F.A.Q.: A Smattering of Intelligence

My birthday is the feast day of Saint Anselm of Canterbury, and I find it fitting. Anselm is one of my personal heroes in the faith, and I have two of his maxims written in Latin on the markerboard in my kitchen: Credo ut intelligam (“I believe so that I may understand”) and fides quaerens intellectum (“faith seeking understanding”). I feel like Anselm and I would have been friends, for his mottoes sum up my own faith journey fairly well. I tend to blunder my way into theological problems and have to research my way out (hence my current work on the biblical theology of death and its relationship to the natural sciences). Anselm’s words keep me going, and I was therefore highly upset when he lost to Florence Nightingale in this year’s Lent Madness. (Oh sure, she saved countless lives and all that, but Anselm gave us the ontological argument! Priorities, people!)

I think many of us live in the tension of faith and reason. To be sure, a run-in with a harsh fact or a hard-to-swallow premise has given rise to many a crisis of faith. Many people are devout atheists because they cannot view theism in general and Christianity in particular as intellectually credible. For that reason alone, sundry proofs for the existence of God have arisen over the years, all seeking to demonstrate theism is logically coherent. Now we fire off proofs left and right, and the field of apologetics has experienced a renaissance of sorts as more and more flock to it seeking ways to demonstrate the reasonability of Christianity to hordes of rampaging rationalists.

Some stalwart Christians oppose the renewed interest in intellectual defenses of Christianity, espousing a sort of warped, internal variant of the principle of non-overlapping magisteria. “Faith is faith,” they say, “and faith isn’t subject to reason.” A friend recently lamented one of her pastors early in life once delivered a sermon commanding one to sacrifice intelligence on the altar of faith, and, as an intelligent human being, she always found that hard to swallow. And personally, I agree such a thing is a bridge too far. If we believe intelligence is a gift from God, and if we believe being a rational, thinking creature is part of the imago Dei, it seems rather ungrateful and hypocritical to say, “God gave this to me, and it’s part of how I’m like Him, but I absolutely can’t use this in conversations about my relationship with Him.” It honestly strikes me as a bit rude. And also frankly unbiblical.

For starters, Jesus says the greatest commandment is “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength” (Mark 12:30, emphasis added). The word used here for mind is dianoia, and it refers to our ability to comprehend and think rationally — our intelligence. Correct me if I’m wrong, but it seems impossible to love God with your intelligence if you switch off your brain at the church door (or wherever you happen to go). Lest we ignore the words of Jesus Christ and break the most important commandment according to God Himself, let’s use our minds in our pursuit of God.

Secondly, Paul gives us the perfect biblical example of using intelligence in the defense of God and in evangelism. Aside from the masterful rhetoric and theology throughout his writings, an incident in Acts 17 demonstrates this for us. As Paul preaches in Athens, he engages polytheists by quoting from their own philosophers (Epimenides and Aratus in v. 28). His sermon in the agora rationally linked Christianity to truths from another discipline to show the veracity of his faith. When we fail to engage biology, geology, psychology, or other subjects and connect their truths to the God of truth, when we instead ignore their challenges and stick our heads in the sand of “it’s all about faith, not reason,” we fail to follow Paul’s example, the example of Scripture. (This is one reason I’m an advocate for public theology: Scripture teaches us to engage culture on Christian terms.)

That’s why I don’t believe God wants us to suddenly become sycophantic morons where faith is concerned, never thinking about anything but believing everything told to us. Are there things beyond the realm of human comprehension? Absolutely; the Trinity immediately comes to mind. We will never be able to fully grasp an infinite God with a finite mind. But we can and we should use our God-given intellects to pursue their divine source. We need to love God with our minds, chase the deep things of the Bible with reason and rationality.

Why? Because faith seeks understanding. Because, as Anselm said, I believe so that I may understand.


It’s inevitable, really. Whenever I join a new group of friends, or even whenever an older group gets to know me well, I get singled out as the group monk. Maybe it’s my lack of love life, maybe it’s my pursuit of knowledge, maybe it’s my dedication to God — or maybe it’s all the above (or none of the above). Whatever the reason(s), someone will eventually decide I would be a great monk. As one friend remarked a few months ago:
“It could be you. ‘We’ve not heard from Chris in a while.’
“‘Oh, yeah, he’s been reclusive learning the words of creation from a book of exalted deeds.'”

