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Ravi Zacharias

Ravi Zacharias Ministry –   Believing the Builder

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Ravi Z

A story is told of a young man who learned of Jesus entirely by listening to a housekeeper who sang hymns as she went about her day. The child had never been to church, seen a Bible, or heard anyone mention God or Christianity directly. But in the music that filled the hallways, he found an unknown affection in his life shaped. As a child he came to know several hymns by memory, but the song that seemed most to confront him was beautifully appropriate to his own situation: “I love to tell the story/ of unseen things above/ of Jesus and his glory/ of Jesus and his love.” What was unseen in his life became the certainty that came to move him most.

The writer of Hebrews provides a definition of faith in similar terms. The chapter begins, “Now faith is being sure of what you hope for and certain of what you do not see.” If I am being honest, this definition of faith has always somewhat escaped me—all the more so after a loved one clung to this verse through the cancer that would never see its miracle. John Wesley once observed of the same words, “There appears to be a depth in them which I am in no wise able to fathom.” In the examples of faith in the verses to follow, we find exactly this—an unfathomable depth of belief. We find faith moving across the pages of a real and fumbling history, God with a motley crew miraculously called “faithful.” We discover in this faith the Spirit of the unseen, the certainty by which countless lives were guided by the very creator who first called the garden ‘good.’ “By faith, Abraham, when called to go to a place he would later receive as his inheritance, obeyed and went, even though he did not know where he was going. By faith he made his home in the Promised Land like a stranger in a foreign country… For he was looking forward to the city with foundations, whose architect and builder is God.”(1)

Near the end of Abraham’s story in Genesis—long after God promised his descendants would outnumber the stars and his people would dwell in the promised land—Abraham buries his wife; his only son is yet unmarried, and he owns only a small plot of land in a world in which he is still living as a foreigner. Yet what was unseen continued to move him; he was looking forward in certainty of the architect of heaven and earth.

In C.S. Lewis’ The Silver Chair, Eustace, Jill, Prince Rilian, and Puddleglum are trapped beneath Narnia in the land called Underworld. The Queen of Underworld, who is really a witch, has thrown a green powder into the fire that produces a sweet and drowsy smell. In this enchanting haze, she manages to convince the group that Narnia does not exist—like the sun, moon, and Aslan, the great lion, Narnia is all a dream. The children try their hardest to describe the things they are certain do exist on land. Yet with each argument the Witch makes it all seem more and more foolish.

It is at this moment of despair that Puddleglum makes a brave move. With his bare foot he stomps on the fire, sobering the sweet and heavy air with the unenchanting smell of marshwiggle. Boldly he turns to the Witch, “One word, Ma’am,” he says coming back from the fire, limping, because of the pain. “Suppose we have only dreamed, or made-up, all those things… Suppose this black pit of a kingdom of yours is the only world. Well, it strikes me as a pretty poor one… We’re just babies making up a game, if you’re right. But four babies playing a game can make a play-world which licks your real world hollow… I’m on Aslan’s side, even if there isn’t any Aslan to lead it. I’m going to live as much like a Narnian as I can even if there isn’t any Narnia. So, thanking you kindly for our supper, we’re leaving your court at once and setting out in the dark to spend our lives looking for Overland. Not that our lives will be very long, I should think; but that’s a small loss if the world’s as dull a place as you say.”(2)

In a world where faith in Jesus can seem foolish or outdated or irrelevant, believing in something imaginary, this definition of faith stands by the better country and its maker—even if at times it eludes us. Like Abraham who looked for the city of foundations and the housekeeper who sang of unseen things, we are strangers to our own lives, setting out in the dark to look for the country we were meant to know, guided by the Spirit who wants us to see. It is by this unseen certainty that Abraham lived and died, knowing that the small family he could gather together in his final days would yet one day outnumber the stars in the sky. The one who promised Abraham and the one who moved him along is the builder, architect, and gardener of Overland, the city with foundations, the city of the human Son of God.

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

(1) Hebrews 11:8-10.

(2) C.S. Lewis, The Chronicles of Narnia (New York: Harper Collins, 1982), 633.

Ravi Zacharias

Ravi Zacharias Ministry – Dark Riddle

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In 1952 philosopher Mortimer Adler co-edited a fifty-five volume series for Encyclopedia Britannica titled The Great Books of the Western World. Overseeing a staff of ninety, the editors created a diverse index of topics containing selections from many of the finest thinkers in the history of Western Civilization. Upon completion, Adler was asked why the work included more pages under the subject of God than any other topic. He replied matter-of-factly that it was because more consequences for life and action follow from the affirmation or denial of God than from any other basic question.

What we do with the subject of God is a far-reaching choice, defining life, informing death, shaping everything. The one who lives as though there is no God lives quite differently than the one who lives confidently that there is a God. It is a subject of consequence because it reaches everything and everyone; whether mindfully or indifferently, a decision is always made.

Through avenues of every emotion known to humankind, the Psalms make the astounding claim that God not only exists, but that God is present and can be found. In victory and defeat, illness and poverty, health and prosperity, the psalmist maintains that it is God who gives all of life meaning, that God alone answers the deepest and darkest questions of life whether in the depths or from the highest vantage.

Calling to the multitudes, crossing lines of status and allegiance, the psalmist pleads for care regarding a subject that concerns all. Like Adler, the psalmist makes it clear that what is being communicated is of consequence. “Listen, all who live in this world, both low and high, rich and poor together… I will incline my ear to a proverb; I will solve my riddle to the music of the harp.”(1) This riddle the psalmist wants to bring to the attention of all is a riddle forever before humankind. It is a riddle to which all must diligently attend but many wholeheartedly ignore. Fittingly, the Hebrew word for “riddle” has also been translated “dark saying” or “difficult question.”

The psalmist continues, “When we look at the wise, they die; fool and dolt perish together and leave their wealth to others. Their graves are their homes for ever, their dwelling-places to all generations, though they named lands their own. Mortals cannot abide in their pomp; they are like the animals that perish.”

It is easy to go about life as if we know what we are doing. The psalmist stops us to ask, what is the point of it all? Some accumulate wealth, others remain in poverty, some live well and others live wickedly, but all are destined for the grave. The one who claims there is no God in life, so claims emptiness in death. But then is life also empty? Again the psalmist admits it is all a dark riddle: What is the point of it all?

Solving the riddles of life and death, like religion and politics at a social gathering, means, for many, changing the subject. As Woody Allen once quipped, “It’s not that I am afraid of death; I just don’t want to be there when it happens.” But that our lives are fleeting could awaken a sense of urgency, a sense of inquiry. That life is fleeting, though inarguably full of meaning, is indeed either a peculiar contradiction or a hint that creation is being made new, both now and in what is coming.

This is not to say that death, for the Christian, is not a mystery. We know that death is the last great door through which we must walk, the mark of a broken world. Yet we know also that through death God has declared the end of that broken hold on our lives, that the one who loses his life will save it, and that by Christ’s death the Spirit works Christ’s life in us even now. As C.S. Lewis once said of the Christian, “Of all men, we hope most of death; yet nothing will reconcile us to…its ‘unnaturalness.’ We know that we were not made for it; we know how it crept into our destiny as an intruder; and we know Who has defeated it.” In the riddle of life and death, the psalmist expounds this certainty of God’s action. “But God will ransom my soul from the power of the grave, for he will receive me.”

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

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Ravi Zacharias Ministry – The Way of Grace and the Way of Nature

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As a young girl, one of my favorite games was hide and seek. Gathering all of our friends from the street on which we lived, we played this favorite childhood game that offered the entire neighborhood as a hiding place. The familiar call “Where are you?” echoed down the streets as the seeker looked far and wide to find our hiding places.

A cosmic game of hide and seek is often how many view the search for God. “Where are you?” is the question that echoes throughout the ages as human beings seek for God in a vast universe often filled with inexplicable mystery.

This is no trivial game. Atheist Bertrand Russell was once asked what he would say if after death he met God, to which he replied: “God, you gave us insufficient evidence.”(1) While those who have found God quite evident would balk at Russell’s impudence, it is helpful to remember that theists often wrestle with a similar struggle. Many of the biblical writers themselves have depicted God as hidden. “Why do you stand afar off, O Lord? Why do you hide yourself in times of trouble?” (Psalms 10:1). Indeed, the psalmist accuses God of being “asleep” to his plaintive cries: “Arouse, yourself, why do you sleep, O Lord? Awake, and do not reject us forever. Why do you hide your face, and forget our affliction and our oppression?” (Psalm 44:23-24). Even blameless Job wondered aloud if in fact God viewed him as the enemy: “Why do you hide your face and consider me the enemy?” (Job 13:24). And from the place of his deepest suffering, Jesus himself cried out using the words of the poets of Israel, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

Clearly, the hiddenness of God is problematic for theists and atheists alike. Indeed, the belief in a God who can be easily found, and who has acted in time and space, makes the experience of God’s hiddenness all the more poignant and perplexing.

“Where are you?” serves as one of the central questions in the film The Tree of Life. Recipient of the highest prize awarded at the 2011 Cannes Film Festival, the film explores the paradoxical experience of both God’s astounding presence and God’s apparent absence. The questions concerning God’s whereabouts are posed by an adult man in the throes of a life-crisis resulting from family tragedy. Through a series of cinematic visions, the man reflects back on his life as his question “Where are you?” sounds a thematic refrain when tragic events ensue. It is this question that takes the man on a search for God, not only through recalling the events of his childhood in a small Texas town, but also as he contemplates the grandeur of the cosmos at the dawn of creation.

