The 1748 essay “Of Miracles” by David Hume was influential in leading the charge against the miraculous, thoughts that were later sharpened (though also later recanted) by Antony Flew. Insisting the laws of a natural world incompatible with the supernatural, the new atheists continue to weigh in on the subject today. With them, many Christian philosophers and scientists, who are less willing to define miracle as something that must break the laws of nature, join the conversation with an opposing gusto. Physicist and Anglican priest John Polkinghorne, for instance, suggests that miracles are not violations of the laws of nature but rather “exploration of a new regime of physical experience.”(1)

The possibility or impossibility of the miraculous fills books, debates, and lectures. What it does not fill is that moment when a person finds herself—rationally or otherwise—crying out for intervention, for help and assurance, indeed, for the miraculous. “For most of us” writes C.S. Lewis, “the prayer in Gethsemane is the only model. Removing mountains can wait.”(2) To this I would simply add that often prayer is both: both the anguished cry of Gethsemane—”please, take this from me”—prayed at the foot of an impossible mountain.

Whether this moment comes beside a hospital bed, a dying marriage, a grave injustice, or debilitating struggle, we seem almost naturally inclined in some way to cry out for an intervening factor, something or someone beyond the known laws of A + B that sit defiantly in front of us. For my own family that moment came with cancer, complicated by well-intentioned commands to believe without doubt that God was going to take it away. When death took it away instead, like many others in our situation, our faith in miracles—and the God who gives them—were equally defeated.

In the throes of that heart-wrenching scene, every time I closed my eyes to pray, the vision of an empty throne filled my mind. It was something like the vision of Isaiah in the temple, only there was no robe and no body filling anything.(3) My prayers seemed to be given not a resounding “no,” but a non-answer, a cold, agonizing silence, which was also very much an answer. It was only years after the scene of my failed prayers for the miraculous that I was physically startled, again like Isaiah, at the thought that the throne was empty because the one who fills it had stepped down to sit beside us as we cried.

Such a miracle was nothing close to the one we were hoping for, and yet, years now after the sting of death, the incarnational gift of a God who comes near—in life, in suffering, even unto the grave—is inarguably the miracle far more profound. I don’t fully know why in the midst of our pain we felt alone and abandoned. Perhaps our eyes were too focused on the scene of the miracle we wanted, such that no other could be seen. “God sometimes seems to speak to us most intimately when God catches us, as it were, off our guard,” writes C.S. Lewis. “Our preparations to receive [God] sometimes have the opposite effect. Doesn’t Charles Williams say somewhere that ‘the altar must often be built in one place in order that the fire from heaven may descend somewhere else‘?”(4)

And this somewhere else, this new regime, the place that catches us off-guard, is maybe even quite often right in front of us, near but unnoticed, miraculous but missed. In the words of Pulitzer Prize winning novelist Marilynne Robinson, “I have spent my life watching, not to see beyond the world, merely to see, great mystery, what is plainly before my eyes. I think the concept of transcendence is based on a misreading of creation. With all respect to heaven, the scene of miracle is here, among us.”(5)

What if we were to start looking, not for miraculous signs and antepasts from beyond, but for a closer scene of miracle, for invitations to explore that new regime of physical existence brought about by the Incarnation, for foretastes of a banquet to which we are invited even today. Miracle and mystery may well be plainly before our eyes. For of course, Christianity is the story of the great Miracle, the story of the vicariously human Son of God coming not where we expected, but where we needed him most. Like the kingdom itself and the Christ who came to announce it, the scene of miracle may be nearer than we think.

Jill Carattini is managing editor of A Slice of Infinity at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia.

(1) John Polkinghorne, Faith, Science and Understanding (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2000), 59.

(2) C.S. Lewis, Letters to Malcolm Chiefly on Prayer (San Diego: Harcourt, 1992), 60.

(3) See Isaiah 6.

(4) Lewis, 117.

(5) Marilynne Robinson, The Death of Adam (New York: Houghton Mifflin, 1998), 243.