It’s funny, you see, because it’s true.

But when we talk about monks, we need to remember there are two categories of major monastic traditions. Anchorite monks, such as Saint Anthony of the Desert, are solitary hermits. On the other hand, cenobitic monks live their lives in monastic communities. Even though the word “monk” is derived from the ancient Greek word for “solitary” (monachos), it would seem some of those solitary figures realized a Christian life must still be lived in community. The life of faith cannot rightly be lived out alone in the desert.

I think we all have an innate grasp of that reality. We realize first that humans are gregarious creatures; we are social animals. One dimension of the imago Dei is the relational image. Like God, then, we are relational beings, and our lives are meant to be spent in relationships with others of our own kind. I specifically say “with others of our own kind” because some attempt to replace relationships with other people with pets or machines or some other surrogate (Crazy Cat Lady, anyone?). But none of them are equivalent replacements for another human soul, another being made in the image of God. As much as we’d like to believe Fido can understand every word we say, he’s incapable of expressing his doggy views on campaign finance reform, soteriology, and Mrs. Nesbitt’s low opinion of your casserole at the last potluck. Can we love such creatures and have a relationship of sorts with them? Yes, but it is the love and relationship of a greater to a lesser, a master to a vassal. It cannot serve as a substitute for the love among equals, for genuine human relationships and real human community.

If it’s impossible to be fully human without being part of a community involving other people, why would we think we can live a life of faith estranged from other Christians?

Recently I attended a dinner for one of our Sunday School classes. I have a standing invitation to their get-togethers, so I hastily made some macaroni and cheese (not the kind that comes in a blue box, either, but the real deal) and went to supper. Sitting at the table and listening to everyone swap stories, I was struck by two thoughts. First, I realized how much I myself missed being around the same group of people on a daily basis (a staple of academic life). Second, I wished each of our classes would do something similar. It doesn’t have to be a supper, although a common table has been the hallmark of Christianity since the time of Jesus. It could be a trip, a party on game day, anything. Anything which would bring people together and give them a chance to share their lives with one another. In the church of all places, we need those moments, those chances to rejoice, to weep, to laugh, to simply be present with each other without worrying about what comes next.

In an age defined by digital distractions, being mentally and emotionally present is increasingly difficult — and increasingly rare. We can all tell stories of going out to eat and seeing every person at another table on their phones. None of them were willing to be as present soulfully as they were physically. Things like that have repercussions. For one example, we use things instead of people as babysitters, and it turns my stomach. I admit I have no children (monk, you know), but it seems to me if you truly valued your children, you would spend time playing with them, teaching them, discipling them, disciplining them. You wouldn’t say, “Here’s my phone; now shut up and leave me alone.” You wouldn’t let an iPad raise your child for you. (Yes, you need time for self-care, but is that truly the best way to achieve that?) It’s a new form of absentee parenting: Dad didn’t leave, he’s just on the couch playing video games while the toddler sits glued to the tablet. There’s no interaction there, no community, only two strangers sharing space and a bloodline.

If parents can’t even live in community with their own children, it will take an act of countercultural revolution to get Christians to engage with one another on a personal level. Fortunately for us, Christianity has always been countercultural.

To live out this new counterculture, to reclaim the community which has been lost, we need to revisit a favorite verse we always quote for something else and add its context. Hebrews 10:24-25 says, “And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds, not giving up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but encouraging one another — and all the more as you see the Day approaching.” We’ve all seen v. 25 used to tell us we should be going to church — and rightly so. But v. 24 adds another dimension to it. We come together to “spur one another on toward love and good deeds.” That can happen at a class supper, a lunch meeting, a trip with friends, a weekly time to check in with one another. It may find its fullness of expression on a Lord’s Day, but it needn’t be limited to corporate acts of worship. It is about living out our faith in a community of faith — the church. It is about being a part of a body (1 Cor. 12:12ff.). After all, a single body part can’t live on its own; it needs everyone else.