As the film begins, we hear the voice of this man’s mother extolling a life of grace, as opposed to a life lived according to nature, for the self alone. To the oft-repeated question, “Where are you?” the film suggests God’s presence in this life through grace. The life that is grace-filled lives for others, revels in the beauty and wonder of the created world, and extends a gracious forgiveness toward others. It is this grace-filled life that the now adult Jack remembers as a clue to God’s whereabouts. The gracious way in which his mother lived, and the way his younger brother extended forgiveness to the young Jack after he viciously shot him in the hand with a pellet gun provide the first hints for God’s hiding place. Jack recalls, “Brother, mother, it was they who led me to your door.” In these grace-filled human encounters, the doorway is opened to God’s dwelling place.

This gracious way is set in contrast to the way of nature, which competes and wrestles for control of Jack. The way of nature seeks to make its way in the world forcefully; its acquisitive nature clawing after worldly success, fortune, and power. It is a battle waged within every human being, and the film suggests that it is a path that leads one away from God; it is the way that hides us from God’s grace and God’s presence.

For indeed, the game of hide and seek is not one-sided. The film opens with a quotation from the book of Job: “Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth…when the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy?” A cinematic kaleidoscope of those foundations—from a one-celled organism to the galaxies beyond invites the viewer to see the gracious hand of God touching all that makes up the universe. From the dawn of time to, by contrast, this seemingly insignificant family living in 1950s Waco, Texas, the film shimmers with God’s presence. We often fail to accept the invitation, the film suggests, as we succumb to the way of nature—a way that reduces one’s vision only to self-interest. But God’s glorious grace is all around us. Sometimes abundantly obvious, sometimes subtle, God’s gracious presence beckons to us in this world and in our relationships with one another. “Always did you seek me” Jack recognizes as he wrestles with his own propensity to hide. Always do you seek for us—we humans who play hide and seek—from the very foundation of the world.

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

(1) Cited in Dr. Paul K. Moser’s booklet, Why Isn’t God More Obvious: Finding the God who Hides and Seeks (Norcross, GA: RZIM, 2000), 1.

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Ravi Zacharias Ministry – God on Trial

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Over a period of several weeks of precious elementary school recesses, a circle of fellow fourth-grade friends set aside dodge-ball matches and swing-sets in order to go to court. There had been a rather serious disagreement between two of the girls in our larger group of friends and sides were being drawn as quickly as notes could be passed between girls’ desks. Before things got any worse, the humanitarian among us reasoned that we had to intervene. It was decided that we would create a makeshift courtroom to get to the bottom of the mess. One of my friends was appointed judge; others were chosen to be witnesses or note-takers, prosecutor or defendant. We even had a bailiff. In our minds we were doing what adults did to get at the truth. In the end, it became one of those defining moments where one wakes from the innocence of childhood to find the world not as simple as first thought and the human heart capable of horrific things. The experience is strangely reminiscent of William Golding’s stranded children in The Lord of the Flies.

In our courtroom I was called to be a witness. I was to tell the judge what I saw and what I knew to be true. I did so, and it felt like we were getting somewhere. But then another witness was called who insisted that she saw something completely different, and that I, in fact, was lying. I was both heartbroken and confused. Sides were quickly drawn, cases sharpened. As the days went by we became increasingly frustrated and vindictive. What we thought would be a simple solution that would lead us to truth and resolution became a hurtful, tangled mess of motive and slander and manipulation—so much so, that teachers finally intervened and our courtroom was forever adjourned. Among other things, I decided I would never go into law.

I was reminded of this childish scene recently while reading the eyewitness Mark’s account of the trial of Christ before the council of religious leaders. Seized from the Garden of Gethsemane, Jesus was taken to the courtyard. Peter followed from a distance and watched among the guards as the trial unraveled. Mark imparts that “The chief priests and the whole Sanhedrin were looking for evidence against Jesus so that they could put him to death, but they did not find any. Many testified falsely against him, but their statements did not agree. Then some stood up and gave this false testimony against him: We heard him say, ‘I will destroy this man-made temple and in three days will build another, not made by man.’ Yet even then their testimony did not agree.”(1)

What kind of a courtroom would this make? The expert witnesses from the same side are contradicting each other. The only thing they seem to agree on is that Jesus should be on trial. And yet, like a prosecuting attorney with an airtight case, the high priest exclaims: “Answer these charges!” though which charges remains unclear. In the middle of the chaos of conflicting words and motives, the high priest stood up and faced Jesus: “Have you no answer to make? What is it that these men testify against you?” Jesus was kind for not replying: “If you don’t even know, why should I have to make sense of all of that?” But Jesus remained silent and made no answer.

In the midst of courtrooms such as these, it seems appropriate to pause in that silence. For though accusing crowds put him to death more than two thousand years ago, he has been on trial ever since. Like the court scene I was a part of as a child, we continue to place him before our makeshift gavels and make a mockery of truth and testimony. I know many moments when armed with fiery questions I have forced God to take the stand, presenting my case as if it were airtight. My words have likely made as little sense as Jesus’s accusers that day.

But the culminating events of Jesus’s life on earth depict a very surprising turn of judge and jury. From the waving of palm branches to waving fists demanding crucifixion, human trials of God are often fickle. But what if we discover, as did many within these crowds, that we are engaging an imagined court? Like Peter, we might follow Jesus at a distance, looking in on a great trial, sometimes participating, sometimes denying him, sometimes seeing our role and with a shock of recognition, falling on our knees. If we find ourselves in a court, it is a court altogether reversed: our advocate, the one we have accused, plays the role of mediator. He enters our plea.

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

(1) Mark 14:55-59.

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Ravi Zacharias Ministry – Q&A – DOES RZIM HAVE A POSITION ON CALVINISM OR ARMINIANISM?

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Calvinism (sometimes called the Reformed tradition, the Reformed faith, or Reformed theology) is a theological system and an approach to the Christian life that emphasizes the rule of God over all things. It was developed by several theologians, but it bears the name of the French reformer John Calvin because of his prominent influence on it and because of his role in the confessional and ecclesiastical debates throughout the 16th century. Today, this term also refers to the doctrines and practices of the Reformed churches of which Calvin was an early leader. Less commonly, it can refer to the individual teaching of Calvin himself. The system is best known for its doctrines of predestination and total depravity.

Arminianism is a school of soteriological thought within Protestant Christianity based on the theological ideas of the Dutch Reformed theologian Jacobus Arminius (1560-1609) and his historic followers, the Remonstrants. The doctrines’ acceptance stretches through much of mainstream Christianity, including evangelical Protestantism.

Arminianism holds to the following tenets:

Humans are naturally unable to make any effort towards salvation.

Salvation is possible only by God’s grace, which cannot be merited.

No works of human effort can cause or contribute to salvation.

God’s election is conditional on faith in the sacrifice and Lordship of Jesus Christ.

Christ’s atonement was made on behalf of all people.

God allows his grace to be resisted by those who freely reject Christ.

Salvation can be lost, as continued salvation is conditional upon continued faith.

Arminianism is most accurately used to define those who affirm the original beliefs of Jacobus Arminius himself, but the term can also be understood as an umbrella for a larger grouping of ideas including those of Hugo Grotius, John and Charles Wesley, and others. There are two primary perspectives on how the system is applied in detail: Classical Arminianism, which sees Arminius as its figurehead, and Wesleyan Arminianism, which sees John Wesley as its figurehead. Wesleyan Arminianism is sometimes synonymous with Methodism.

RZIM does not have an official ministry position on the doctrines of Calvinism or Arminianism, and we have staff members holding to a variety of views in both of these doctrinal traditions. Our ministry is not officially affiliated with any particular denomination, and our staff represents a variety of different denominations. The mission and vision of RZIM is evangelism undergirded by apologetics, and we seek to stay true to that mission and calling. Dr. Zacharias is ordained in the Christian and Missionary Alliance Church. For more information on this denomination, please see their website.

For further study on Calvinism or Arminianism, here are some resources that many have found helpful in exploring these teachings:

Alister McGrath has put together a wonderful collection of historical writings on various issues including predestination and free will. It is called The Christian Theology Reader (Blackwell, 1995). This book gives a sampling from the great works of theology on various topics. From this, one reads the primary sources including John Calvin’s Institutes of the Christian Religion, Martin Luther’s Bondage of the Will and John Wesley’s writings, for the “free will” perspective. An excellent edition is John Wesley’s Sermons: An Anthology (Abingdon Press, 1991) compiled by Albert Cook Outler and Richard P. Heitzenrater. Responsible Grace by Randy Maddox is also an excellent treatment of Wesley’s theology.

For a more contemporary reading, InterVarsity Press has published a book (1985) entitled Predestination and Free Will: Four Views of Divine Sovereignty and Human Freedom. Norman Geisler and Clark Pinnock are contributors in this volume. Finally, D.A. Carson has written a book entitled How Long, O Lord? Reflections on Suffering and Evil (Baker Academic, 1991) that deals with the issue of sovereignty and suffering.

