themselves to me, but after that my visual recollection of the church just gives out. The priest was a bald and solemn figure whom I found frightening. Not a single thing he said has survived in my memory. What I do remember is the mounting sense of terror I experienced when it became clear that he intended to administer the “Eucharistie”—German for Eucharist— to our class. Back then, I knew it only as the “Lord’s Supper,” and I didn’t know much about it except that it was no laughing matter, something not to be trifled with, and, that something called “enmity” had better not exist between you and anyone else before you partook. I had even overheard stories of men and women whose frivolous treatment of this holy meal had ended in death. Weren’t some of these stories in the Bible?
I stood helplessly with the elements in my hands. My classmates cackled and laughed with their mouths full of bread. “The body of Christ, broken for you.” Sounds of gulping, burping, stifled shrieks of laughter echoing through the sanctuary. “The blood of Christ, shed for you.” Wordlessly, I pocketed the bread; I don’t remember what I did with the cup. Back home, my parents greeted my hesitations with a chuckle, but dad acknowledged that I had done the right thing, if I remember correctly. We said a prayer together. In the privacy of my room, I removed the bread from my pocket, now hardened to the consistency of a stone, and ate in remembrance of Christ’s body, broken for me. All these years later that communion is still a blessing to me. I was a kid. I occupied the center of my own universe. But even then I knew I was dealing with something much bigger than my universe, or any universe for that matter, certainly something much bigger than a meal on a table. Looking back, I think what troubled me more than anything was the immensity of the subject— nothing less than Christ’s death on the cross—and the humble stuff we had to represent it: a piece of bread, a cup of wine. All of my associations with eating were so offensively ordinary: “Kids, supper time!” “Dinner’s ready!” “Come to the table!” “Don’t chew with your mouth open!” How could something so small give us a glimpse into something so big? LEWIS AND “TRANSPOSITION”
C.S. Lewis enlarges my childhood question: “If we have really been visited by a revelation from beyond Nature, is it not very strange that an Apocalypse can furnish heaven with nothing more than selections from terrestrial experience (crowns, thrones, and music), that devotion can find no language but that of human lovers, and that the rite whereby
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Christians enact a mystical union should turn out to be only the old, familiar act of eating and drinking?”1 In other words, can spiritual reality not break the stubborn harness of natural reality? Must we always be limited to the meager selections furnished by this “terrestrial experience”? Perhaps a more incisive question is this: even if we do have access to a supernatural realm, how could we ever hope to express it by anything more than natural means? Lewis’s strategy in dealing with this problem involves distinguishing the emotions from the sensations.2 Our emotional life, says Lewis, is superior to that of our sensations in that it is, “richer, more varied, more subtle.”3 The confusion sets in when this “richer, more varied, more subtle” life is forced through the narrow channel of our physical sensations, which happens to be its only current means of expression. This confusion is compounded when our highly varied and distinct emotions meet with our limited but versatile sensations. “The senses compensate for this by using the same sensation to express more than one emotion,” as Lewis puts it.4 To be sick with love or sick with the flu will depend entirely on the covert emotion behind the overt sensation. Lewis ingeniously quotes from Samuel Pepys’s diary to make this point. Pepys describes the “wind musick” of a play he and his wife attended as ravishing him, and making him “really sick, just as I have formerly been when in love with my wife…”5 Clearly, Pepys is insulting neither his wife nor the horn section of the orchestra; he is describing an emotion that the senses alternately translate as
love or illness depending on the circumstances. Lewis adds the acute observation that “introspection can discover no difference at all between my neural response to very bad news and my neural response to the overture of The Magic Flute.”6 A deeply cherished piece of music or the trembling voice of a loved one on the other end of a phone may both produce a uniform sensation that is nevertheless pure elation on the one hand and sheer dread on the other. But it is the emotional charge behind the sensation that determines what that sensation is. Lewis calls this “transposition.” Transposition involves an “adaptation from a richer to a poorer medium,” say, that from the emotions to the sensations.7 Under the pressure of transposition, the sensation in question becomes the emotion it signifies. When I hear the overture to The Magic Flute, the same “flutter in the diaphragm” that signaled indigestion after an ill-advised late night snack now signals elation. The translations vary while the “flutter in the diaphragm” remains constant. When I am sick, “the flutter in the diaphragm” becomes misery. When I am taking in the music of Mozart, that flutter becomes exaltation. Practical examples of transposition are both numerous and conspicuous. Lewis mentions the art of drawing, where an artist, restricted to the two-dimensions of her canvas, endeavors to render our three-dimensional world with as much precision as she possibly can.8 We might also think of an entire orchestral arrangement being played through a single piano.9 Naturally, many of the
To be sick with love or sick with the flu will depend entirely on the covert emotion behind the overt sensation. It is the emotional charge behind the sensation that determines what that sensation is. Lewis calls this “transposition.”