As the physical body, so the spiritual body. We cannot live out a vibrant Christian faith without being connected to a larger community. We can’t go off into the desert; we have to live and laugh with other people. Without others around us, our love grows cold, and without a love for others, we cannot love God (1 John 4:20). So go be social. Live life in community. Be fully human, fully alive, and fully connected to God.

F.A.Q.: What about Miracles? (A Reasonable, Rational Faith Part II)

In my last post, I very briefly sketched the logical arguments in favor of the existence of God, hopefully showing Christianity (or at least a belief in God) to be logically coherent. One objection some people have at this point runs something like this: “Alright. I believe your God may exist, and it’s even possible Jesus might have lived. But what about all those miracles? Surely you can’t rationally believe such supernatural . . . whatevers . . . actually happened.”

Well, yes. Yes I can. And do. And believe they still happen today (which is in itself a highly contentious belief even within Christian circles today).

First, I want to define the word “miracle” itself. Most people understand miracles as supernatural occurrences with break or suspend the functioning of natural law. We all know dead people stay dead, for example, so for a deceased person to come back to life is a violation of natural law. You can only slice a pizza so many times before you’re giving out zero pizza, and so using a single slice of pepperoni to feed a few thousand teenagers is a violation of natural law. (I haven’t seen that one happen yet, but youth pastors around the world remain hopeful.)

But what if that’s not really all there is to it? What if, instead of breaking the law of the universe, a miracle is actually the enforcement of the law in the universe to come? Theologians talk about the in-breaking kingdom of God. Aspects of redemption are everywhere, and the Church Universal is God’s chosen vessel for bringing about the kingdom of heaven on earth. We see it in unconditional love, in selfless sacrifice, in the salvation of souls. By this train of thought, then, a miracle is simply God’s kingdom breaking into the world and making all things new. Miracles never affect the perfect, after all; they only make adjustments to the evils of this world. Cancer is an evil; being spontaneously made tumor-free is a great good, a sign of the redeemed world to come.

Whatever your definition of miracle, however, you’re still forced to pick a side. Will you believe in miracle claims, or will you believe such things impossible?

To understand a DISbelief in miracles, we turn back the pages of history to the Enlightenment. The Enlightenment brought about great advances in science and philosophical thought, but with it came the underpinnings for today’s insistence upon empirical data, science as a sort of religion (scientism), and a deep skepticism concerning things which didn’t prima facie match up with what science said was true. (I’m not anti-science by any means, folks. I just don’t think it’s capable of answering every question in the history of the universe.) A philosopher named David Hume could easily be titled the Father of All Skeptics. For Hume, only our senses could be trusted; anything which lay outside of empirical data could not rightly be thought to exist. So why should we trust in something our senses haven’t registered?

Hume’s argument against miracles ran along similar lines. The overwhelming majority of people throughout history had never witnessed a miracle, he said, and so it could be rightly concluded miracles never happen. If they did, we would have seen them. But wait, his detractors said, people have seen them. Just look at all these written accounts. Impossible, replies Hume. Those accounts can’t be trusted. After all, miracles never happen because people never see them. How can you trust people who say they do?

Not exactly the soundest of arguments, is it? “Miracles don’t exist because I’ve never seen one because they don’t exist because I’ve never seen one because . . .”

Hume’s thought influenced the way we think about knowing things for centuries (including this one). Not many people still buy into his total skepticism about reality itself, but his empiricism/positivism is certainly the dominant epistemology of our popular culture here in the West. Most skeptics will say they need verifiable proof of a miracle in order to believe — and some of them go a step further, dogmatically following the “religion” of scientism, stating that even if something is verifiably scientifically inexplicable now, just wait until we know more things, and then science will definitely be able to give us an explanation. (Sounds a bit like . . . faith.)

We’ll probably never be able to convince the latter about the existence of miracles; such a paradigm/epistemology is hard to change. But for those who will believe current scientific reports concerning miracles, I invite you to consider the Roman Catholic Church — specifically the process of canonization.