Ravi also recommends J.I. Packer’s book Evangelism and the Sovereignty of God (InterVarsity Press, 1991), and has written a brief article describing his own position regarding human freedom and the sovereignty of God.

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Ravi Zacharias Ministry –   Q&A   DOES RZIM HAVE A VIEW ON THE AGE OF THE EARTH?

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RZIM does not have an official ministry position on the age of the earth.  The focus of RZIM is apologetics and evangelism, and thus we do not address particular questions about creation, though we are committed to defending theism against naturalism.  Primarily, we seek to address the philosophical assumptions underlying the atheistic scientific theory to reveal their incoherence, and to demonstrate that a world such as ours requires an active and sovereign Creator.

Though there is some diversity of views within RZIM, we are all firmly committed to the integrity of the Bible as God’s infallible Word and believe our world has been intelligently designed and created by God, who made humanity in His own image.

Here are some resources which offer varying perspectives for your own study:

In the Beginning, Henri Blocher (InterVarsity Press)

Knowing the Truth about Creation or Decide for Yourself, Norman Geisler (available at http://www.normgeisler.com)

God, Are You There? William Lane Craig (Craig’s website, http://www.reasonablefaith.org, also has excellent articles on science/arguments for God’s existence.

God’s Undertaker: Has Science Buried God? Dr. John Lennox

 

Seven Days That Divide the World: The Beginning According to Genesis and Science Dr. John Lennox

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Ravi Zacharias Ministry –  For Humanity

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Ravi Z

The picture painted in the sixty-first chapter of Isaiah is a depiction of realized hope and reconciliation. It is a stirring picture of wholeness:

The Spirit of the Lord GOD is upon me,

because the LORD has anointed me

to bring good news to the poor;

he has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,

to proclaim liberty to the captives,

and the opening of the prison to those who are bound;

to proclaim the year of the LORD’s favor,

and the day of vengeance of our God;

to comfort all who mourn;

to grant to those who mourn in Zion—

to give them a beautiful headdress instead of ashes,

the oil of gladness instead of mourning,

the garment of praise instead of a faint spirit;

that they may be called oaks of righteousness,

the planting of the LORD, that he may be glorified.(1)

The prophet Isaiah outlines God’s plan for restoration: putting into words the hopeful cry of justice and liberty, marking the end of mourning and ashes for a people who were crushed by loss. It was no doubt a passage that sustained the Israelites through hardship and bitter exile. I imagine in Babylon the imagery in this chapter was often longingly on their minds, the promise of God’s comfort and grace treasured words on their lips. I imagine in Jerusalem years later congregations delighted to hear Isaiah 61 proclaimed from the scrolls in worship of a God who heard their cries and brought them home.

Consequently, I imagine faces of utter shock, when after reading these familiar words before a synagogue in Nazareth, Jesus stood up and commented: “Today this Scripture is fulfilled in your hearing.”(2)

According to New Testament scholar Darrell Bock, the Gospel of Luke, where we find this story, has often been the neglected gospel in the life of the Church. Yet more so than any of the other gospel accounts, Luke depicts in detail how a small part of history in a small part of the world reveals the plan of God for the nations far beyond it. Luke writes the story of Christ across the pages of history, but not simply the history of Israel, all of human history. He shows the tension between that which blinds humanity to the work of God and that which points us to our desperate need of God. Luke’s portrait of Jesus shows God acting among the oppressed and downtrodden, the captives and the blind—the very people often thought of as outside of God’s care. As he carefully places the parables and teachings of Christ before his readers, Luke forces us to see that whether we deliberately make a choice to follow him or not, a choice is always made.

At the synagogue visit where Isaiah 61 was read aloud, Jesus reveals himself as the fulfillment of a story set in motion long before his time on earth. His words put both the hearer of that day and the reader of the present in the position of having to make a choice. All of the promises of God stand before humanity in the person of Christ. He is the fulfillment of God’s plan. He brings liberation to the captives. He brings sight to the blind. He binds the brokenhearted. He brings peace—or he does not. In this particular synagogue, the people ran him out of town.

Scottish theologian James Stewart once noted, “Christianity is not for the well-meaning; it is for the desperate.” In Jesus we encounter the creator of all humanity who becomes one of us. He stands embodied before us taking the pain of our captivity and mediating the hope of our release. He comes to bind the broken. His presence is a startling invitation to human wholeness.

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

(1) Isaiah 61:1-3.

(2) See Luke 4:14-30.

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Ravi Zacharias Ministry –  Isn’t Christianity Arrogant?

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One of the most common accusations flung at Christians is that they are arrogant. “How can you believe that you’re right and Hindus, Buddhists, Muslims—all the thousands of other religions—are wrong?” Isn’t it the height of arrogance to claim that Jesus is the way to God? A way, possibly. But the way?

This issue haunts many Christians and makes us reluctant to talk about our faith. We don’t want to appear arrogant, bigoted, or intolerant. This pluralistic view of religions thrives very easily in places like Canada or Europe where tolerance is valued above everything else. It’s very easy slip from the true claim—”all people have equal value”—to the false claim that “all ideas have equal merit.” But those are two very different ideas indeed.

Let’s take a brief look at the “all religions are essentially the same” idea. Suppose I say that I’ve just got into literature in a big way. This last year, I’ve read William Shakespeare, Virginia Woolf and Tolkien, but also Harry Potter and The Very Hungry Caterpillar—and I’ve concluded that every author is identical. Would you conclude that: (a) this is the most profound statement on literature you’ve ever heard? Or would you conclude (b) that I don’t have the first clue what I’m talking about? I suggest that you’d probably choose (b). Now, what about the statement “all religions are the same”? Doesn’t it likewise suggest that the person making it hasn’t actually looked into any of them? Because once you do, you realize it’s not that most religions are fundamentally the same with superficial differences but the reverse is the case: most religions have superficial similarities with fundamental differences.

A further problem with the idea that all religions are essentially the same is that it ignores a fundamental truth about reality: ideas have consequences. What you believe matters, because it will effect what you do. To claim that all religions are essentially the same is to say that it doesn’t matter what you believe as long as you’re sincere—and this neglects the fact that you can believe something sincerely and be sincerely wrong. Hitler held his beliefs with sincerity—that doesn’t make them true.

However, truth, by its very nature, is exclusive. If it is true, as Christianity claims, that Jesus was crucified, died, and rose from the dead, then it is not true, as Islam claims, that Jesus never died in the first place and that somebody else was killed in his place. Both claims cannot be true. Truth is exclusive.

But just because truth is exclusive, that doesn’t make truth cold and uncaring. Truth for the Christian is personal. The Jesus who said “I am the only way” also said “I am the truth.” In other words, ultimate truth is not a set of propositions but a person. As the Bible says in 2 Timothy 2:12, “I know whom I have believed.” Not what I have believed or experienced but whom. Jesus Christ.

To ask why we think that Jesus Christ is the only way is to miss the point entirely. Jesus does not compete with anybody. Nobody else in history made the claims he did; nobody else in history claimed to be able to deal with the problems of the human heart like he did. Nobody else in history claimed, as he did, to be God with us. To say that we believe Jesus is the only way should have nothing to do with arrogance and everything to do with introducing people to him.

Andy Bannister is a member of the speaking team at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Toronto, Canada.

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Ravi Zacharias Ministry –   Theology as Doxology

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More than six hundred years ago, a young Italian girl sent into a dark world a quiet but reverberating voice. Catherine of Siena lived within a century marked by insecurity and fear, war and economic distress, terrorizing disease, and corruption within the church. Yet, her short life was one marked by a passion for the truth, intense care for humanity, and a fervent life of prayer. Whether administering care at the bedsides of plague victims or writing letters to feuding church leaders, she emphatically declared in word and deed: “The way has been made. It is the doctrine of Christ crucified. Whoever walks along this way…reaches the most perfect light.”(1) Catherine prayed with a similar intensity: “O eternal God, I have nothing to give except what you have given me, so take my heart and squeeze it out over the face of the Bride.”(2) In the frailty of her own life, which was racked with great illness and sorrow, Catherine’s severe desire was that God would take her life as an offering, using her in whatever way to mend the brokenness she saw all around her.

Reading through a book of her collected prayers and letters recently, I was struck by a phrase the editor used to describe her. In Catherine’s prayers, the editor notes, “her theology becomes doxology.”(3) Namely, what Catherine professed to be true about God became in her prayers—and arguably in her life—an expression of praise to God. It struck me as a beautiful notion—what we know of God being something that moves us to sing to God.

But shouldn’t all theology naturally lead us to doxology?

Throughout Christian story and verse we find lives touched by God’s goodness, moved by God’s mercy, transformed by God’s mighty presence. In these souls we find a profound correlation between profession and praise. This was certainly true of the young peasant girl who was used by God to bring into the world the child who would be named Jesus and called ‘God with us.’ In the Gospel of Luke we witness the thoughts of Mary actually erupting into song. In the midst of the uncertainty that must have been running through her mind, she nonetheless praises God for the things she knows to be true, for the promises that have touched her life, and the very character of the one to whom she sings:

My soul glorifies the Lord

and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,

for he has been mindful

of the humble state of his servant.

From now on all generations will call me blessed,

for the Almighty One has done great things for me—

holy is his name.

God’s mercy extends to those who fear him,

from generation to generation.

