What Truth Costs
Taken from Grand Central Question: Answering the Critical Concerns of the Major Worldviews by Abdu Murray. Copyright (c) 2014 by Abdu Murray. Used by permission of InterVarsity Press, P.O. Box 1400, Downers Grove, IL 60515. www.ivpress.com.
His illness was grave, a heart condition as I recall, and he was facing a risky medical procedure. He had been in the hospital for several days before I was invited to visit him. Probably in his midfifties, he was alone in the United States as he waited for his children to arrive from the Middle East. He was no longer married, either because his wife had passed away or because they were divorced. But regardless, he was alone.
A woman who had heard me speak about Islam and my journey from Islam to Christ invited me to visit the man and share the gospel with him. She served as a Christian chaplain at the hospital and had stopped in to ask the man if he needed any spiritual support. He told her that he was a Muslim, and they struck up a conversation about their respective faiths and their opinions about Jesus. As their conversation progressed, his questions became increasingly difficult to answer, and the fact that English was his second language didn’t help. Having heard me talk about the evidence for the Christian faith and how it factored so heavily in my own conversion from Islam, she thought of me and asked the man if I could visit him to address his questions. He agreed, and she called me straightaway.
Before I knew it, I was riding up an elevator smelling of disinfectant to share Christ with a man I had never met. As the elevator doors opened on his floor, I expected to face many of the same challenges I myself had put to Christians who shared the gospel with me. Little did I realize that the usual intellectual and theological questions that Muslims lodge against the gospel would not be the main topic of our discussion. Instead, I would be reminded of something far more profound.
The harsh lights of his hospital room greeted us as my wife and I walked in at the chaplain’s invitation. She smiled and made our introductions. Despite his illness, the several tubes sticking out of him and the always-embarrassing hospital gown, the Muslim man exhibited quintessential Arab hospitality as he sat up to greet us, grasping my hand, saying “Marhaba”—hello in Arabic. I sat down next to his bed, and we made small talk. Soon, however, the conversation turned to the main reason for my visit. “So,” he began, “I understand that you used to be Muslim and may be able to answer some of my questions about Christianity.”
“Well, I guess we’ll find out,” I responded. “What questions do you have?”
And with that, he began. To be sure, he provided many of the usual questions Muslims ask about Jesus, the Bible and the gospel. Isn’t the Trinity polytheistic? Hasn’t the Bible been corrupted over time? How could God become a man and die a humiliating death on a cross? They were all objections I used to lodge against Christianity ad infinitum. Taking the questions at face value, I began to address them one by one.
I provided philosophical, theological, historical and scriptural answers to his questions, and he was a bit more open to them than most Muslims—but only a bit. As he offered up the usual rejoinders, I answered them. But still he was coolly resistant, stony even. In fact, with every answer, he became stonier and stonier. Frankly I was getting discouraged and somewhat frustrated, so I paused and turned things toward a different topic: his family.
His children were all he really had left. Having heard that their father was ill, his sons and daughters were making arrangements to fly to the States to see him. And when talk turned to his children, the first crack in his stony veneer appeared. His lip quivered just a bit, ever so slightly, but it was there. “Your children mean a lot to you, don’t they?” I asked.
“They are all I have in this life,” he answered in his heavy accent. “Without them, I may die in this country alone.”
“Do you believe that God is with you? That he cares about you and wants you to know him?”
“I believe that he is everywhere. But I’m not sure that I can ever know him,” he said. “God is too great for mere humans to know.” That is a belief many Muslims have, which is why this dear man was afraid that without his children he would die alone. It was so sad, yet so profound. I let his disclosure hover in the room a moment as I prayed for guidance about the next thing to say. And then it occurred to me.
I gathered up whatever boldness I was capable of and began the part of our conversation that really mattered. “We’ve been talking for some time now about the answers to your questions about the gospel. But can I ask you a personal question?”
“Please. Go ahead,” he answered, sounding more confident than his eyes suggested.
I swallowed hard and asked the question I feared might derail the discussion for good. “What would happen if you did become a Christian? What would your kids think or do?”
His eyes lowered as a slight sigh left his lungs. “They would disown me. It is unforgivable and a shame for me to become Christian.”
I knew that fear all too well. I had to face the possibility of such losses when I was wrestling with (and even against) the answers that Christianity offered to my toughest questions. “I know what it’s like to have to face that kind of rejection. I also know that the possibility of losing the people you love the most is a powerful reason to close your ears to the answers the gospel provides.”