Canonization is the official name for how saints are declared. To become a saint, you must meet three simple criteria: be dead, have two miracles attributed to you postmortem, and be officially named a saint by the current pope.  One miracle results in beatification (the Blessed So-and-So), and two gets sainthood (Saint That-One-Guy). In order for those miracles to be properly attributed to you, however, the Church launches an incredibly rigorous and laborious process of investigation. Medical evidence, preferably verified by multiple physicians (specialists are even better), must clearly document your condition both before and after the said miracle. You must demonstrate your prayers to the person up for sainthood which specifically requested intervention in this matter. You must have physicians swear no current medical treatment would have resulted in the change — and hopefully it will have been scientifically impossible for the change to have occurred at all. Finally, the Vatican’s teams of doctors and theologians review all the evidence and make a decision. Spoiler alert: the vast majority of miracle claims are never officially declared miracles, even if they meet all the necessary criteria. But assuming you do meet the prerequisites and you bought coffee and wine for the entire review panel and you were wearing your “I Love the Pope” t-shirt and gravity still works on penguins and a dove alit on the balcony of the chief medical officer’s hotel window at 11:38am on the previous Tuesday, you just might get yourself declared the bona fide recipient of divine intervention.

Reams and reams of medical documents, diaries, and other paperwork exists to account for thousands of miracle claims, even if they’re never officially recognized by the church. And I’m not talking “Lassie got Timmy out of the well! It’s a miracle!” kind of stuff, either. We’re talking limbs growing several inches right before your eyes. The dead being raised hours, even days after being declared dead. Tumors disappearing in minutes. Goiters fading in the presence of onlookers. People known to be blind and deaf for decades suddenly seeing and hearing. All of it having no medical or otherwise-scientific explanations whatsoever. All of them being completely impossible unless we rewrite some of the most fundamentals laws governing the behavior of the universe.

And so we have the evidence. The question is if we are willing to accept it or not.

If Hume’s legacy is the only reason to disbelieve, then there’s not a reason. If there are other reasons, then perhaps they can be revisited to see which is easier to revise, personal theories or the empirical scientific evidence of the miraculous (which, I might add, either meets or exceeds the requirements of most other accepted empirical data, right down to being repeatable in the cases of known faith healers/evangelists). Of course, not everyone will change his or her worldview to allow miracles, data or not. And not everyone will believe such a thing to even be possible. At the very least, however, it shouldn’t be thought illogical or superstitious or downright silly to believe God still directly intervenes in the lives of human beings. Once we agree to that, then we can talk specifics with each other without condescension and arrogance.

For a much fuller treatment of the question and numerous personal testimonies of miracle claims, I highly, highly recommend Miracles: The Credibility of the New Testament Accounts by Dr. Craig Keener, available here.

F.A.Q.: A Reasonable, Rational Faith (Part I)

It comes as a surprise to no one that our contemporary culture is one of rationalism. The only acceptable way to know something, it seems, is through rational thought based on empirical evidence. Ever since the dawn of the Enlightenment, empiricism and positivism have been on the rise, and people of faith have discovered a need to express the truths of religion in logical, scientific ways.

The problem with this, of course, is that not everything capable of being known is empirically verifiable or quantifiable. For example, what’s the unit to use when measuring love? Do I love my neighbor with a force of 2h/s (hearts per second) and chocolate chip cookies with only 0.25h/s? Why, exactly, are things beautiful, and why is that beauty capable of being both subjective and universal? Can neurochemistry adequately explain why music makes us weep, even when it has no words? The religion of science — scientism — is a short-sighted worldview. Regardless, our fellow humans, while explaining that science will eventually be capable of explaining everything even though it can’t right now, demand religion answer all of those questions immediately.

Luckily for us, Christianity in particular (and theism in general) is a perfectly logical, coherent faith.

For two thousand years, Christian thinkers have systematically built logical explanations for the tenets of our faith. No stone has been left unturned; we can use scientific and philosophical principles to explain why God exists, how the Resurrection is perfectly reasonable, why miracles can occur, and a myriad of other things. In order to explain how we can know God exists, however, we need to establish what kind of God we’re talking about.