He has performed mighty deeds with his arm…

He has helped his servant Israel,

remembering to be merciful

to Abraham and his descendants forever,

even as he said to our fathers (Luke 1:46-55).

Mary’s theology is intertwined in her doxology: God is a God who has acted in history and is present today. God is one who keeps promises and has indeed promised great things. Holy is the name of the one who sends us this child.

When we come to know the God of heaven, when we see the reach of the one who longs to gather us, when we glimpse the goodness of the Son, his human hand in our lives, his giving of the gift of the Spirit, we find we have been given a song. There becomes within us a need to praise God as creatures in our very createdness, to sing of all that we see and all that we know because of this Creator who wants to be known.

What do you know about God? What have you seen of God’s character and known of God’s goodness? Might your theology become a song worth singing. In your knowledge of God and in your knowing of Christ, might you find in word and deed, in prayer and song, your life a doxology to the goodness of a Creator who wants to be known.

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

(1) Mary O’Driscoll, Ed., Catherine of Siena (New City Press: Hype Park, NY, 1993), 13.

(2) Ibid., 11.

(3) Ibid., ii.

Ravi Zacharias

Ravi Zacharias Ministry – The Paradox of Choice

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On a recent visit to my local grocery superstore it hit me. I was standing in an aisle with over thirty types of orange juice and I couldn’t make up my mind about which kind I should buy; pulp-free or extra-pulp? Added vitamin D plus calcium or anti-oxidant plus? No sugar or low-sugar? Low-acid or heart-healthy and fiber-rich? How did we end up with this many varieties of orange juice?

It doesn’t just hit me at the grocery store, of course, but at the food court in the mall, or in the sporting goods store, or the electronics store, or while on the internet shopping. The abundance of choices overwhelms me and I cannot decide what to choose. More often than I care to admit, once I do decide, I am less satisfied with what I choose. In the back of my mind swirl all the other options that I could have chosen. Did I make the right decision? The question plagues me and in the process steals all of the joy of having made a choice in the first place.

Author and psychologist Barry Schwartz says it this way:

“All of this choice has two effects, two negative effects on people. One effect, paradoxically, is that it produces paralysis, rather than liberation. With so many options to choose from, people find it very difficult to choose at all. The second effect is that even if we manage to overcome the paralysis and make a choice, we end up less satisfied with the result of the choice than we would be if we had fewer options to choose from.”(1)

It is not hard to understand that the more options there are, the easier it is to regret anything that is disappointing about the option that you chose. Schwartz suggests that this is because the multiplicity of choice heightens our expectations. When there are not as many options human expectation is mediated. But when there are endless options, our expectations become heightened. The more heightened the expectation the more inevitable the disappointment.(2) Perhaps this is why many travelers to poorer nations are surprised to find so much more happiness and contentment among people who have so little.

I bought my low-pulp, high fiber orange juice, but I couldn’t help but be underwhelmed by it. Why? Even though all the varieties of orange juice enabled me to ‘do better’ with regards to tailoring an orange juice to my needs, all of the options elevated my expectations not only about the number of varieties I should be able to choose from, but also how ‘good’ the varieties should be in terms of what they included in their ingredients, or in how they were produced. I remember the days when there might have been differing brands of orange juice, but very little difference between them.

This, as Schwartz terms it, is the “paradox of choice.”(3) In Western industrialized nations it is as natural as breathing in air to assume that maximizing the welfare of citizens comes through maximizing individual freedom. The reason for this is both that freedom is in and of itself good, valuable, worthwhile, and essential to being human. If people have freedom, then we can act on our own to do the things that will maximize our welfare, and no one has to decide on our behalf. The way to maximize freedom is to maximize choice.

No one would deny that freedom is essential to the flourishing of human societies. But when freedom of choice becomes equivalent to defining ourselves as consumers more than as citizens or as neighbors, what becomes of community and society? And what becomes of our identity as human beings?

These were pressing questions for the earliest Christian communities. The apostle Paul raised this issue as he wrote to the Christians at Corinth. In discussing matters of personal freedom he exhorted these early Christians that “all things are lawful, but not all things are profitable. All things are lawful, but not all things edify. Let no one seek his or her own good, but that of his or her neighbor….Whether, then, you eat or drink or whatever you do, do all to the glory of God” (I Corinthians 10:23, 24, 31). In his letter to the Galatian Christians, Paul applies the gift of freedom to a sense of corporate responsibility: “You were called to freedom; only do not turn your freedom into and opportunity for the flesh, but through love serve one another. For the whole Law is fulfilled in one word, in the statement, ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself’” (Galatians 3:13-14).

Paul’s definition of freedom for love and service seems to fly in the face of understanding freedom as doing whatever one wants to do, individually. Paul’s understanding calls into question an identity defined by mindless consumption as well. “I choose, therefore I am” is the default of many in the modern world. But for those who seek to follow Paul’s admonition, exercising choice is not simply the unchecked, unthinking, and often self-centered understanding of consumerism that occupies many Western societies and systems. The paradox of choice need not simply be the resultant ‘buyer’s remorse’ or unmet expectations once we have chosen. Instead, the paradox of choice might be choosing to serve others and not simply the individualistic pursuit of self-interest. Rightly understood, freedom for choice is grounded in love for the sake of one another.

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

(1) Barry Schwartz, “The Paradox of Choice,” TEDGlobal, July 2005.

(2) Ibid.

(3) Ibid.

Ravi Zacharias

Ravi Zacharias Ministry – The Suffering One

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Ravi Z

“The Sovereign Lord has given me an instructed tongue, to know the word that sustains the weary…  The Lord has opened my ears, and I have not been rebellious; I have not drawn back,” writes the prophet Isaiah.

The words of Isaiah 50 are full of intense language of compassion and obedience, suffering and humility. Isaiah describes a deeply mysterious and suffering servant in a confronting passage of Scripture that is hard to take in and harder to ignore. How are we to take the descriptive words of servant-like humility that note, “I offered my back to those who beat me, my cheeks to those who pulled out my beard; I did not hide my face from mocking and spitting” (Isaiah 50:6). What are we to do with this servant who suffers to sustain the weary?

Isaiah was equipped and willing to do the work of a prophet, to stand between God and humanity with difficult words as his only buffer. His words are political, poetic, and prophetic, enduring well beyond his life, reverberating in creative ways unknown even to the one called. In this chapter, Isaiah gives us the song of a Servant. He speaks of intense faithfulness in the midst of unjust opposition and steadfast obedience to God in the midst of extreme suffering. Isaiah speaks words that Christians believe are abundantly verified in Jesus Christ.

Almost 700 years after Isaiah’s words were uttered, Jesus came with a message to sustain the weary, teaching as one with an instructed tongue, speaking as one with authority, and indeed, living as one who had set his face “like a flint” upon the will of God the Father. He suffered in utter humility; he offered mercy to his tormentors and forgiveness to those who simply looked on (Luke 4:31-36, Isaiah 50:5,7). Isaiah likely spoke well beyond his own understanding, but he nonetheless asks his hearers to decide what we will do with this suffering one.

The Gospel of Luke describes a time when Jesus and the disciples go about the land teaching and preaching and ministering to the crowds, yet avoiding Jerusalem because of those who were plotting to kill him. And then almost as abruptly as their ministry began to spread, Luke recalls a deliberate change in direction. He writes that Jesus “steadfastly and determinedly set his face to go to Jerusalem” (Luke 9:51).  Knowing what waited for him there, knowing the cross in the horizon, Jesus set his face as a flint toward his own agony. Exactly as was prophesied 700 years earlier, Jesus voluntarily and determinedly gave his back to those who would beat him, his face to those who would spit and mock, and his very life to present the jarringly redemptive mercy of God.

Can we still think that God does not care for us? Can we still think that the heart of the matter is what you and I will do with God? Perhaps in the light of this mysterious human Servant, the question becomes not “What will I do with Jesus Christ?” but “What will he do for us?” Or better still, What has he already done?

The altogether human Son of God invites a weary and burdened humanity to come and receive rest from him. “Learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.” The one who became one of us and was destroyed by suffering stands and mediates the life-changing, life-giving presence of God. Jesus takes us as we are—broken lives, clouded visions, weary hearts—and invites us to abide in all that he is, in all that is enduring, in all that is truly human. He remains the mysterious, suffering, captivating servant of God… in whose presence we are both undone and made new.

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

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Ravi Zacharias Ministry –  Shine Like Stars

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Ravi Z

I recall with clarity a night when my wife and I were on vacation in California. We had spent the day hiking in the mountains and in the afternoon had descended to explore the mysterious and ancient landscape of Mono Lake, one of the oldest lakes in North America. Pinned to the information board by the parking lot was a sign advertising a talk by a park ranger that very evening: “Stars over Mono Lake.” And so it was. That evening we found ourselves lying on the ancient sands, looking up at a night sky in which a million points of light glowed with an intensity I’d never seen before. The air was cold and clear, the hauntingly beautiful desert silence broken only by the occasional howl of a lonely coyote, cry of an insomniac gull, or call for help of a distant and woefully lost tourist.