The historical evidence, the philosophical and theological arguments—none of them—broke through the man’s stony veneer like the words I had just spoken. A tear escaped his eyes and rolled down his cheek. “Thank you,” he said, surprising me. “Thank you for understanding that I might lose everything if I even consider what you are saying.”
Though our conversation did not last much longer, the tenor changed dramatically from that moment on. After realizing that it was not the gospel itself that he had difficulty with, but the possible consequences of accepting it, he began to ask me follow-up questions instead of just lobbing rejoinders.
And then a minor miracle happened. Some Muslims will not even touch a Bible, fearing that it is an unclean corruption that pollutes them. But this Muslim man, having realized where his real difficulty lay, asked to keep the Arabic Bible I had in my hand. I gave it to him, put my hand on his shoulder and said, “Allah Ma’ak, Amu,” which means “God be with you, uncle.” (Arabs call male elders, even strangers, “uncle” as a sign of respect.)
The Trouble with Truth
As my wife and I walked into the hallway, I was reminded of the sober reality that truth has a cost. That cost may vary from person to person and from circumstance to circumstance, but there is no doubt that truth is costly.
My conversation with the Muslim man in the hospital punctuates this point in an important way. It shows us that while we often say that we love truth or that truth is important, we seldom actually mean what we say. Some years ago, I read a line from Judith Viorst’s play Love and Shrimp that humorously highlights our dance with and around the truth.
I made him swear he’d always tell me nothing but the truth
I promised him I never would resent it
No matter how unbearable, how harsh, how cruel
How come he thought I meant it?1
While whimsical, these words remind us how duplicitously we can act when it comes to truth. We can offer platitudes to imply we want the truth, no matter what it may mean, but we seldom act accordingly.
The famed thinker and writer C.S. Lewis was an atheist who eventually bowed his knee to Christ after being confronted with the credibility of the gospel. In his own words, Lewis was “the most dejected and reluctant convert in all England” when he finally gave his life to Jesus.2 In the opening pages of his classic work Mere Christianity, Lewis makes an insightful comment about the tension between our pursuit of truth and our desire for comfort: “If you look for truth, you may find comfort in the end: if you look for comfort, you will not get either comfort or truth—only soft soap and wishful thinking to begin with and, in the end, despair.”3
We know this deep within ourselves, do we not? We tend to take the path of least resistance. But when we do, we find that although that path provided the least resistance, we found plenty of resistance at the destination. Yet, time and again, we opt for comfort over truth. The tendency to sacrifice truth for comfort seems practically hardwired into our psyches. In saying this, I need look no further than my own past to see how often I sacrificed truth on the altar of my own comfort. As a Muslim, I did not want to admit that the gospel was true, that Jesus is who the Bible claims he is, because doing so would cost me dearly.
The cost of truth is quite plain and easy to grasp as a concept. It is the emotional barrier or personal bias that prevents a person from sincerely considering whether his worldview might be false and another worldview might be true. Though the concept is quite easy to understand, the consequences are quite easy to overlook. Lest we chalk our resistance to truth up to just pride or stubbornness, I suggest we look at history to see examples of just how high the cost of truth is.
Consider the most famous trial in history: Jesus of Nazareth standing before Pontius Pilate, the Roman governor of Judea. Jesus had been brought before Pilate on charges of blasphemy and of making himself a king over and above Caesar. Ironically, it was not Jesus who was really on trial, but Pilate. The Roman governor was face to face with the very One who claimed to be Truth Incarnate, “the way, and the truth, and the life” (John 14:6). And Pilate’s reaction to the truth was being put to the test.
Therefore Pilate said to Him, “So You are a king?” Jesus answered, “You say correctly that I am a king. For this I have been born, and for this I have come into the world, to testify to the truth. Everyone who is of the truth hears My voice.”
Pilate said to Him, “What is truth?” And when he had said this, he went out. (John 18:37-38 NASB)
Pilate asked the most important question he could have asked in light of Jesus’ statement equating his voice with truth. Pilate, the pagan Roman politician, had asked the Author of truth—Truth Incarnate—to describe truth for him. But he squandered the opportunity. He did not want an answer. He merely asked the question as a sarcastic, rhetorical device, having become fed up with the whole process. Pilate asked the right question but with the wrong motive. And it was because of the cost of truth.