The Pew Forum Religious Landscape Study, an American survey of more than 35,000 people from all 50 states, first undertaken in 2007, introduced those interested in demographic trends to a group of individuals known as “the nones.” In its follow-up study completed in 2014, ‘the nones’ are increasing. Almost a quarter of the U.S. population is unaffiliated with any religious group. More than any other demographic group, those aged 18-22 years old make up more than one-third of these ‘nones.’ They are as religiously unaffiliated as the older generations were affiliated.(1)

Of course, many theories are offered to explain this phenomenon. One theory suggests that younger adults grew disillusioned with organized religion when religion began to be associated with more conservative politics. Another theory offers that the shift reflects a broader trend away from social and community involvement. The most prominent theory suggests that this is simply one more sign of the growing secularization seen in most developed countries. Meanwhile, atheists, whose numbers are on the rise, interpret the decrease in faith as a triumph of reason.

While these studies are fascinating and important, and the theories as to the reasons for the decline in Protestant and Evangelical Protestant affiliation are worthy of serious thought, I don’t believe that the only conclusion we might draw from this report is one of triumph for skeptics or discouragement for Christians.

An ancient story perhaps suggests another perception. Thousands of years ago, a prophet heard a word from the Lord. The people would be exiled, the faithful forgotten, the land destroyed by gnawing locusts, and the armies of the nations would trample down those who remained. This vision came to the prophet Joel for the people of Judah. He saw the signs all around him and interpreted their warning. Exile was at hand.

Yet despite these harrowing warnings, the prophet also spoke of blessing, abundance after want, and the abiding presence of the God who cared for his people despite the ways things looked:

“Do not fear, o land, rejoice and be glad, for the Lord has done great things….I will make up to you for the years that the swarming locust has eaten, the creeping locust, the stripping locust, and the gnawing locust, my great army which I sent among you….Thus you will know that I am in the midst of Israel, and that I am the Lord your God and there is no other; and my people will never be put to shame. And it will come about after this that I will pour out My Spirit on all people; and your sons and daughters will prophesy, your old men will dream dreams, your young men will see visions. And even on the male and female servants I will pour out my Spirit in those days” (Joel 2:21-29).

Here, in the valley of want, the prophet Joel calls to the people to “return to the Lord with all your heart with fasting, weeping and mourning; rend your heart and not your garments….For the Lord is gracious and compassionate, slow to anger, abounding in loving-kindness, and relenting of evil.” God’s grace and compassion will be demonstrated in the gift of the Spirit poured out lavishly on a most stubborn and willful people.

Hundreds of years later, there were another people who looked back at this ancient text from the prophet Joel and saw themselves as the recipients of this divine outpouring. They were the recipients of multiplied years. On these simple, peasant Galileans, small in number and in power, the Holy Spirit fell with tongues of fire and rushing wind. They proclaimed in native languages—not their own—the mighty deeds of God.(2) “And it shall be in the last days, God says, that I will pour forth my Spirit upon all people; and your sons and your daughters will prophesy” (Joel 2:28-29). The promise of God’s Spirit, outpoured and empowering the people fell on the feast of Pentecost, when harvest and in-gathering took place. To this relatively small gathering of individuals in Jerusalem: “…about three thousand were added to their numbers that day” (Acts 2:41). The Spirit falls and gathers home those who had been dispersed.

Of course, those initial followers, much like Joel before them, couldn’t see the ultimate horizon of the Church that was birthed that Pentecost. But these followers, small in number, were the first fruits of the outpoured Spirit, which would go forth into the uttermost parts of the earth. By the power of the Spirit, those first fruits would multiply into the Church, and the Church, the body of Christ, was unleashed into the world. The in-gathering of the nations, shown in nascent form at Pentecost, is fulfilled by the gospel going forth into the whole world through the presence and witness of the Church.

Pentecost asks those who despair or take triumph in changing demographics to consider that harvest and in-gathering are ever-present possibilities. Numbers may rise or fall, but influence does not have to wane. The earliest followers of Jesus were unleashed into the exile that was the Roman Empire. The smallness of their numbers didn’t thwart them from receiving the Spirit of the least and the last, so much so that their numbers and influence grew. Today, those who embrace the Son are the recipients of the power of the same Spirit. As we live into the kingdom by the power of this Spirit, the body of Christ can multiply with abundant fruit and harvest.

Margaret Manning Shull is a member of the speaking and writing team at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Bellingham, Washington.

