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Ravi Zacharias

Ravi Zacharias Ministry – A World of Glory

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As one who flies often, dying in an airplane crash has been one of my greatest fears. The horrifying descent of the Germanwings flight chronicled in the news recently, killing everyone including the one presumed responsible for the intentional downing of the plane, is a terror I cannot imagine. I cannot begin to fathom the sheer panic that must have reverberated as loudly in individual bodies as the pilot’s desperate pounding on the locked door of the cockpit during the last eight minutes of the passengers’ lives. This, to me, is a kind of terror that is unimaginable.

What were the terrors in the mind of the young co-pilot that would propel him to this hopeless end? What were the fears that haunted him? The deep depression that stalked him relentlessly throughout his young life must have pervaded and colored his view of himself, others, and the world. So marred was his view, that it would destroy his dream of being a pilot, and destroy all of the other dreamers he took down with him. What must he have thought as he turned the nose of the plane downward, or heard the screams of the passengers and crew just outside the cockpit door? No one will ever know, but in one way or another, an overwhelming terror subsumed him, as well.

I have as little understanding about the terrors involved in this tragedy as I do about my own compulsion to read article after article about this flight. Doing so only heightens my own fears and sorrow. Yet, I am compelled to do so—when any terrifying tragedy occurs—be it in the French Alps, at Garissa University, or in my own community. I cannot turn away from the stories of those who have experienced terror; those horrifying scenarios in our worst nightmares we hope will never see the light of day, until they do.

Even though we are bombarded with stories and images of terror every day, for most of us it is likely difficult to relate to terror of this magnitude. Yet, perhaps wanting to connect with these kinds of stories is a way in which we try to process our own terror. We can recall the terror of the dark at night. Some might remember the terror of a particular nightmare, or of being utterly lost in a strange place without a map or any sense of direction. Perhaps for some, terror is the experience of being alone, or the fear of a future without anyone in it. For others, terror is being with others who harm and abuse, ignore and neglect, or who berate and belittle. Whatever the experience that conjures our deepest fears, the commonality is the human experience of terror, as the Hebrew psalmist felt and gave voice to thousands of years ago:

My heart is in anguish within me,

the terrors of death have fallen upon me.

Fear and trembling come upon me,

and horror overwhelms me.

And I say, “O that I had wings like a dove!

I would fly away and be at rest”(1).

While it would be a mistake to claim for the Bible the same impulse that lies behind modern horror stories, there are large portions of the Bible filled with terror. Whether the forces of nature, personal or national enemies, or God, stories of fear and terror are abundant. The story of Cain’s murder of Abel, the story of the flood, the offering of Isaac as a sacrifice, and Joseph’s being seized by his brothers are just a few examples all found within the very first book of the Bible.

Biblical scholars note that “the psalms are filled with vivid pictures of terror-sometimes recalled, sometimes averted, sometimes projected as coming in the future. The lament psalms often paint a heightened picture of the threat that surrounds the speaker-threats that lead the speaker to claim that his ‘bones are shaking with terror’ and that his ‘soul also is struck with terror.’”(2)

In the New Testament, Jesus paints a picture of the coming destruction of Jerusalem with people fleeing to the mountains in terror, anguished pregnant women, rumors of military invasion, famines and earthquakes. And of course, the whole passion of Jesus is an extended scene of terror. Not only do we witness the victimization of an innocent person condemned, but we are also led through a series of terrifying scenes of bodily mutilation and pain, accompanied by severe psychological suffering. Yet it is against this backdrop of terror—both recorded in the pages of Scripture and in our contemporary experience—that we sing in my church every Sunday:

Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God of Hosts:

Heaven and earth are full of your glory

As if by means of protest, I sing these words against the terror that is too much with us. But more than protest, I sing them in the hope that God is there in the midst of terror. I admit that sometimes when I sing the whole world is full of God’s glory after reading about yet another tragedy, I am perplexed at the ways in which God’s glory shines. But the glory of Christ crucified is no less mysterious, no less difficult. Yet I affirm this beauty as both protest against the darkness of this world and as the very sustenance of hope in a seemingly hopeless world.

Christians, having just celebrated the resurrection of Jesus on Easter, surely place their hope in the God who brings life from what was dead. The good news of the gospel proclaims that even in the most terrifying events, God is at work even there, even then, even now. And even in this most difficult world of sorrow, there is a King of Grief, one who came near enough to sorrow in kinship, and lead us to glory. And thus, we sing continually:

Heaven and earth are full of your glory,

Hosanna in the highest, Hosanna in the highest.

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

(1) See Psalm 55:4-6.

(2) Leland Ryken, James Wilhoit, Tremper Longman, Colin Duriez, Douglas Penney,& D. G. Reid, The Dictionary of Biblical Imagery (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 2000), Electronic ed., pp. 854–855.