The Gospel of Matthew provides further detail about how powerful the cost of truth was in this encounter. Matthew records that the night before Pilate’s encounter with Jesus, his wife had a dream about Jesus. It so disturbed her that she went to her husband the day of the trial to warn him (Matthew 27:19). But Pilate did not listen. He feared that the crowd might flare out of control if he did not hand Jesus over to be crucified (vv. 23-24). Pilate was concerned not with Jesus’ innocence or the truth of his claims; he was concerned only with the consequences of his decision to condemn or not condemn Jesus, regardless of the truth of the matter. He was too preoccupied with the cost of truth to see reality as it was. Is it not the irony of ironies that Pilate stood before someone claiming to be Truth Incarnate—who had just told him that if one recognizes truth, one recognizes his very voice—and yet Pilate failed to consider the matter sincerely because the consequences terrified him?
An Equal Opportunity Discourager
Though Pilate’s response to truth was dismal, we shouldn’t rush to deem ourselves to be superior, lest we judge hypocritically. I certainly have no room to do so. I can recall my own situation, having been a proud Muslim my whole life only to be confronted with the evidence for the gospel, yet wanting so desperately to deny it. My mind had accepted the overwhelming evidence establishing Jesus’ claims to be God’s Son and the Savior of the world through the cross. But I allowed that truth to be eclipsed by the looming losses I might suffer if I chose a life for Christ. Identity, close relationships, community, even safety—all were at risk if I followed Jesus. And the cost was just too much to bear, leading me to years of indecision and despair.
So many have shared their painful stories of rejection when they turned from their worldview to the gospel. Jewish friends who have embraced Jesus as the Messiah share how their families and communities cast them out, how their parents shouted with tears in their eyes, “You’ve betrayed us!” or “You’re killing Judaism!” In his book New Birth or Rebirth? Jesus Talks with Krishna, Ravi Zacharias recounts the true story of Subramaniam, a man born into the highest caste of orthodox Hindu priests, and how his family and community threatened his life when he chose to follow Christ.4 Interesting, is it not, that even Hindus, who hold to a religion that claims to be tolerant and inclusive, can suddenly become incredibly intolerant and exclusive when one of their own gives his life to Christ?
And Zacharias, himself a native-born Indian Christian from a Hindu Brahmin heritage, goes on to observe that “when a westerner is attracted to Eastern spirituality, the East claims credit for having had the answers all along. But should an easterner be attracted to Christianity, it is seen in the East as a betrayal of one’s culture. Ask any Christian from India and you will find that to be true.”5 Indeed, the cost of truth stirs up our duplicity quite powerfully.
Lest we think that the cost of truth impairs the judgments and perceptions of only the religiously minded, let us consider some frank statements from leading academic atheists that show how emotional barriers and biases factor into their rejection of God. Thomas Nagel, professor of philosophy at New York University, one of America’s leading institutions, candidly wrote,
I want atheism to be true. And I’m made uneasy by the fact that some of the most intelligent and well-informed people I know are religious believers. It isn’t that I don’t believe in God and naturally hope that I’m right in my beliefs, it’s that I hope there is no God. I don’t want there to be a God. I don’t want the universe to be like that.6
Doesn’t the cost of truth bubble over in that statement, practically startling us? Nagel candidly admits that he is uneasy because intelligent people are religious. He strongly implies that if there is a God, he will lose his hope. He doesn’t want God to exist. But if he rejects God because of purely evidential reasons, why the unease, why the loss of hope? Nagel admits that his atheism is not merely about intellectual conclusions, but about emotional desires.
Aldous Huxley is even more candid in exposing that his personal biases—even more than the evidence—influenced his rejection of God. In Ends and Means, he writes,
I wanted to believe the Darwinian idea. I chose to believe it not because I think there was enormous evidence for it, nor because I believed it had the full authority to give interpretation to my origins, but I chose to believe it because it delivered me from trying to find meaning and freed me to my own erotic passions.7
There it is again. Huxley, an intelligent and erudite thinker, did not embrace evolution because of the evidence. Nor did he reject God for the lack of it. Rather, he wanted to rid himself of the burden of trying to find meaning. He wanted no sexual restrictions. In other words, he did not want to pay the cost associated with belief in God. For Huxley, disbelief was not a matter of the mind, but a matter of the heart and will.