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notes on the piano will have to act as substitutes for the missing instruments in order to achieve the degree of polyphony natural to a symphony. I think an actor on the stage furnishes us with our most powerful example of transposition. Consider Jean Anouilh’s play, Becket. Based on actual events, the play examines the conflicted relationship between King Henry II and Thomas Becket, which eventually led to the latter’s assassination. Anouilh acknowledges that the play contains a number of historical inaccuracies and a fairly high degree of embellishment. Yet, it remains one of the more poignant depictions of martyrdom in recent years. This is because the largeness of the subject is somehow given adequate expression in the limited material. History, betrayal, intense religious devotion, our world’s wild and restless scenery— the whole riot of human existence is somehow compressed into this little production in this little timespan in this little theater on this little stage in these little costumes through these little lines. One of the most moving portrayals of the adaptation from a richer to a poorer medium is Thornton Wilder’s Our Town. Here, transposition is nakedly visible. Stepladders represent the homes of characters, and the actors stand on the top rungs with their elbows resting on the base, peering out of their “windows.” A character identified simply as “Stage Manager” presides over the whole thing, naming the playwright, the producers, the (mostly) invisible scenery, even the fictional town’s geographic coordinates. Far from being an empty modernist conceit, Wilder’s minimalist sets and self-conscious narration draw attention to the impermanence of our world.10 The lovely effect of all these starved sets is that you are left with almost nothing to divert your attention from the human beings on stage. Life occupies center stage.
The end of Act I contains perhaps one of the most elegant elaborations of what Lewis meant by transposition. Two of the play’s siblings, Rebecca and George, gaze out the window and into the night from the vantage point of their stepladder, and give voice to this stunning conversation: Rebecca: I never told you about that letter Jane Crofut got from her minister when she was sick. He wrote Jane a letter and on the envelope the address was like this: It said: Jane Crofut; The Crofut Farm; Grover’s Corners; Sutton County; New Hampshire; United States of America. George: What’s so funny about that? Rebecca: But listen, it’s not finished: the United States of America; Continent of North America; Western Hemisphere; the Earth; the Solar System; the Universe; the Mind of God—that’s what it said on the envelope.11 This gentle dance from the microcosmic all the way to the cosmic is what transposition means. Fascinatingly, it also means that we have glimpses of the divine in the very smallest of places, even Grover’s Corners. LOVECRAFT: APOSTLE OF THE UNSPEAKABLE
“With five feeble senses we pretend to comprehend the boundlessly complex cosmos, yet other beings with a wider, stronger, or different range of senses might not only see very differently the things we see, but might see and study whole worlds of matter, energy, and life which lie close at hand yet can never be detected with the senses we have.”12 This little bit of cryptic speculation belongs to Crawford Tillinghast, a character from one of H.P. Lovecraft’s more obscure tales titled “From Beyond.” But it turns out to be more than idle speculation. In the story, Tillinghast
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invents a machine that generates waves that reach well beyond the narrow parameters of our five senses to awaken hidden senses that lie dormant until they are provoked. As the machine whirs into action a gradual vision of unspeakable horrors comes into focus. It seems that our “five feeble senses” act as a merciful filter against the ocean of obscene creatures that fills what we normally perceive to be empty space. Lovecraft briefly pulls back the curtain to reveal “great inky, jellyfish monstrosities, which flabbily quivered in harmony with the vibrations of the machine.”13 But these are mere appetizers when compared with the more malign forces that wait just outside the orbit of the machine’s waves. Here, as elsewhere, Lovecraft inverts the Pauline apothegm of “seeing through a glass darkly” and replaces it with the assumption that to see things as they truly are is to see a world ghastly beyond words. The dark glass is truly preferable to the actual view. Though largely confined to pulp magazines in his own time, Howard Phillips Lovecraft has since done his part to carve out a respectable place for horror fiction on literary bookshelves. A thoroughgoing atheist, nearly all of his stories corroborate his exceedingly barren outlook on the place of humanity in the world. One striking example of this comes from “The Silver Key,” where we are told of man’s naïve quest for significance “as the blind cosmos grinds aimlessly on from nothing to something and from something back to nothing again, neither heeding nor knowing the wishes or existence of the minds that flicker for a second now and then in the darkness.”14 What makes Lovecraft’s most effective stories so frightening is not the threat of some monstrous invasion but the deeply entrenched assumption that man’s isolation is total, his loneliness his only reliable law. The most conspicuous
