The Counter-Case

One of the most valuable classes I took in high school was debate in Shawnee High School in 1991-2. It wasn't a class I chose; to schedule me in Honors Biology, I had to take whatever elective was offered. Debate it was, with Sharon Davis. Now, I was never a great debater (to this day I have difficulty coming up with cogent arguments when I'm flustered), but the intellectual exercises I had to undertake in that class benefit me to this day. Specifically--given any debate topic (or, rather, resolution, such as "Resolved: Human engineering is morally justified") we were required to research, construct, and argue thoughtful, well-supported, and above all compelling cases both for the resolution (the affirmative case) and against it (the negative case).

It's difficult to overstate the worth of learning to occupy a point of view or argumentative stance utterly at odds with your own. It teaches you perspective, seeing that, no matter how dedicated you may be to your point of view, it is possible in most cases to construct a coherent argument for the opposite view. It forces you to to see your own beliefs from an antagonistic point of view, to examine and account for weaknesses in your own rationale, and to anticipate and respond to probable attacks against your case.

Most of all, though, it grants a degree of intellectual empathy, reminding me that my opponent's passion and methods have a rationale behind them just as mine do. Such empathy does not necessarily mean that I will agree with my opponent, nor does it imply that the debate can be shelved. But it does grant a degree of humility and respect as one criticizes the deeply held views or practices of a neighbor.

In this spirit, then, I want to take the other side of a perspective that I critiqued rather harshly yesterday: namely the "Way of the Master" style of evangelism that stresses to the non-believer the need for salvation by confronting them with the imminent, uncompromising, and eternal judgment of God. You--all humans--are guilty in the eyes of the Holy God, having broken one or all of his divine commandments. As such, you will be rightfully sentenced to the punishment God establishes for all such convicts: an eternity in Hell. But God's love offers you a way out: Jesus, God-in-the-flesh, who offers to substitute his own innocent life for you, taking your punishment for you. Your belief in and commitment to Christ will save you from divine judgment.

I characterized this narrative as troublesome in that its presentation of God as a kind of all-powerful abuser or tyrant, threatening out-of-proportion punishment for even the tiniest infraction one minute and then mercifully withholding that punishment--even though you deserve it--the next.

How might an evangelist who uses this technique respond? Here's my stab at one response: Basically (now imagining myself as such an evangelist, speaking to a critic)--you're over-extending the analogy of the judge and the courtroom. Seeing God as a judge in a courtroom gives us a concrete way of picturing abstract concepts, but like any analogy, it has some flaws.

The biggest one? In human courts of law in the US, the judge is herself separate from and subject to the body of rules she interprets to adjudicate guilt or innocence. Moreover, the law itself is understood to be an attempt at the ideal of justice rather than identical to justice itself. Human laws are human creations. As such, they are fallible and mutable. A judge may, in rare cases, decide that a particular law, rather than the defendant, is unjust and order that the law be changed or invalidated.

The situation is different with God. Unlike a human judge, God is identical to the Law; God, by virtue of God's very deity, is Godself the standard of all moral and ethical perfection. God defines what justice is, thus God's law is perfect, immutable and infallible.

It can seem horribly unfair, from a human perspective, to be subject to that divine law. We have the ability to imagine, after all, a world in which we rather than God set standards for morality and fairness. But just because we can imagine an alternative set of rules does not make the actually extant standard any less compelling.

Think of it this way: to complain at the consequences for rebelling against God's holy law is like complaining at the consequences for rebelling against a natural law like gravity or the need for respiration. "That gravity! What a dictator! All I did was walk out of a second-story window--just a step! Just once! And now I've broken my leg and have to wear a cast for the next six weeks. That's totally out of proportion." Sure, you can imagine a world in which you gravity doesn't exist or is weaker or more permissive. But that doesn't make gravity any less real, and railing against it doesn't change a thing. No one forced you to take a step out of a second-story window, after all.

Another point: it's easy to curse gravity when we're smarting from the consequences of ignoring it. But in such moments of pique we can too often forget that our lives depend upon the reliable, all-encompassing operation of gravity. How chaotic would it be if each individual could declare when and how gravity applies for everyone else? "The city of Los Angeles floated away into space, killing all of its citizens, because Joe Schmoe in Toledo, OH, decided to turn off gravity on the West coast."

Similarly, a world without a natural moral standard of justice would be unthinkable, a world of all against all, where--on a personal whim--I could declare it "just" for me to take all of your possessions, beat you up, or even kill you. Those things are wrong, however, not because I personally think they're wrong but because God's law, which is written on our hearts, declares it to be so.

Again, it can seem terribly, existentially unfair to humans that they are subject to natural laws. But them's the breaks. Creating home-made natural laws or standards just doesn't work.

More tomorrow,

JF