But it was the sky that really struck me. I’d never seen it so beautiful before. In the city where we live, light pollution drowns out the splendor of the stars. Lights do punctuate the Toronto night, but they tend to be of the red-amber-green-red variety. What I was seeing, lying on those freezing sands at Mono Lake, was the spectacular sight of the night sky in all its glory. It was, for me, God’s handiwork writ large as a myriad of stars lay twinkling above me. I was awestruck and listened with fascination at the park ranger’s talk on the stars above, in particular the various constellations that slowly wheeled in front of us: the Big Dipper, Cassiopeia, Orion, Aquarius.

And as I looked up, I was reminded of a biblical passage about stars, one that is meant to be descriptive of Christians. The apostle Paul is speaking to the Philippian believers about the kind of community their association with Jesus compels them to be: “Therefore, my dear friends… do everything without complaining or arguing, so that you may become blameless and pure, children of God without fault in a crooked and depraved generation, in which you shine like stars in the universe as you hold out the word of life.”(1)

When I heard that passage again a few months later, my mind was immediately cast back to that night at Mono Lake and to the journey of the constellations and patterns that generations of people have seen before me. Understanding these constellations brought the night sky alive and told stories whose characters are bedecked in the very stars. And this got me thinking about the metaphor Paul uses. What does it mean to shine like stars in the Christian story? What does it mean for a person to burn brightly against the inky blackness of night? And particularly, as Christians around the world remember the account of the magi—the astrologers who followed a star that eventually stopped over the place where the young Jesus lay—is the same story being told in expectancy, hope, and light today?

Well, there are, of course, many different types of stars, but the hope I take from that starry evening centers around a few vivid memories. To begin with, constellations are made up of stars which, on their own, would be but one small, glowing dot in the darkness, but together form a bigger picture; together, they tell a more powerful story. Nobody has heard of the star “Merak,” for instance, but everyone has heard of the constellation it is a part of: the “Big Dipper” or the “Plough,” one of the most famous formations in the sky. Together, stars in constellations tell a story greater than their individual parts, and how true this is of people as well. It’s best not to judge a religion by the testimony of one bold but fleeting light. Rather, the constellation of millions through the centuries, the example of believers young and old, across tribes and nations, the witness of those who first beheld the events of Jesus of Nazareth—these are the stars that light the universe with something to ponder.

Moreover, constellations don’t stand still. They move. In particular, they rotate, slowly wheeling around a singular fixed point in the night sky—the “North” or “Pole” Star. Significantly, Christians together tell the story of hope in darkness when their axis is God alone—not an issue or a common interest—but the person of Christ who was born, died, and raised. The expectant Christian story continues to be told, as it was to the magi long ago, when the Christ child is the fixed point, our north star, our pole star, when it is he who determines how we move and turn.

Many years ago Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote, “If it is I who determine where God is to be found, then I shall always find a God who corresponds to me in some way, who is obliging, who is connected with my own nature. But if God determines where he is to be found, then it will be in a place which is not immediately pleasing to my nature and which is not at all congenial to me. This place is the Cross of Christ. And whoever would find him must go to the foot of the Cross, as the Sermon on the Mount commands.”(2)

To sailors and navigators, before the invention of GPS, the North Star was crucial; by orientating oneself to it, you could find your way home through the wildest seas. Likewise, it is Christ’s story that makes the collective light of Christianity shine brightly amidst the darkness. It is Jesus himself, around which everything turns, who is heaven’s bright sun, whose radiance glows brighter than the brightest star, so much so that the new heavens and the new earth need neither sun nor moon. The splendor of this sight is worth beholding indeed.

Andy Bannister is a member of the speaking team at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Toronto, Canada.

(1) Philippians 2:12-16.

(2) Eric Metaxas, Bonhoeffer: Pastor, Martyr, Prophet, Spy (Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 2010), 137.

 

Ravi Zacharias

Ravi Zacharias Ministry –  SHINE LIKE STARS

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Ravi Z

I recall with clarity a night when my wife and I were on vacation in California. We had spent the day hiking in the mountains and in the afternoon had descended to explore the mysterious and ancient landscape of Mono Lake, one of the oldest lakes in North America. Pinned to the information board by the parking lot was a sign advertising a talk by a park ranger that very evening: “Stars over Mono Lake.” And so it was. That evening we found ourselves lying on the ancient sands, looking up at a night sky in which a million points of light glowed with an intensity I’d never seen before. The air was cold and clear, the hauntingly beautiful desert silence broken only by the occasional howl of a lonely coyote, cry of an insomniac gull, or call for help of a distant and woefully lost tourist.

But it was the sky that really struck me. I’d never seen it so beautiful before. In the city where we live, light pollution drowns out the splendor of the stars. Lights do punctuate the Toronto night, but they tend to be of the red-amber-green-red variety. What I was seeing, lying on those freezing sands at Mono Lake, was the spectacular sight of the night sky in all its glory. It was, for me, God’s handiwork writ large as a myriad of stars lay twinkling above me. I was awestruck and listened with fascination at the park ranger’s talk on the stars above, in particular the various constellations that slowly wheeled in front of us: the Big Dipper, Cassiopeia, Orion, Aquarius.

And as I looked up, I was reminded of a biblical passage about stars, one that is meant to be descriptive of Christians. The apostle Paul is speaking to the Philippian believers about the kind of community their association with Jesus compels them to be: “Therefore, my dear friends… do everything without complaining or arguing, so that you may become blameless and pure, children of God without fault in a crooked and depraved generation, in which you shine like stars in the universe as you hold out the word of life.”(1)

When I heard that passage again a few months later, my mind was immediately cast back to that night at Mono Lake and to the journey of the constellations and patterns that generations of people have seen before me. Understanding these constellations brought the night sky alive and told stories whose characters are bedecked in the very stars. And this got me thinking about the metaphor Paul uses. What does it mean to shine like stars in the Christian story? What does it mean for a person to burn brightly against the inky blackness of night? And particularly, as Christians around the world remember the account of the magi—the astrologers who followed a star that eventually stopped over the place where the young Jesus lay—is the same story being told in expectancy, hope, and light today?

Well, there are, of course, many different types of stars, but the hope I take from that starry evening centers around a few vivid memories. To begin with, constellations are made up of stars which, on their own, would be but one small, glowing dot in the darkness, but together form a bigger picture; together, they tell a more powerful story. Nobody has heard of the star “Merak,” for instance, but everyone has heard of the constellation it is a part of: the “Big Dipper” or the “Plough,” one of the most famous formations in the sky. Together, stars in constellations tell a story greater than their individual parts, and how true this is of people as well. It’s best not to judge a religion by the testimony of one bold but fleeting light. Rather, the constellation of millions through the centuries, the example of believers young and old, across tribes and nations, the witness of those who first beheld the events of Jesus of Nazareth—these are the stars that light the universe with something to ponder.

Moreover, constellations don’t stand still. They move. In particular, they rotate, slowly wheeling around a singular fixed point in the night sky—the “North” or “Pole” Star. Significantly, Christians together tell the story of hope in darkness when their axis is God alone—not an issue or a common interest—but the person of Christ who was born, died, and raised. The expectant Christian story continues to be told, as it was to the magi long ago, when the Christ child is the fixed point, our north star, our pole star, when it is he who determines how we move and turn.

Many years ago Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote, “If it is I who determine where God is to be found, then I shall always find a God who corresponds to me in some way, who is obliging, who is connected with my own nature. But if God determines where he is to be found, then it will be in a place which is not immediately pleasing to my nature and which is not at all congenial to me. This place is the Cross of Christ. And whoever would find him must go to the foot of the Cross, as the Sermon on the Mount commands.”(2)

To sailors and navigators, before the invention of GPS, the North Star was crucial; by orientating oneself to it, you could find your way home through the wildest seas. Likewise, it is Christ’s story that makes the collective light of Christianity shine brightly amidst the darkness. It is Jesus himself, around which everything turns, who is heaven’s bright sun, whose radiance glows brighter than the brightest star, so much so that the new heavens and the new earth need neither sun nor moon. The splendor of this sight is worth beholding indeed.

Andy Bannister is a member of the speaking team at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Toronto, Canada.

(1) Philippians 2:12-16.

(2) Eric Metaxas, Bonhoeffer: Pastor, Martyr, Prophet, Spy (Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 2010), 137.

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Ravi Zacharias Ministry – Beyond Scars

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I have always found it immeasurably comforting that Jesus gave Simon the name “Cephas,” or Peter, before Cephas had done much of anything. Before Peter had even determined to follow Jesus, let alone serve him or love him as the Christ, before Peter had muttered his denials of knowing Jesus or had one of his moments of blurted insight, before Jesus had reason to call Peter “Satan,” Jesus called him the “Rock.”(1)

What does this say? First, it says a great deal about who Jesus is. He is willing to vouch for us. Before you even know what you stand for, he is willing to stand up for you. And second, it reminds us that we are more than the sum of our blunders and failings, as well as our victories and our bright spots. As the apostle Paul wrote to the Romans: “But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us” (Romans 5:8). Before we had a chance to prove ourselves, before we had a chance to fall on our faces or say something fairly smart, Christ knew that he would die to show us the reach of his love. And he did.