The God of theism (the God or Allah of Abrahamic religions) is said to have necessary divine attributes: He is omniscient, omnipotent, omnipresent, and wholly good. (We call these the “omnis,” and philosophers of religion also drop omnipresent to call God an O-O-G God — omniscient, omnipotent, and good). Anything less wouldn’t be the God who created the heavens and the earth, the God who loves His creation enough to send His son to die for its redemption. It certainly wouldn’t be the God revealed to us in the pages of the Bible.

But it’s at this early, definitional stage people begin objecting to God. I think we’ve all heard the various “gotcha!” paradoxes in some form used as a way to claim an O-O-G God is logically indefensible. “Can God make a rock so heavy even He can’t lift it? Because since He can do everything, it means He can, but if He can, it means He can’t do something, so that means He can’t do everything.” Such a paradox is based upon a false definition of omnipotence. Omnipotence is the ability to do anything which is logically possible to do. So no, God can’t make a rock so big He can’t lift it, because that’s an illogical statement. Neither, as a professor was fond of saying, can God make a married bachelor. The two categories (married and unmarried) are mutually exclusive. God cannot violate the rules of logic. (Or, if He can and does, He probably doesn’t want us to know because it would blow our human minds. Oh, and I’ll handle miracles and other “violations” of natural law later.) The same goes for omniscience. Can God know everything? Answers range from “God knows everything and every possibility” to “God can only know what was, is, and will be.” Some people even say God limits His own omniscience in deference to our free will so that He doesn’t know the future — but I’m not buying that one. Regardless, it’s perfectly logical to have an O-O-G God, as long as we actually define what that means in logical terms.

(The problem of evil — or how God is wholly good when evil still exists — will also be treated later on.)

Now. We know who God is. How can we prove He exists? Christians have long maintained a variety of logical proofs for the existence of God. The most obvious ones are what’s known as the teleological and cosmological arguments. The teleological argument gets its name from the Greek word “telos,” meaning purpose or end. It holds that the evidence we see around us points to a world which exists for a reason. It exhibits logical laws and evidence of design with a purpose in mind. This points back to the one who purposed or designed it, and therefore needs a designer. We call this designer God. A form of the teleological argument is called the fine-tuning argument: conditions for life are so extremely narrow, it’s as if someone turned all the knobs of the universe just right to make it exist. The existence of the universe is so incredibly improbable that it couldn’t have arisen unless someone fine-tuned the conditions necessary for it to spring into being. That someone is God.

The cosmological argument goes something like this: the universe exists; everything which exists has an origin; the universe therefore has an origin; its origin is God. God is the Prime Mover, the First Cause, the Creator. Everything which exists and moves has a point of origination, and God is the one who brought it into being.

There are, of course, objections to both of these. Evolutionary theory states that the universe didn’t change itself to meet the conditions of life, but rather life fine-tuned itself to the rest of the universe. It simply meets the conditions around it. Then there’s the classic question: if God made everything, who made God? A reasonable, logical faith can answer both of these. The rules governing evolution and the rest of the universe (things like natural selection, Planck’s Constant, the exact value of the weak nuclear force, etc.) could have been completely arbitrary. They may be totally difference in an alternate universe; who knows? But that these rules exist points to someone who established the rules. Life is still free to make itself according to these rules via evolutionary processes.

So who made God? Well, no one. Scripture tells us God was, is, and ever shall be. There was never a time when God was not. In philosophy, we call such a thing a necessary being. Its existence is necessary for all other things to exist (those other things being labeled contingent beings, as their existence is contingent upon the existence of something else). That gives us a fixed endpoint in the “who made what” game. If you don’t have an endpoint, something uncreated, it turns into infinite regress of x made y which made z which made a which made b . . . you get the picture. So if you remove a necessary being, you get infinite regress. You add one, you get the universe. Even atheists have a necessary being in their worldview: the universe itself. All matter being contained in the singularity before the Big Bang, well, banged, is necessary. The arrangement of that matter into contingent beings follows. But wait! Physics is now saying a total vacuum — literally nothing — will spontaneously create something given quantum gravity. Ok. So gravity becomes the necessary being (er, maybe necessary force). Either way, both religions — theism and atheism — agree that something had to exist without creation in order for everything to exist. Christians simply state this necessary, uncreated thing to be God. The same logical system is used in both, and so Christianity is only irrational at this stage if atheism is.