(1) The 2014 Religious Landscape Study, Pew Forum, conducted June 4-September 30, 2014.

(2) See Acts 2:1-13.

As a young girl, I had the unique opportunity to travel to South Africa. We stayed for a month in December when I was just five years old. My father’s parents and sister had immigrated to South Africa from Britain, and it was a rare opportunity to travel to see them. I can still remember the excitement of climbing into the Pan Am jet that would take me to what was surely a land full of adventure. The year was 1971.

Never in my young life had I experienced a place so unlike anything I knew. Growing up in the suburban Midwest of the U.S., my world was filled with snow and concrete, winters lasting long into April with rows and rows of houses lined with sidewalks. South Africa, by contrast, was a land of bright sunshine, vast horizons, beautiful ocean beaches, rugged mountains and diverse landscapes: from the dusty Kalahari Desert to the mountainous coast of Cape Town. Every place was a startling, new discovery of sights, smells, and experiences.

One such experience remains with me to this day. Thirsty after an afternoon at a trampoline park with my South African cousins, we went in search of public drinking fountains. Seeing just such an area not too far beyond where my tired legs could carry me, I ran ahead of the others in order to quench my thirst. Just as I leaned over to drink, a hand grabbed my shoulder and a loud, gruff voice told me not to drink from that fountain. It was for ‘coloreds’ only.

This was the first time, as I reflect back on the event, that I realized my skin color determined my standing in relation to others. I was too young and too thirsty to notice the posted placards on the fountains, or, sadly, to notice that there were only whites on all of the beaches where we frolicked as a family, only white diners in the restaurants where we ate, and only whites in most of the areas and venues we visited. In fact, there were posted designations for ‘whites’ and ‘coloreds’ at all the public places where the two groups might meet. I didn’t understand that apartheid, at that time, was the national policy.

For all the contrasts, here was a similarity between my suburban childhood and my visit to South Africa. Where I grew up, there were only two children of color in my elementary school, and one was of Asian heritage. I do not remember any African Americans in the suburban neighborhoods in which I grew up, and there was no racial diversity in my church. This segregation was far less obvious to me than the intentional policies that made up the apartheid system. Yet, hidden or intentional, the effects of a racist system were the same. How could I not conclude, as a young girl, that race determined where one lived, went to school, or worshipped?

A seminary internship working with young children in Atlanta, Georgia afforded me an alternative experience. I would be the only white person in my internship. I was surprised at how readily boundaries seemed to give way to acceptance. I didn’t seem to be as strange to them as they might have been had they visited me in the suburbs of my childhood. Sharing the same curly hair prompted one young girl to ask me if I was a ‘light-skinned black.’ I felt honored that racial differences were not the only thing she saw.

Yet, I would have been blind not to notice that the opportunities afforded to me simply were not available in this place. And while other principalities conspired with racism to decrease opportunity, I knew then that much of what I took for granted did not exist for these young children. A simple, nutritious breakfast—always available to me—consisted of a soda or a bag of tostada chips from the local Taco Bell for many of the kids I met here.

All these experiences—from the suburbs to South Africa to the urban South—reveal aspects of the human tendency to separate and divide. Yet, an alternative narrative is presented in the Christian gospel. The redemption offered in the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus is universally available. The reconciling work of Jesus Christ did not recognize the typical categories of human division and power but reached out to Jew and Greek, male and female, bond and free persons. The apostle Paul reminded the Ephesians that “you were at that time separate from Christ, excluded… and strangers to the covenants of promise….But now in Christ Jesus you who were formerly far off have been brought near….For Jesus is our peace, who made both groups into one, and broke down the dividing wall.”(1) The human tendency to separate and divide and control could be transformed to a new impulse, where peace and unity are found in Jesus Christ. But is this just something to hope for in an as yet unrealized future?