quality exhibited by his work can only be captured with the word “alien.” In “The Colour Out of Space,” an examination of a small meteorite leads to the discovery of a foreign spectrum of colors. Indeed, “it was only by analogy that they called it colour at all.”15 As the narrative builds, we are given to understand that this strange object was “a piece of the great outside; and as such dowered with outside properties and obedient to outside laws.”16 The most infamous creature from Lovecraft’s demonic pantheon goes by the unpronounceable name of Cthulhu. Even the name is intended to evade our grasp. Whether the encounter involves strange beings or strange worlds, the characters of Lovecraft meet with closed door after closed door in a universe scrupulously polished of any transcendent traces. For Lovecraft, man makes his home in the “outer dark.” “The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown.”17 This comes from Lovecraft’s seminal essay, “Supernatural Horror in Literature,” one of the finest pieces of writing on the subject. Throughout his short career, Lovecraft remained meticulously faithful to this assumption about the unknown through a series of deft maneuvers. Central to his technique was his commitment to deny his characters total access to the strange worlds they approach. In fact, he rarely allows them past the threshold, and if he does, it usually comes at the cost of either their life or their sanity. Relics, ruins, antiques, old newspaper clippings, and ancient idols all function as windows into the stupendously remote places inhabited by Lovecraft’s monsters. One of the clearest descriptions of the dreaded Cthulhu comes from a small bas-relief “less than an inch thick and about five by six inches in area,” which depicts a beast that seems to be a
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hybrid of an “octopus, a dragon, and a human caricature.”18 “A pulpy, tentacle head surmounted a grotesque and scaly body with rudimentary wings; but it was the general outline of the whole which made it most shockingly frightful.” And this “general outline,” we may be sure, is only a rumor of a much darker reality.19 Remarkably, both H.P. Lovecraft and C.S. Lewis crafted their respective visions of ultimate reality around the same time period. Lovecraft was born in 1890, Lewis in 1898. And though these two men were separated by a number of salient factors, including geography, education, and worldview, the overlap between them is considerable. Both were keenly aware of a vast cosmos that remains largely inscrutable to human minds. Both were deeply interested in experiences, or, better yet, intimations of other worlds at the frontiers of human understanding. And both believed that man does not stand at the center of the universe. Stark differences emerge, however, once these two men have drawn their conclusions. Perhaps the best way to convey these differences is to set Lovecraft and Lewis side by side and study the fascinating series of contrasts that appear: For Lewis, we are God’s children. For Lovecraft, we are cosmic orphans. For Lewis, ignorance confines us. For Lovecraft, ignorance protects us. For Lewis, truth is ultimately personal. For Lovecraft, truth is ultimately alien. For Lewis, we are made to be “a real ingredient in the divine happiness.” For Lovecraft, we are nothing more than the sum of our biological ingredients.
A FORETASTE OF SOMETHING MAGNIFICENT
“Beloved, now we are children of God,” wrote the apostle John, “and it has not appeared as yet what we shall be. We know that, when He appears, we shall be like Him, because we shall see Him just as He is” (1 John 3:2). There is a kind of hesitation in John’s remarks here that I find very moving. It’s almost as if he’s gently holding back. I can imagine a semi-conspiratorial smile on the apostle’s face as he records these life-changing words. There is also a note of concession. We all know, though we rarely mention, what a diminished capacity for wonder we have. Whatever claims our undivided attention does so at the expense of the rest of the world. And so we look to our ruins, our relics, our antiques, our artifacts, our idols, our books, and our music for minute glimpses of all those things that would otherwise evade our grasp. There is a very real sense in which the ambition of art simply consists in the valiant effort to seize some small piece of the world and to hold it still long enough for us to take it in. Dallas Willard gives voice to this odd sense of helplessness in the face of God’s glory when he tells of the first time he experienced the beaches of Port Elizabeth, South Africa: I had seen beaches, or so I thought. But when we came over the rise where the sea and land opened up to us, I stood in stunned silence and then slowly walked toward the waves. Words cannot capture the view that confronted me. I saw space and light
For Lewis, we are God’s children. For Lovecraft, we are cosmic orphans. For Lewis, ignorance confines us. For Lovecraft, ignorance protects us. For Lewis, truth is ultimately personal. For Lovecraft, truth is ultimately alien.