There are other proofs for God’s existence, of course. The moral argument says morality exists because it reflects the character of God. Without God, no morals. The argument has strengths and weaknesses. After all, some would say morals are evolutionary byproducts for the survival of the species. (I mean, it’s hard to survive if murder becomes a value.) And yet cultures exist where deception, murder, cannibalism, etc. are perfectly normal, even expected — and are immediately discarded upon an encounter with the living God. A final argument is called the ontological argument (i.e., the “being” argument). Saint Anselm of Canterbury came up with this one. Imagine, if you will, a perfect being. Something perfect in every respect to every degree. This is called God. Now, isn’t it more perfect for it to actually exist than for it not to? Therefore, it exists. God exists. It’s a bit of a logic game, to be sure, and people have written counterarguments and defenses for over a millennium now. Nevertheless, it shows another means of utilizing logic to prove the existence of God.

Hopefully it’s clear by now that Christians don’t just toss logic and reason to the wayside when we practice our faith. We’re not some cult which relies only upon mass delusion. We don’t say, for example, “God exists because I believe He exists.” I mean, that’s horrible reasoning, if reasoning it be. (Think of Russell’s celestial teapot: I choose to believe a teapot exists orbiting earth beyond the moon, and since I believe it, it really exists. Clearly belief does not equal reality.) Instead we practice a faith which uses reason, logic, and rationality to show truth, the truth of the existence of a logical, rational, O-O-G God. Even though pure reason is insufficient to truly know everything in our universe, it can still be used to know the God who knows us.

We should never mock those who are not of faith because they prefer to rely on their intellect. Our witness is horribly eroded if we call evolutionists stupid, or monkeys, or liars. We fail to show the love of God when we tell people God wants them to dumb down, to toss their intelligence to the wayside in the service of faith. Christians must reclaim the use of logic and rationality in our faith lives and in our public witnesses, evangelism, and apologetics. We must take a phrase from Isaiah 1:18 and make it our mantra: “Come now, and let us reason together.”

F.A.Q. #5: What about Other Religions?

We live in a world of many faiths. A basic glance at a world religions textbook (or a night watching T.V.) reveals a plethora of different religions: Christianity, Judaism, Islam, Buddhism, Hinduism, Taoism, Confucianism, Shinto, and Sikhism are just a few of these. And each one has different sects, too. Islam is largely bifurcated into Shiite and Sunni camps; Conservative Jews worship differently than Messianic and Orthodox strains; and Christianity itself is fractured into some 3,000 separate denominations by some estimates. At the end of the day, what do we make of them all? At the end of the world, will everyone be saved equally — or is only one of us right?

Three main view dominate the discussion about the veracity and accuracy of world religions. Exclusivism, probably the most prominent, states that only one religion is correct is any sense (generally the religion of the one espousing said opinion). Only those who follow Allah will gain Paradise, for example. Or those who follow Torah. Or the gospel of Jesus Christ. Or the Eightfold Path and Four Noble Truths (although this one gets you to Nirvana). You get the idea. Generally speaking, Christianity is an exclusivist religion (notable exceptions to follow). Christians look at passages such as John 14:6 — “I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me” — and Acts 4:12 — “Salvation is found in no one else, for there is no other name under heaven given to mankind by which we must be saved” — and declare the only path to eternal life with God is the salvation offered by the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus Christ. Those who do not personally know Christ as savior are damned. On the flip side of exclusivity is the problem of “What happens if the missionary gets a flat tire.” If someone never hears about Christ, are they consigned to eternal punishment by default? Would God really deny them eternal life simply because they remained ignorant of the sacrifice of Jesus through no fault of their own? Difficult questions for the exclusivist to answer. With that said, this remains the dominant view (in my opinion) of most Christians and most persons of other theistic religions.