F.W. de Klerk and Nelson Mandela could not have been more different but they worked together to help end apartheid in South Africa. Even their most significant differences (that went far beyond the color of their skin) did not thwart their work toward a peaceful transition of power—when most thought bloodshed and violence would ensue. Both men understood that unity and peace were not simply a vision of an other-worldly future, but something that could be undertaken even in the very messy, fraught, and difficult world of the here and now. De Klerk has said that “peace does not fare well where poverty and deprivation reign…. Peace is gravely threatened by inter-group fear and envy…. Racial, class, and religious intolerance and prejudice are its mortal enemies. In our quest for peace, we should constantly ask ourselves what we should do to create conditions in which peace can prosper.”(2)

Many can look at the world around them and despair over human differences which feel insurmountable. There is so much that can engender cynicism and a sense of futility. Yet, for those who would seek a different story, there is a house in which tearing down dividing walls that segregate human beings from each other and from God is the only appropriate response. Built upon the foundation that is Christ Jesus, this house has walls of restoration and renewal, forgiveness and reconciliation, generosity and grace. No one is shut out, and all may come in.

Margaret Manning Shull is a member of the speaking and writing team at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Bellingham, Washington.

(1) Ephesians 2:12-14, emphasis mine.

(2) F. W. de Klerk, Acceptance and Nobel Lecture, Editor Tore Frängsmyr, [Nobel Foundation], Stockholm, 1994.

Nothing quite grips us as much as a good novel or movie where some really sinister characters are finally confronted by a brave hero or heroine, who then rises up to face down tyranny, resist oppression, fight the bad guys, and establish justice.

During the 60s and 70s there was still enough residual optimism around that sci-fi movies brimmed with optimism about humanity and our future. We were explorers in search of brave new worlds. We were ambassadors seeking out strange new civilizations. We were friends seeking the harmony of all in a shared, friendly Galaxy. Yet, the writers needed to add adventure and flavor, so various enemies were encountered and often reasoned with into an eventual accommodation.

The mood shifted however. We believed we were more informed, less naïve, less gullible, and less willing and able to embrace ideals. They all seemed strangely utopian, inauthentic, and a denial of what life is really like. Enter sci-fi 2.0, the upgrade.

The writing is now more realistic, gritty, and dark, and the sheer hardships to be faced are more front and center. Our heroes are more human. Their flaws, their fears, and their unique temperaments are very much in vogue. Yet, they still have a mission, by and large, and that mission is to ‘save’ us. Ironic, isn’t it? We see the continuous recycling of the theme of redemption or the struggle with good and evil, despite our antipathy to such things. It looks like an ingrained quest for some kind of answer, some kind of salvation, some hope that there is a better life, somewhere or some way.

I wonder if we are able to stop and think of Jesus in terms of the heroic. We hear that “he emptied himself” and “took on the form of a bond-servant.” Not only did he accept being made in the likeness of men, but “he humbled himself” even to the point of “death on a cross.”(1) As Dorothy Sayers put so well, the drama is the doctrine. In this story, we see a universe that descends into the grip of an evil power, humanity enslaved and targeted for death and misery, and the creeping control of dark passion as the powers invade, infect, subvert, and seek control.

We are not left to the whims of Han Solo, the skills of James T. Kirk, the powers of the Dark Knight, or the courage of John Connor for help or assistance. But we are confronted by the “Word became flesh,” who in his amazing condescension dwelt among us and whose qualities are such that he is “full of grace and truth.”(2) Grace and truth may not seem like the necessary weapons or equipment needed to take on an enemy of such power, malevolence, or hate. But they are exactly what is needed indeed!

The truth is vital, in that here the true nature of the story is revealed. This is a God-ordered and God-ordained world. It is God’s good creation. It is, nonetheless, also corrupted, damaged, and occupied. However, and this is a big however, the grace of God appears.(3) What a great phrase. He did not appear as a revolutionary, as an idealist, as a highly skilled Ninja, or as some kind of weapons specialist! He appeared as human, and in his mission, he came as a savior, the only rescuer. These redemptive actions, completed by the human Christ, have on-going impact and eternal consequences. Jesus is not an ideal or an icon or a mere image. He is the risen Christ, the Messiah, the human hope of the ages.

Now, all of life is his story. He knows the plot, the players, the parts, the sequence, and when the final act will come with all that this entails. The end will be a good end because it will be his ending. The Batman, Captain Kirk, and all the other miniature heroes offer nothing in comparison. With Peter of old, I want ask, To whom else can we go? You have the words of eternal life.

Stuart McAllister is regional director of the Americas at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia.

(1) Philippians 2:7-8.

(2) John 1:16-18.

(3) Titus 2:11-14.