Still, Peter is the disciple that makes many of us feel okay about ourselves. He is a loud statement to the hopeless, to the skeptic, to the guilt-ridden that God can take our doubt, our regret, the hopelessness of our past or our present, and create something solid by giving us the Son. In Peter we find that pains of regret and faithlessness may leave a permanent mark, but that even scars can be reminders of the living hope we profess. Or as Peter calls it, “the Word that will not wither.”(2)

Even so, when we look at our own moments of faithlessness or foolishness, those marks of humiliation, the bitter sting of missed and lost opportunities, it is hard to see much beyond regret and remorse, even if we were once told that Jesus had forgiven us. Can there be more to see in the weight of our past, the glimpses of guilty motives, disappointments, and poor behavior? The testimony of Peter himself is that yes, very definitely, there is.

Peter’s passion for Christ was no doubt shaped by the pain and humiliation of denying him. “If we are faithless, God remains faithful, for God cannot deny Himself” (2 Timothy 2:13). Scars indeed have a way of reminding us that we are alive, participating in this fragile thing called life. Some of my own remind me that I am not an island, that I need people, that I desperately need a savior, that I need God in all that I face. Still others remind me that I am healed or being healed. But even Peter’s most indelible marks were nothing beside the mark of the risen Christ upon his life.

When Jesus appeared to the gathered, frightened disciples after the horror of the cross, he said to them, “See my hands and my feet, that it is me. Touch me and see” (Luke 24:39). The disciples had gathered together to discuss the rumors some had heard that Christ was alive and out of the grave, risen from the cruel death they had witnessed just days earlier. They were disoriented and afraid, and Jesus told them to look at his hands and feet, which had been pierced. And to Thomas, “Put your finger here, and see my hands; and put out your hand, and place it in my side.”(3) To his closest friends, Jesus said, “Look at my scars, see that it is me. Recognize me by my scars; they will point you to God.”

Far beyond any scar we might bear, the wounds of Christ point us to one who touches our disfigured world with his own humanity. He was crushed for our iniquities. By his stripes we are healed. No doubt, it was this piercing reality of Jesus bearing the scars of human failure, carrying our pain, and taking our shame, that Peter bore in mind as he dynamically instructed any who would listen: “Throw all your anxieties upon him, because he cares about you!”(4) For Peter, of all people, knew this well.

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

(1) John 1:42.

(2) See 1 Peter 24-25.

(3) John 20:27.

(4) 1 Peter 5:7.

Ravi Zacharias

Ravi – A Different Healing

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Ravi Z
Why Won’t God Heal Amputees? is a popular website and one-time viral YouTube video. The basic premise of the content is that God doesn’t answer prayer since God has never healed an amputee, and by extension doesn’t heal every person of every infirmity. God, therefore, does not really exist.
While there are obvious false assumptions made about God, prayer, and healing (how does one know that in the whole world God has not healed an amputee, for starters) many who do pray for healing often fail to experience it in the way they expect. Healing rarely parallels a conventional or traditional sense of that word. Loved ones die of cancer, friends are killed in car accidents, economic catastrophe befalls even the most frugal, and people in much of the developing world die from diseases long cured in the West. Beyond the realm of physical healing, many experience emotional and psychological trauma that leave open and festering wounds. Or, there are those perpetual personality ticks and quirks that seem beyond the reach of the supernatural. Given all of this contrary experience, what does it mean to receive healing, and should one hold out hope that healing can come in this world? Specifically, for those who pray, and for those who believe that God does heal, how might the persistence of wounds—psychological, emotional and physical—be understood?
In a recent New York Times article, Marcia Mount Shoop writes of her horrific rape as a fifteen year-old girl.(1) A descendant of three generations of ministers, she ran to the safest place she knew—the church. Yet as she stood amid the congregants singing hymns and reciting creeds, she felt no relief. Even her favorite verse from Romans—”And we know that in all things God works for good with those who love him”—sounded hollow and brought little comfort. How could she ever be healed of this horrific act of violence perpetrated against her will?
Once at home, alone with the secret of her rape, Marcia Shoop found something that enabled her to survive. “I felt Jesus so close,” she recalled in an interview. “It wasn’t the same Jesus I experienced at church. It was this tiny, audible whisper that said, ‘I know what happened. I understand.’ And it kept me alive, that frayed little thread.” (2)
The hope that Jesus was physically close to her in her pain led Ms. Shoop to become a minister herself more than a quarter century after her horrific rape. It also led her to more deeply connect her body with her soul and mind. This reconnection of the body with soul and with mind is where she experienced what she would call “healing.” God was with her in the living, breathing, physical reality of Jesus who likewise continued to bear the wounds of his own crucifixion and torture after the gospel writers testify to him having been raised from the dead.
The Gospel of John records the risen Jesus as inviting Thomas to “reach your finger and see my hands; and reach your hand, and put it into my side.”(3) Jesus was not a disembodied spirit without flesh and blood as a result of his resurrection from the dead. He was a body, and a body that was wounded. Even the resurrection did not take away his bodily scars! This reality can bring great hope to those who follow Jesus and to those who wonder about how they might find healing at all. For healing did not equate a lack of wounding, or physical perfection—being untouched by the sorrow and suffering of a world gone horribly wrong—even for Jesus.
For Ms. Shoop, healing didn’t mean the total erasure of the pain and horror of her rape, as difficult as it was to bear that wound. But it meant that she encountered the wounded God in the person of Jesus who continued to bear the scars and wounds of his crucifixion. As she recalled, “What happened to me wasn’t “for the good,” referring again to her favorite passage in Romans. But God took the garbage, the stench [of that horrible event] and gently, tenderly, indignantly wove it into this moment of redemption. What a gift.”(4)
Healing is not a gift that comes instantly, nor does it always look like what we expect. It is often a slow, painful journey through the void and desolation of suffering. It will not erase our wounds. Yet, the promise of resurrection, of new life that comes even with wounded hands and sides, offers another picture of healing where being an ‘amputee’ might be honored and redeemed.
Margaret Manning Shull is a member of the speaking and writing team at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Bellingham, Washington.
(1) Samuel G. Freedman, “A Rape Survivor Now Ministers Body and Soul,” The New York Times Online, June 29, 2012, accessed June 29, 2012.
(2) Ibid.
(3) John 20:27.
(4) Samuel G. Freedman, “A Rape Survivor Now Ministers Body and Soul,” The New York Times Online, June 29, 2012, accessed June 29, 2012.

Ravi Zacharias

Ravi – Transforming Questions

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Ravi Z
When I consider the person and experience of Job, I am always struck that his story is in some sense a part of our own. Though few have known the intensity of Job’s affliction, many have known the urgency and agony of loaded questions aimed at the heavens. Religious or otherwise, seldom can one fail to recall a time marked by such restlessness, a yearning for answers amidst hopelessness, confusion, or lament. For many, it is the tender age of adolescence; for others it is the inquisitive years of college, the emptiness of a midlife crisis, or, like Job, the impenetrable fog of tragedy.
Sitting in the dust and ashes of my own confusion, like Job, a thousand questions once seemed to define my journey. And also like Job, I discovered that the sort of peace that transcends understanding is not at all a matter of dumbing down the questions or forgetting them and the lament they harbor altogether. Often, rather, a disruption in the interrogation comes with an unexpected exchange of seats and in the form of a question from God. For me, as for Job, it was: Who are you?
If the whole story of Scripture is held together as one, at heart is the convicting jolt that the journey to honestly knowing God cannot exist apart from the journey of honestly knowing one’s self. I remembering praying fervently that God would just show me what I needed to know: Lord, show me who you are so that I can learn to see You. I also distinctly remember the thought occurring to me that maybe God really did know me better than I knew myself. It was as if God responded: Let me show you who you are so that you might learn to see Me. After all, as C.S. Lewis once asked, “How can we see God until we have faces?”(1)
In one of his books from the Chronicles of Narnia, Lewis describes the great Aslan tearing the costume off the child in front of him. The child writhes in pain from the razor sharp claws that feel as though they pierce his very being. With mounting intensity, Aslan rips away layer after layer, until the child is absolutely certain he will die from the agony. But when it is all over and every last layer has been removed, the child delights in the freedom, never before realizing the extra weight of the costume that he carried.
The end of Job’s story holds a similar transformation. As the once-questioning Job finds himself completely powerless to respond to God’s own stifling questions, he seems to see a part of himself for the first time. But not in terms of condemnation as some conclude. Job indeed sees the façade and the masks he has spoken behind, the partial veil that covered his eyes even as he questioned in anger and agony. But he also sees in mystery and reverence the one who stands before him. And it is this vision that moves him to admit he may have spoken out of turn. This is not the image of a child who has finally given up the exasperating fight with the parent who simply spoke louder. “Surely I spoke of things I did not understand,” says Job, “things too wonderful for me to know.” It is a child not repenting for his lament or his questions, but realizing that God is God and that this somehow, mysteriously, transforms both the questions… and questioner.
Job’s agonizing story is not our own, and yet there are parts of his questioning, lamenting posture before God that offers a sense of human solidarity and the disrupting hope of a restorative God in the fragile midst of that humanity. After all of the suffering and death early in the book, at the end of the book, Job has seven more sons and three more daughters. Old Testament professor Ellen Davis makes the important note that this is not a “replacement” of the children Job lost, as if that were even a possibility. Rather, she suggests that the “clearest expression of the renewal of Job’s mind” is “his willingness to have more children.”(2) Job knows all too well the realities of loss and human fragility. And yet, he pours himself again into the lives of fragile, mortal children. Davis powerfully concludes: “This book is not about justifying God’s actions; it is about Job’s transformation. It is useless to ask how much (or how little) it costs God to give more children. The real question is how much it costs Job to become a father again. How can he open himself again to the terrible vulnerability of loving those whom he cannot protect against suffering and untimely death?”(3)
Job’s story does not give us a direct answer to that question. And yet, the two images of Job that come at either end of his story hint at the sort of transformation only a creative God could achieve, a God whose love can arise even from the whirlwind of a thousand questions.
Jill Carattini is managing editor of A Slice of Infinity at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia.
(1) C.S. Lewis, Till We have Faces, question taken from book’s title and theme.
(2) Ellen Davis, Getting Involved with God: Rediscovering the Old Testament (Lanham, Maryland: Rowman & Littlefield, 2001), 141.
(3) Ibid., 142.

