Photo by Edward Cisneros on Unsplash
(A five-minute read)
I’ve had on my bookshelf, probably for nearly 15 years, a book that I bought when I was at the height of my apologetic interests. At one point, I was particularly enamored with the classic arguments in defense of the Christian faith, especially since I was engaged in college ministry, first at an Ivy League school, and then here in Maine at our state university. I would listen to podcasts, watch debates on YouTube (and occasionally attend them), and rehearse all the arguments, daydreaming about going toe-to-toe some day with some of America’s brightest skeptics.
One book that I kept hearing about was the one on my shelf: Why I Am Not a Christian, by Bertrand Russell, a Brit who was one of the nineteenth century’s most accomplished polymaths. Skeptics often cited this influential work, and believers frequently contended with it. So I figured I needed to familiarize myself with it.
But do you know what? It’s been on my bookshelf for almost 15 years and I’ve never read it. I’ve never even cracked it open to look at the Table of Contents. And that is, truthfully, just as well in my estimation. Whereas I used to think that the key to winning atheists and skeptics to the gospel was a flawlessly-argued apologetic, now I’m not so sure. I have become less and less convinced that there is much value in trying to overpower a person with so-called objective arguments, which I’m sure Bertrand Russell tries to dispense of in his book.
Perhaps the irony is that my shifting views have not resulted from spending less time with people who don’t subscribe to my Christian faith but more time with such people. When I only listened to those who theorized about how to engage the non-Christian mind, the impression I got was that every unchurched person was just one good argument away from becoming a believer. But when I actually started spending time with those same people, I quickly realized how misled I’d been. Very few non-Christians are sitting around, just waiting for someone to convince them of the historicity of the resurrection or the virgin birth—which is to say, very few people are argued into truth.
Yet even apart from apologetic concerns, as I’ve spent more and more time with people who don’t share my religious assumptions, it has, not surprisingly, caused me to reexamine my own assumptions and reexamine my own religious commitments. One can’t surround themselves for too long with people whose religious outlook is wholly different than theirs before they, rather appropriately, do a little religious introspection—which is not a one-time exercise.
And thus, as I’ve examined and reexamined my own faith (and then examined and reexamined it all over again, ad infinitum), wondering whether it’s true, whether it’s worthy of my allegiance and devotion, wondering why, exactly, I’m a Christian, I’ve come to a rather interesting, and perhaps even startling, conclusion: I believe Christianity is true because I want it to be true.
This is probably a rather underwhelming—and perhaps even troubling—admission (and a beautiful exercise in circular reasoning). Is that the best I can do? Is that all I’ve got?
What about the trustworthiness of the Bible?
The presence of miracles?
The historical reliability of the resurrection story?
What about fulfilled prophecy?
To be clear, I am impressed by all these evidences and find them to be quite compelling. I do believe in their objective value—which is to say, yes, I believe that the Bible is a trustworthy account of both religious and historical truth.
But here’s the thing: I think I would be a Christian even if the whole story wasn’t true.
Why?
Mostly because I believe in, long for, and have experienced love.
Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that atheism was true—that the eternal fate of the entire planet was infinite nothingness. What’s the downside to subscribing to the Jesus-story? It is, in some ways, a version of Pascal’s Wager (which basically states that a person has more to lose by not believing in God if he really does exist than by believing in God if he really doesn’t exist). If atheism is true, there is absolutely no eternal downside to subscribing to the Jesus-story—or any metaphysical story, of course. And in that sense, how I fill my three score and ten years is just as valid and good as how anyone else—including the atheist—does. If we’re all looking down the barrel of eternal nonexistence anyway, what’s it to you if I choose to spend my time before that nonexistence believing in a story that gives me hope and fills me with peace?
Because, here’s the thing: that’s what it does. The Jesus-story gives me hope and fills me with peace. It also gives me love. And it gives me a good, happy, fulfilled life.
You say that’s subjective. I won’t argue with you. You say that I’d feel the same way if I was raised a Buddhist or a Muslim or an agnostic. Again, I won’t argue with you (in case you hadn’t caught on by now, I’m not much into arguing about faith, trying to prove the objective truth of mine). I can just tell you what it’s done in my life—which, admittedly, may be completely biased because of the sweet comfort that comes from the familiar.
But if I have any bias, it’s a bias toward love—which, I would humbly submit, finds its most startling and beautiful expression in the Jesus-story (at least from my perspective).
Again, I believe in Christianity because I believe in love. And I want love, I’ve experienced love, and the love I’ve experienced seemingly has its source in this story about a man who did this radical thing where he willingly gave up his life for the sake of love—a story that is unprecedented in human history, and spawned the largest religion in the world.
And if that story isn’t true—or even if it is historically true but in no way reflects this bigger metaphysical story about a god who sent this man—it is still a story I want to align my life with. Because it’s beautiful and compelling, and, from where I’m sitting, completely altered the trajectory of history. Again, that doesn’t prove it’s true. But it certainly gets my attention.
Ten months ago, I had this very conversation with a friend of mine who’s agnostic. We were out cross-country skiing with our families and as we glided along, she asked me why it was important to me to believe in God. I basically told her what I’ve shared above—in so many words. I don’t know if it made much of an impression on her. I know she didn’t turn away from her agnosticism—at least not yet. But that’s the best I could do.
Christians reading this may be frustrated by my lack of objective assertiveness. We’re supposed to apply the pressure and dazzle people with our arguments. Skeptics may be similarly unimpressed, but for different reasons: what I’ve explained is completely subjective and has no empirical value.
To each group, that’s OK. I’m not worried about it. I can simply testify to what I’ve seen, experienced, and known. And that’s good enough for me.
I believe in the Jesus-story—even if it isn’t true—because I believe in, long for, and have experienced love.
Just a personal update: as with many people, my family and I recently got COVID. It hit all five of us last week after we spent time with my extended family for Christmas (who all got it as well). But, as with most people (especially those who are vaccinated), it was, and has been, very, very mild (our daughters were the last to get it, which has led to an additional week off school for them—and an additional week at home for me as I have to watch them). It essentially felt like an annoying cold.
Lessons learned? One, COVID is likely coming for everyone. I’m not sure anyone will be able to avoid it. Secondly, it will likely be pretty mild for the vast majority of people—at least if you’ve been vaccinated. So get vaccinated if you haven’t already!
Shawn is a pastor in Maine, whose life, ministry, and writing focus on incarnational expressions of faith. The author of four books and a columnist for Adventist Review, he is also a DPhil student at the University of Oxford (what they call a PhD), focusing on nineteenth-century American Christianity. You can follow him on Instagram and Twitter, and listen to his podcast Mission Lab.