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and texture and color and power…that seemed hardly of this earth. Gradually there crept into my mind the realization that God sees this all the time. He sees it, experiences it, knows it from every possible point of view, this and billions of other scenes like and unlike it, in this and billions of other worlds. Great tidal waves of joy must constantly wash through his being.20 Christ took on flesh, walked beneath the same set of constellations we see on clear nights, felt the wind in his hair, the sting of blisters on his sandaled feet. Because of this colossal truth, a note of divinity resonates through our world, conferring upon creation a dignity and grace without precedent. Because of this colossal truth, we discover that we have been operating with a tragically narrow understanding of what it means to be human. Because of this colossal truth, a scared and ignorant little boy could see the holiness in a piece of bread and a cup. And we can see our world in microcosm on Thornton Wilder’s immaculate stage. And we can know that these small notes of beauty bring on a pain that can only be described as a kind of sacred homesickness. And we also know that these small openings are only a foretaste of something so magnificent that even the apostle keeps his silence because he knows that what we shall be cannot be voiced until we are given new eyes, new ears, new voices, new senses. Even Lovecraft would find this offer tantalizing. Here is a bit of hesitation from Mr. Lewis himself: “And it seems to me there is a real analogy between [Christ’s Incarnation] and what I have called Transposition: that humanity, still remaining itself, is not merely counted as, but veritably drawn into, Deity, seems to me like what happens when a sensation (not in itself a pleasure) is drawn into the joy it accompanies.”
The invitation from Christ is to be drawn into Him, to see Him just as He is. Though, as Scripture tells us, we surely have no way of knowing precisely what this looks like on this side of eternity, we do know that if we see Him who is Himself the source and wellspring of all being, we will be confronted with a sight that only a sanctified set of eyes can withstand.21 Cameron McAllister is a member of the speaking and writing team at RZIM. 1
C.S. Lewis, The Weight of Glory and Other Addresses (New York, NY: HarperOne, 2011), 94. 2 Ibid., 98. 3 Ibid. 4 Ibid. 5 Ibid., 96. 6 Ibid., 97. 7 Ibid., 99. 8 Ibid. 9 Ibid. 10 Productions with more elaborate set designs do a disservice to Wilder’s vision. 11 Thorton Wilder, Our Town (New York: HarperCollins, 2003), 46. 12 H.P. Lovecraft, The Dreams in the Witch House And Other Weird Stories (London: Penguin Books, 2004), 24. 13 Ibid., 28. 14 Ibid., 253. 15 H.P. Lovecraft, The Best of H.P. Lovecraft: Bloodcurdling Tales of Horror and the Macabre (New York: The Balentine Publishing Group, 2002), 198. 16 Ibid. 17 Howard Phillips Lovecraft, Supernatural Horror in Literature (New York: Dover Publications, 1973), 12. 18 Lovecraft, The Best of H.P. Lovecraft, 73-74. 19 Ibid. 20 Dallas Willard, The Divine Conspiracy: Rediscovering Our Hidden Life in God (New York: HarperOne, 1997), 63. 21 Lewis, Weight of Glory, 113.
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Think Again The Most Difficult Questions
I HAVE HAD the privilege of crisscrossing
this globe over four decades and seeing much of the world. I have frequently been asked about my favorite city or what food I enjoy the most. The latter is easier to answer than the former because, while cities have attractions for different reasons, the palette is often influenced by one’s land of birth. Strangely, I have never been asked about my favorite site. I am not sure I could pick a single spectacle but I know one experience that would be in the running as the most emotionally moving moment for me. On a brilliantly sunny day, my colleague and I were driven from Cape Town to very near land’s end in South Africa: Cape Point. There we stood at the edge of terra firma and watched as the waters of the calmer Atlantic and the restless Indian Oceans collided into one massive torrent of fluid strength, the power of the current almost visible to the naked eye. That body of water has been the graveyard of many mariners trying to navigate their way around the globe. The endless horizon, the borderless blue and turquoise of the mighty waters, and
the frothy white tips of the crashing waves as they collided against each other—this scene from the world’s end seemed to just overwhelm us with a stupendous sense of awe. Yes, I have seen the Taj Mahal and many of the other so-called wonders of the world. But this was sheer enchantment, not made by human hand! Whether it was because we were not expecting such a banquet for the eyes, or whether it was that we needed refreshment after a busy day, I would not even venture to analyze. All I know is that it affected both of us in the same way. For seemingly unexplainable reasons, my eyes filled with tears. I was in the throes of enjoying the wonder and the vastness of creation. I felt at once both dwarfed and elevated, dwarfed because my entire stature as a human being seemed so diminished compared to this display of beauty and power before me but elevated because I could revel in this glorious sight—while the land and water combined could not exult in its own beauty or share in any delight. But then a strange, unexpected sensation took hold of us, and we both did something that neither of us had ever done before. We walked back a few steps, found a sharp stone, and scratched the names of our wives onto the surface
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of a massive piece of rock. We realized that in a matter of days the writing would be erased, but the thought and act spoke volumes. We had been in the throes of wonder and it just seemed incomplete that we could not enjoy it with the ones dearest to us and express something from the overflow. Questions of personal choice are relatively easier to answer. After all, one is answering from his or her own context and delights. But then there emerge questions that are really not just personal. The answer calls for some universal implication. Such questions are indicative of the struggles of many skeptics as well as believers and reveal that the deepest questions can span both the mind and the heart.