Ravi Zacharias

Ravi Zachrious – THINK AGAIN – DEEP QUESTIONS

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Ravi Z
We are living in an era when apologetics is indispensable, but at the same time, we need a Christian apologetic that is not merely heard—it must also be seen. The field of apologetics deals with the hard questions posed to the Christian faith. Having had deep questions myself, I listen carefully to the questions raised. I always bear in mind that behind every question is a questioner. The convergence of intellectual and existential struggles drives a person to a brutal honesty in the questions they have.
The gospel of Jesus Christ is beautiful and true, yet oftentimes one will ask, “How can it be true that there is only one way?” Odd, isn’t it, that we don’t ask the same questions of the laws of nature or of any assertion that lays claim to truth. We are discomfited by the fact that truth, by definition, is exclusive. That is what truth claims are at their core. To make an assertion is to deny its opposite. Rather than complain that there is only one way, shouldn’t we be delighted that there is one way?
The question really is, how do we really know this is the truth?
Whether Hitler or Hugh Hefner, religious or irreligious, everyone has a worldview. A worldview basically offers answers to four necessary questions: origin, meaning, morality, and destiny. In turn, these answers must be correspondingly true on particular questions and, as a whole, all answers put together must be coherent.
Taking it a step further, the three tests for truth must be applied to any worldview: logical consistency, empirical adequacy, and experiential relevance. When submitted to these tests, the Christian message is utterly unique and meets the demand for truth.
Consider the empirical test of the person, teaching, and work of Jesus Christ. A look at human history shows why he was who he claimed to be and why millions follow him today. A comparison of Jesus’s teachings with any other claimant to divine or prophetic status quickly shows the profound differences in their claims and demonstrations. In fact, none except Jesus even claimed to be the divine Savior. His offer of grace and forgiveness by being the perfect sacrifice of our offense is profoundly unique.
I position the sequence of fact and deduction in the following way: Love is the supreme ethic. Where there is the possibility of love, there must be the reality of free will. Where there is the reality of free will, there will inevitably be the possibility of sin. Where there is sin, there is the need for a Savior. Where there is a Savior, there is the hope for redemption. Only in the Judeo-Christian worldview does this sequence find its total expression and answer. The story from sin to redemption is only in the gospel with the ultimate provision of a loving God.
But the question can be pushed back further. Does this not all assume that there is a God? Yes, it does, and there are four stages in the argument. The first is that no matter how we section physical concrete reality, we end up with a quantity that cannot explain its own existence. If all material quantities cannot explain their own existence, the only possibility for self-explanation would be something that is non-material.
Secondly, wherever we see intelligibility, we find intelligence behind it. Thirdly, we intuitively know that our moral reasoning points to a moral framework within the universe. The very fact that the problem of evil is raised either by people or about people intimates that human beings have intrinsic worth. Fourthly, the human experience in history and personal encounter sustains the reality of the supernatural.
There you have it. Who is God? He is the nonphysical, intelligent, moral first cause, who has given us intrinsic worth and who we can know by personal experience.
The verification of what Jesus taught and described and did make belief in Him a very rationally tenable and an existentially fulfilling reality. From cosmology to history to human experience, the Christian faith presents explanatory power in a way no other worldview does. Our faith and trust in Christ is reasonably grounded and experientially sustained.
I often put it this way: God has put enough into this world to make faith in Him a most reasonable thing. But He has left enough out to make it impossible to live by sheer reason alone. Faith and reason must always work together in that plausible blend.
Many of you may be familiar with my own story. I was born to Indian parents and raised in India. My ancestors were priests from the highest caste of Hinduism in India’s Deep South. But that was several generations ago. I came to Christ after a life of protracted failure and unable to face the consequences, sought to end it all. It was on a bed of suicide that a Bible was brought to me and in a cry of desperation, I invited Jesus Christ into my life. It was a prayer, a plea, a commitment, and a hope.
That was fifty years ago. I hardly knew what lay ahead of me, except that I was safe in Christ’s hands. Now as the years have gone by and in 2014 we celebrate thirty years of ministry at RZIM, I marvel at the grace and protection of God and the doors he has opened for our team. And more and more, I am convinced that Jesus Christ alone uniquely answers the deepest questions of our hearts and minds.

Our Daily Bread — Think Of Them No More
Isaiah 43:22-28
I, even I, am He who blots out your transgressions for My own sake; and I will not remember your sins. —Isaiah 43:25
My early years as a believer in Christ were laden with foreboding. I had the impression that when Jesus comes back, all my sins will be portrayed on a giant screen for everyone to see.
I know now that God chooses not to remember against me a single one of my transgressions. Every sin has been buried in the deepest sea, never to be exhumed and examined again.
Amy Carmichael wrote, “A day or two ago I was thinking rather sadly of the past—so many sins and failures and lapses of every kind. I was reading Isaiah 43, and in verse 24 I saw myself: ‘You have wearied me with your iniquities.’ And then for the first time I noticed that there is no space between verse 24 and verse 25: ‘I, even I, am He who blots out your transgressions for My own sake; and I will not remember your sins.’”
Indeed, when our Lord comes back He will “bring to light the hidden things of darkness and reveal the counsels of the hearts. Then each one’s praise will come from God” (1 Cor. 4:5). On that day our works will be tried and we may suffer loss, but we will not be judged for sin (3:11-15). God will see what Christ has done for us. He “will not remember [our] sins.” —David Roper
Where no far-reaching tide with its powerful sweep
May stir the dark waves of forgetfulness deep,
I have buried them there where no mortal can see!
I’ve cast all thy sins in the depths of the sea. —Anon.
When God saves us, our sins are forgiven forever.
Bible in a year: Proverbs 16-18; 2 Corinthians 6
Insight
God’s people had been unfaithful and had stubbornly refused to repent and return to God (Isa. 43:22-24). Yet despite their sins and guilt, God in His mercy said He would forgive them (v.25), even though they were undeserving of His favor (v.26). From the time of “your first father and your mediators”—perhaps referring to Abraham and other covenantal leaders such as Moses—they were all sinners (v.27). Although their sins would be forgiven, they would still face the consequences of their actions and be disciplined through the exile (v.28).

Ravi Zacharias

Ravi Zacharias Ministry –   The Sounds of Hope

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Ravi Z

Not long ago, I was listening to a collection of interviews and commentaries on the subject of spirituality in the West. Some of those interviewed were authors of best-selling books on various topics of religion and spirituality; others were interviewed simply as passersby on the street. “Who is God?” the interviewers asked repeatedly. “What does it mean to be a spiritual person?” The answers were as diverse as the notes in a concerto, but the composition was at best one of chaos and contradiction, perhaps more accurately described as a “symphony” in which everyone is encouraged to play privately, but in the same place, at the same time, the sounds or noise of their own choosing. I came to the end and could only sigh: “How can anyone muddle through such a racket?”

The current state and practice of popular spirituality in West at times brings to mind words spoken by the prophet Jeremiah. It is a “discipline of delusion” to chase after spiritually as if it were a matter of preference and not a matter pertaining to what is real. “They are altogether stupid and foolish,” writes Jeremiah, “In their discipline of delusion—their idol is wood” (10:8).

Millions and millions of people confess to believe in God, to know God, to consider God in some way. But does our confession of God in these moments pertain to what is real or true? Can the starting point of such knowledge begin anywhere else? In the book of Romans, Paul writes of those who follow God not as God but as something less—something corrupted at their own hands—and so end up chasing darkness. He writes, “For even though they knew God… they became futile in their speculations… They exchanged the truth of God for a lie, and worshiped and served created things rather than the Creator.”(1)

Who is it we say that we know? Do our speculations lead us astray or lead us closer to the truth of God? Are they the sort of speculations we can hold before scenes of life and death? The apostle Paul describes the God he knows as one “who gives life to the dead and calls things that are not as though they were” (Romans 4:17). This is not his way of relegating our knowledge of God as something important only for the next life. On the contrary, the apostle wants us to see the resounding hope of a God who can hold life and death in a way that our delusional speculations of God cannot.

Death indeed has a way of questioning our knowledge of God. In death we are reminded—or startled to the memory—of God’s status in life. Is it sovereignty or simply therapeutic? We are reminded similarly of life’s most significant answers. Why do I believe this? Who is this I say I believe in and what does that mean? In the midst of such questions we are alert to the richest sounds of belief: Do I believe because I have encountered the goodness of God or because I want God to bring me good things? “God is convenient,” or “God wants me to be happy” are very different songs than “God has come near” or “God has become one of us.” As good theology is the best answer to life’s crises, death is a plea to the importance of sound hope. In the words of the prophet Isaiah: “You keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on you” (Isaiah 26:3). When life is shaken, when the misleading sounds of our own preferences fall flat, we find that our knowledge of God is either a resounding consolation or a blaring delusion.