 

Ravi Zacharias

Ravi Zacharias Ministry – A Fish in Water

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Ravi Z

Most of us recognize that there are forces at work in our world that make communicating more akin to communicating across cultures—even within our home countries. Twitter, texting, and other forms of modern short-hand must be learned just as one would learn a new language. #margaretmanning, @ravizacharias, TTYL, LOL, and other combinations of letters form almost indiscernible words for the tweeting and texting uninitiated.

Beyond these new technological changes in language, simply moving from region to region within a country can mean another language, dialect, or even phrases that are unique to that particular place. Moving, as I did, several years ago from one part of the United States to another introduced me to a new world of sayings, customs, and local culture.

In a similar way, trying to find ways to communicate about matters of my own faith can feel like trying to cross a broken bridge. Beyond that, anyone who claims to present a clear language of faith speaks into a cacophony of languages claiming the same clarity. Is it any wonder, then, that blank stares are the all too often response to the particulars of the unique vocabulary of faith?

Yet everyone—even those who speak what seems to them a clear message—are also informed and shaped by a culture. Speech embodies a whole world of language, experience, and ways of understanding that experience, which in turn shapes the way in which individuals speak about beliefs and values.

There are, therefore, particular difficulties inherent in translation from within one’s own culture. An ancient Chinese proverb highlights this difficult task: “If you want a definition of water, don’t ask a fish.”(1) In other words, on what platform does one stand in order to speak into one’s own culture? We are products of the very culture into which we seek to communicate, and we can never fully stand outside our own culture. We are, in the words of the proverb, like fish trying to define water.

Notably, Christians affirm that the heart of the gospel message transcends culture and language, just as surely as it was originally proclaimed within a particular culture and language. After all, the good news of the gospel is about “the Word made flesh“—the Son of God stepping into humanity. Missiologist Lesslie Newbigin explains the dialogical nature of the gospel as a product of culture and yet as a trans-cultural communication when he suggests: “Every statement of the gospel in words is conditioned by the culture of which those words are part, and every style of life that claims to embody the truth of the gospel is a culturally conditioned style of life. There can never be a culture-free gospel. Yet the gospel, which is from the beginning to the end embodied in culturally conditioned forms, calls into question all cultures, including the one in which it was originally embodied.”(2)

Newbigin uses the conversion and transformation of Saul into the apostle Paul as a case in point. His trial before King Agrippa, as recorded in Acts 26, illuminates this cultural dialogue. As Paul shares the story of his conversion, he speaks the language of the Empire, Greek, and not his native Hebrew. Yet earlier, when he was blinded by “a light from heaven, brighter than the sun” and he heard a voice from heaven, it was not in the predominant Greek language. Paul tells Agrippa: “I heard a voice saying to me in the Hebrew dialect, ‘Saul, Saul, why are you persecuting me?’” Paul then asked who was speaking to him, and the voice answered, “I am Jesus whom you are persecuting.”

Newbigin suggests that this passage provides a means by which we can understand the challenges and the opportunities for gospel communication and translation from within a given culture.(3) First, just as Paul hears the as yet unnamed voice from heaven in his native tongue, the “voice” of the gospel must be offered in the language of the culture into which it is spoken. The gospel must be communicated in a way in which it can truly be heard, and we must accept that the way in which we present it will on some level embody that which is understood and experienced in a particular culture.

Truly communicating the gospel, however, means it will also call into question the way of understanding that is inherent in the culture. Saul truly believed his actions against the Christians were in keeping with the God-ordained desire to preserve and protect Jewish identity and purity of belief. Yet, the voice from heaven revealed that this devotion of Saul was a form of persecution against the very God he claimed to serve.

Finally, as Christians seek to clearly translate and communicate the gospel, conversion is the work of God. No human persuasion, no lofty speculation ever accomplishes the work of conversion. This is God’s work alone accomplished by the Holy Spirit, and those who bear witness in multiple cultural contexts can depend on the work of the Spirit to accomplish what God desires. “[I]n the mysterious providence of God, a word spoken comes with the kind of power of the word that was spoken to Saul on the road to Damascus…it causes the hearer to stop, turn around, and go in a new direction, to accept Jesus as Lord, Guide, and Savior.”(4)

The communication of the gospel into every culture is filled with challenges and opportunities. Without the work of careful translation, Christians can sound as if they are babbling in a foreign tongue. On the other hand, they may immerse themselves so much in cultural study and experience that they lose the prophetic power of gospel proclamation. Indeed, as culture-bound people, there is always a risk of proclaiming a version of the gospel that is more cultural than Christian. Can Christians be willing to hear the radical call to conversion in their own proclamation? Making room for in these proclamations for the transformational work of the Spirit, there is hope that the unique message of God’s deliverance in Christ will not be lost either on the one who hears or the one who speaks.

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

(1) Cited in Lesslie Newbigin, Foolishness to the Greeks (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1986), 21.

(2) Ibid., 4.

(3) Ibid., 5.

(4) Ibid., 7-8.