belongingness, and relationship to our own creator. I recall the restlessness and turning point of my own life. I had come to believe that life had no meaning. Nothing seemed to connect. When still in my teens, I found myself lying in a hospital bed after an attempted suicide. The struggle for answers when met by despair led me along that tragic path. But there in my hospital room the Scriptures were brought and read to me. For the first time I engaged the direct answers of God to my seeking heart. The profound realization of the news that God could be known personally drew me, with sincerity and determination, to plumb the depths of that claim. With a simple prayer of trust, in that
Out of the scores of letters that I have received over the years, one in particular stands out. The writer simply asked, “Why has God made it so difficult to believe in him? If I loved somebody and had infinite power, I would use that power to show myself more obviously. Why has God made it so difficult to see his presence and his plan?” It is a powerful question that is both felt and intellectual at the same time. Out of the scores of letters that I have received over the years, one in particular stands out. The writer simply asked, “Why has God made it so difficult to believe in him? If I loved somebody and had infinite power, I would use that power to show myself more obviously. Why has God made it so difficult to see his presence and his plan?” It is a powerful question that is both felt and intellectual at the same time. One might say, “Why is God so hidden?” The question ultimately gains momentum and parks itself in our hearts’ genuine search for meaning,
moment, the change from a desperate heart to one that found the fullness of meaning became a reality for me. The immediate change was in the way I saw God’s handiwork in ways I had never seen before. The marvel of discovering even splendor in the ordinary was the work of God in my heart. Over a period of time, I was able to study, pursue, and understand how to respond to more intricate questions of the mind. That divine encounter of coming to know Him brought meaning and made answers reachable. I believe God
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intervenes in each of our lives. He speaks to us in different ways and at different times so that we may know that it is He who is the author of our very personality; that his answers are both propositional and relational (and sometimes in reverse order); that his presence stills the storms of the heart. Oddly enough, in history, the most questioning and the resistant became God’s mouthpieces to skeptics. Consider Peter, Paul, and Thomas— just to name a few. They questioned, they wrestled, they challenged. But once convinced, they spoke and wrote and persuaded people in the most stubborn of circumstances. That is why they willingly paid the ultimate price, even as they sought God’s power and presence in those “dark nights of the soul.” In the end, in the face of difficult questions, the answers that are given and received must be both felt and real, with the firm knowledge that God is nearer than one might think. Yes, the Scriptures reveal, as many can attest, that this assurance of his nearness sometimes comes at a cost, like any relationship of love and commitment. But God desires that we know Him and that He is not distant to us. He is grander than any wondrous sight we may behold and the answer to every heart’s deepest question. That is why, maybe, in seeing two majestic oceans coming together within the panoramic view of a splendid creation, the heart saw Him not hidden but gloriously revealed.
Questioning is the way of humanity. We will always ask, debate, challenge, and search. But when we come to know our creator, the questioning is not for doubting but for putting it all together. The real hidden factor may be not the absence of evidence but the suppression of it. That connecting of it all is the wonderful journey of the soul. The real struggle of sin is not in pain or suffering, but in the discrowned faculties, the unworthy loves, and the enslaved imagination. When the thinking is set aright again and when the flesh has its shackles broken, the mind and body come under God’s liberating and fulfilling plan. Then we see as He designed us to see. The final consummation of that glimpse is yet future. I firmly believe as the apostle Paul declared, “Eye has not seen, nor ear heard, nor have entered into the heart of man, the things which God has prepared for those who love Him” (1 Corinthians 2:9). Then we shall see, not darkly, but face to face. That is when the soul will feel the ultimate touch, and the silence will be one of knowing with awesome wonder. The only thing we would want hidden is how blind we were. Warm Regards,
Ravi
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JUST THINKING
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“Eye has not seen, nor ear heard, nor have entered into the heart of man, the things which God has prepared for those who love Him.” —1 Corinthians 2:9 © 2013 Ravi Zacharias International Ministries