A bit more “lenient” mode of thought is inclusivism, which states that anyone of any faith will be granted entry into whichever concept of heaven turns out to be correct. If we say Christianity offers the true idea of eternal life, then the pluralist will say devout Christians as well as devout Jews, Muslims, Hindus, etc. will enter the Christian heaven after the end of the age. Christian faith per se isn’t necessary for salvation; all that’s needed is a dedication to some sort of faith. All faith is attributed to being faith in God/the true deity and thus rewarded. People without a religion or who only nominally adhere to any given faith still suffer from whichever schema of eternal damnation as might prove to be true (such as the Christian hell). Inclusivism thus retains the central notions of salvation and damnation, but it broadens the scope to allow anyone with faith to be rewarded appropriately. (A subset of inclusivism allows for multiple eternal destinies: Christians are saved to a Christian heaven, Jews to a Jewish heaven, Buddhists to Nirvana, etc.). Some Christian theologians have gone along with the Christian iteration of inclusivism. Perhaps the most well-known is C.S. Lewis. In the final book of the Chronicles of Narnia series, The Last Battle, Lewis saves all non-Narnians who still served their own religions well (all good deeds being attributed to faith in Aslan and not Tash, for example). Other theologians have followed suit.

The final main view of world religions is religious pluralism (not to be confused with the concept of pluralism which simply acknowledges the reality of a multiplicity of faiths). Pluralists, sometimes referred to as universalists, believe everyone regardless of faith — or the lack thereof — will ultimately be saved and granted eternal life/entry into paradise. A specific statement of faith or salvific experience is not necessary. As long as you’re alive, you’ll make it at the end. This school of thought has gained ground in some progressive/liberal theological circles, but it’s never been the dominant opinion of any theistic religion (that I know of).

I keep saying “theistic religion”; what does that mean? It means any religion which believes in a single god, whether it’s God/Yahweh or Allah. There are polytheistic religions containing a pantheon of gods (think Zeus and Apollo and that lot), and there are pantheistic religions (wherein everything is god — yes, even the lettuce in your salad, you deicidal maniac). Christianity is of course a theistic/monotheistic religion: we believe God is a single God who alone rules the cosmos.

As Christian theists, then, what do we do about other religions? Do we take the exclusivist, inclusivist, or pluralist stance? Which one most accurately reflects biblical truth?

My seminary philosophy professor summed it up well: we need to avoid denominational leanings and side with historical, ecumenical truth. In this instance, historical truth and interpretation reflects the exclusivist view. Scripture promises all will have a chance of salvation, and Paul speaks of creation itself as a general revelation of the existence and character of God. And even if the missionary gets a flat tire (in my own view), God will grant unreached peoples a chance of the salvation made possible through the cross of Christ. Other religions will ultimately fail and be exposed as false. In our contemporary society, this isn’t a particularly popular view, and many well-meaning Christians (and others) will attempt to remake God to suit their own convictions to allow for inclusivism or universalism. Historic orthodoxy, however, will continue to refute these claims, even if it means exclusivists are made out to be hateful, vengeful villains.

What makes other religions false, then? First of all, they fail to acknowledge the gospel of Christ. We live in a post-Incarnation age, and since Jesus has been born, dead, and resurrected, the Torah is insufficient for salvation. The Quran fails to recognize the true nature of God. (Allah would never condescend to have a son, for example. For this reason and others, I do not — and scholars of Islam agree — equate God/Yahweh with the Islamic Allah.) Since they do not mandate faith in Jesus Christ and acceptance of his offer of salvation through the Holy Spirit, other religions cannot save; they cannot be true. Speaking personally, a second reason other religions are false are because of their origin. I consider them all works of Satan, as he is the father of lies. Any deity set up over against the Judaeo-Christian God is a false god — and quite possibly a demonic entity trying to get people to worship it on the one hand and prevent them from worshiping God on the other. Nothing born of hell is beneficial to humanity.

I do want to note, however, that I’m not saying they cannot possibly hold truth. They can, and that truth comes from God. But they then veer from or pervert said truth, creating a false religion. Or a cult. Or both.

Ultimately, how you choose to view other religions is up to you. And we should always be open to dialogue between faiths, sharing truth across religious boundaries to better serve the one True God. In all things, we show the love of God towards those of other faiths, respectfully inviting them into a relationship with the only personal Savior on the market.