I attended an Easter morning service more than a decade ago that continues to resonate in mind. It was held in a cemetery. Surrounded by silent stones, each one marking a life put to rest, with the sting of a loved one’s death still fresh in my mind, we sang:

Lives again our glorious King,

Where, O death, is now thy sting?

Once He died our souls to save,

Where thy victory, O grave?

Soar we now where Christ hath led,

Following our exalted Head,

Made like Him, like Him we rise,

Ours the cross, the grave, the skies.

In the vicarious humanity of the risen Christ, death and is swallowed up in victory for life. Our human mediator has won, and humanity shall win. The resounding consolation of knowing Christ is one that can hold the world in hope and make us long for the kingdom to come.

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

Ravi Zacharias

Ravi Zacharias Ministry –  Last Enemy

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Ravi Z

In spite of the proverbial certainty of death and taxes, the human psyche has always dreamed of discovering loopholes in whatever mechanisms fix the limits. Yet though it might be possible to cheat on one’s taxes, “cheating death” remains a phrase of wishful-thinking applied to incidences of short-lived victories against our own mortality. Eventually, death honors its ignominious appointment with all of us, calling the bluff of the temptation to believe that we are the masters of our own destiny. But despite the universal, empirical verification of its indiscriminate efficiency, we continue to be constantly surprised whenever death strikes. Only a painfully troubled life can be so thoroughly desensitized against its ugliness as to not experience the throbbing agony of the void it creates within us whenever the earthly journey of a loved one comes to an end.

Such a peculiar reaction to an otherwise commonplace occurrence points strongly to the fact that this world is not our home. As Ecclesiastes 3:11 explains, God has put eternity in our hearts, and therefore the mysterious notion that we are not meant to die is no mere pipe dream: it sounds a clarion call to the eternal destiny of our souls. If the biblical record is accurate, there is no shame or arrogance in pitching our hopes for the future as high as our imaginations will allow. Actually, the danger is that our expectations may be too low, for “No eye has seen, no ear has heard, no mind has conceived what God has prepared for those who love him.”(1) Far from being the accidental byproducts of a mindless collocation of atoms, we are indestructible beings whose spiritual radars, amidst much static noise, are attuned to our hearts’ true home.

Trouble begins, however, when we try to squeeze that eternal existence into our earthly lives in a manner that altogether denies our finite natures. We do so whenever we desensitize ourselves against the finality of death through repeated exposure to stage-managed destruction of human life through the media. Or we zealously seek ultimate fulfillment in such traitorous idols as pleasure, material wealth, professional success, power, and other means, without taking into account the fleeting nature of human existence. Or we broach the subject of death only when we have to, and even then we feel the need to couch it in palatable euphemisms. With some of our leading intellectuals assuring us that we have pulled ourselves up by our own bootstraps and we therefore have no need for God, the only thing missing from our lives seems to be the tune of “Forever Young” playing in the cosmic background. A visitor from outer space would probably conclude that only the very unlucky ones die, while the rest of us are guaranteed endless thrill-rides through space aboard this green planet.

But such a visitor would promptly be treated to the rude awakening that even the most self-assured of human beings are still in transit. While it is possible to sustain a façade of total control within the confines of material comforts, a functional government, and a reasonable distance from the darker side of human suffering, this opportunity is not equally shared around the globe. It would take a very specialized form of education to believe in the ability of human beings to control their own destiny when hundreds of people are being put to the sword, homes are being razed to the ground, and your neighbors are fleeing for their lives—a scenario my family lived through in Kenya. Unlike their counterparts elsewhere, news anchors in this part of the world rarely preface their gruesome video clips with viewer discretion warnings, and so the good, the bad, and the ugly are all deemed equally fit for public consumption.

Affronted by such an in-your-face, unapologetic reality of human mortality, one finds oneself face to face with a dilemma: why should you devote all of your energy to making a meaningful difference in the world if it is true that everything done under the sun will eventually amount to zero? Once one has come to the conclusion that the emperor has no clothing, what sense does it make to keep up with the pretense? Sadly, some see through the emptiness and choose to end their own lives. From a naturalistic perspective, that seems to be a perfectly consistent step to take.

Yet the Bible grasps this nettle with astounding authority. Not only has God placed a yearning for our true home in our hearts, God has also promised to cloth the perishable with the imperishable and the mortal with immortality through Christ’s own death (1 Corinthians 15:54). In the meantime, the light of the gospel shines an eternal perspective upon our service unto God and humanity, fusing all of our activities with significance. When the call of God has been answered, nothing that is done in obedience to the Father, as the Son himself confirmed in life and death, is ever trivial. Thus even in the face of suffering and death, as a follower of Christ, I neither bury my head in the sand nor grope blindly in total darkness. With faithfulness and joy, I enthusiastically render service to my God,

And when my task on earth is done,

When by thy grace the victory’s won,

Even death’s cold wave I will not flee,

Since God through Jordan leadeth me.(2)

J.M. Njoroge is a member of the speaking team at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia.

(1) 1 Corinthians 2:9.

(2) From the 1862 hymn, He Leadeth Me, by Joseph Gilmore.

Ravi Zacharias

Ravi Zacharias Ministry –   Questions of Power

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Ravi Z

A story told in the Hebrew scriptures offers a dramatic interplay of manipulation and honor, kings and kingdoms, power and powerlessness. It is the story more commonly known as “Daniel and the Lion’s Den.” But this title, accurate though it is in terms of the dramatic climax, actually misses the main actors entirely. Ultimately, the story is a depiction of power and weakness at play in two very different kingdoms and communities. On one side stands Darius, the mighty king and ruler of the people and nations, powerful sovereign of the powerful majority. On the other side is the God of Daniel, king of a community in exile, the ruler of a minority people whose city lies in ruins. The question of sovereignty seems as though it has already been answered quite definitively.

Most of us are not familiar with the devastating encounter of the powerlessness of exile and the forcible display of the powers that created it. Nonetheless, every aspect of our lives is touched by issues of power and weakness. The question of control and power is common to our relationships, communities, politics, business, education, and religion. Unfortunately, our common experience of the struggle is not to say we are well or healthily adjusted to it, far from it. Of course, it is easiest for those who actually hold any given power to be the most unaware of the dynamics of powerlessness upon others. For others, the struggle to be in control, to challenge authority, to make a name for ourselves, is largely thought of as a dynamic that is outgrown with adulthood. So in the face of authority issues, we say things like, “Teenagers will be teenagers!” Or we diagnose the battle to be in control as “middle child syndrome” or “terrible twos,” all the while failing to see our own struggle with similar dynamics. Still for others, questions of power involve wondering if they will ever have a voice, if anyone with power is listening or if they have been forgotten and silenced indefinitely. Admittedly, to be conscious of the struggle is far better than being complacent about the question of power in general.

The story told in Daniel 6 begins significantly with a king who is for all practical purposes very much in control. Daniel, a Hebrew slave in exile, is found by king Darius to be distinguished in a way the king believes he can make use of and Daniel is given a position of authority in the kingdom for the sake of the king. But as the story moves forward, we see king Darius played like a pawn and Daniel is found guilty by the law of the land. To his utter dismay, king Darius finds himself bound by the law that his own lips decreed. Darius is the most powerful king in the world, and yet he is powerless beside his own decree, powerless to save his trusted servant. Whether Darius himself sees the irony in his power and position, we are left to wonder.

Jewish theologian Abraham Heschel once noted that faith depends on what we do with our ultimate embarrassments. We are the greatest miracle on earth and do not see it; we search for sovereignty in things unsovereign and regard as ultimate what is not ultimate. We live in the shadow of a sovereign Creator, and we go on playing king and queen like we are in control anyway. In the face of injustice, with Jerusalem in ruins, the silenced Daniel nonetheless becomes a herald of God’s sovereignty, though control appeared to be so clearly in other hands. And to the exhilaration of Darius, Daniel emerges from the lion’s den unharmed, saved by the only one who could save him.

The story ends with the proclamation of a new decree by king Darius, the mighty one with power and a voice, here writing to “all peoples and nations of every language throughout the whole world” of a greater power:

“May you have abundant prosperity! I make a decree, that in all my royal dominion people should tremble and fear before the God of Daniel:

For he is the living God,

enduring for ever.

His kingdom shall never be destroyed,

and his dominion has no end.”(1)

The act of God in the lion’s den is indeed a plot that shows God as faithful and just, aware of the plight of the weak and silenced. But the act of God in the eyes of the mighty king Darius, who has recognized the superior might of a greater Sovereign, is perhaps the true sign and wonder. At the heart of the Christian religion is a God able to wield what is foolish to disrupt the wise, what is weak to disrupt the strong. At the crux of every question of power and weakness, sovereignty and control, is the Son of God who “emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, being born in human likeness, and being found in human form.”(2) The throne of our hearts will not remain empty; the question of sovereignty must be answered.

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

 

(1) Daniel 6:25-27.

(2) Philippians 2:7.