justthinking - Ravi Zacharias International Ministries

Transcription

VOLUME 22.1 I WWW.RZIM.ORG
THE MAGAZINE OF RAVI ZACHARIAS INTERNATIONAL MINISTRIES
JUST THINKING
Seeking Allah,
Finding Jesus
PAGE 2
+
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
2
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.
16
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.
22
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.
30
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.”
[2] JUST THINKING • RAVI ZACHARIAS INTERNATIONAL MINISTRIES
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.
JUST THINKING • VOLUME 22.1
[3]
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.
F
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.
“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?”
“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
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
[5]
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.
“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
[7]
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
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
[9]
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.”
“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.
****
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
[11]
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!”
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.
[13]
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.”
“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.”
[15]
[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.
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.
[17]
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
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.
[19]
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
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.
[21]
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.
[comprehending
the universe]
[23]
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
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.”
[25]
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
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
[27]
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.
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.
[29]
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
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
[31]
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
For more information or to make a
contribution, please contact:
Ravi Zacharias International Ministries
Suite 250
770.449.6766
Just Thinking is a winner of the 2013 Apex Awards
in the categories of print and iPad publications.
RZIM is a member of the Evangelical Council for
Financial Accountability and the Canadian Council
of Christian Charities.
WWW.RZIM.ORG
HELPING THE THINKER BELIEVE. H E L P I N G T H E B E L I E V E R T H I N K .
Suite 250
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BALTIMORE, MD
Love is the most powerful apologetic
www.wellspringinternational.org
JUST THINKING
• The Quarterly Magazine of
RAVI ZACHARIAS INTERNATIONAL MINISTRIES
“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

justthinking - Ravi Zacharias International Ministries

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