From those who come from religious backgrounds and communities to lofty academics and social commentators to those in positions of power, truth’s consequences can be a powerful motivating factor in allegiance to a worldview. We cling to our worldview and reject the possibility that another opposing worldview might be true, because so much about us is at stake in the debate. As journalist Upton Sinclair writes, “It is difficult to get a man to understand something, when his salary depends upon his not understanding it.”8
Counting the Cost
But why must we even bother to expose the cost in the first place? Why not leave one another to our personal biases and prejudices?
For Christians, the answer is simple. Jesus is Christians’ supreme example, and he challenged nearly everyone he met to confront their own biases and barriers. In fact, Jesus’ powerful admonitions were not reserved for those who were unwilling to follow him. No, he was an equal opportunity exposer of biases, leveling his critiques (especially) at his own followers. As his following increased greatly, Jesus asked the multitude of new disciples to consider whether they were really interested in embracing the truth he was offering, in light of the great cost that would come with it (Luke 14:27-33).
It’s interesting that Jesus challenged the crowd of people who chose to follow him to reconsider in light of what they would have to lose. Leaders who are primarily interested in self-glorification constantly think of ways to increase their following and are constantly worried about causing people to abandon them. A call to give the matter further reflection is just the kind of thing that might deflate a crowd’s enthusiasm and leave a leader standing alone. But Jesus was not interested in popularity. He was interested in the futures of all those he came in contact with, and he wanted them to think hard about what it would mean to follow him.
Likewise, we should not shrink from the sometimes unpleasant job of exposing barriers to truth. In fact, Jesus shows us that doing so is not harsh, but loving. Consider his encounter with a rich young man. The man asks Jesus, “Good Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?” (Mark 10:17). With a view toward addressing the man’s hidden assumptions, Jesus first answers him with a question: “Why do you call me good? No one is good except God alone” (v. 18). He asks this, forcing the rich man to consider the implications of his question.
And then, to expose the man’s hidden motivation in asking the question, Jesus references six important commandments from Exodus and Deuteronomy that the man likely knew well (v. 19). Taking the bait, the man shoots back a self-confident answer, “Teacher, all these I have kept from my youth” (v. 20). And with that response, he unwittingly lays bare an important truth that he has to come to grips with in order to truly follow Jesus. He knows that he has obeyed the commandments of how to act toward humanity and that he is able to proudly proclaim that fact to Jesus and all those around him. But still there is an underlying need to ask Jesus what more is expected of him.
There are two things at war within that rich man: the desire to justify himself and the subconscious knowledge that he can never really do so. Because the man’s desire to justify himself before God stands in the way of embracing that truth, Jesus seizes the opportunity to expose the man’s cost:
And Jesus looking at him, loved him, and said to him, “You lack one thing: go, sell all that you have and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; and come, follow me.” Disheartened by the saying, he went away sorrowful, for he had great possessions. (Mark 10:21-22, emphasis mine)
Tellingly, the rich young man, who has kept the law from his youth, does not disagree with Jesus. Rather, he is saddened and walks away grieving. Why? Because Jesus exposes something sensitive and subconscious: the man’s underlying desire to justify himself. The man knows that his self-righteousness is not enough, so he walks away sad, unwilling at that point to let it all go for the sake of truth. Jesus tenderly yet firmly taught the young man—and teaches us today—the not-to-be-overlooked maxim “Until the heart is open, the ears remain closed.”
But there is something subtle yet profound in the encounter that must not escape our notice. Mark records that just as he was beginning to expose the man’s cost, Jesus “loved him” (Mark 10:21). It was after feeling this love that Jesus addressed the man’s personal barriers. Jesus shows us that it is not harsh or patronizing to expose another’s barriers. It is an act of love. It is, perhaps, one of the most loving things we can do for another so that emotion-laden rebellion can give way to sincere investigation.
Bringing the Cost to the Surface
But how do we bring to the surface the subconscious and powerful cost of truth so that it can be addressed and, once addressed, be put behind us so that we can address the tough intellectual questions? Allow me to suggest three ways.
1. Socrates and scribes—answering questions with questions.
First, we need to be upfront about the cost of truth when we discuss matters of deeply held beliefs. Some years ago, I was invited to participate in an interfaith dialogue at a university with a sizable Muslim student body. A Christian group invited me to speak opposite a Muslim scholar who had been invited by the school’s Muslim student association. The topic we were to address was somewhat unconventional for such engagements: “How Can a Loving, All Powerful God Exist in a World of Suffering? A Christian and Muslim Response.”
During the talk, I offered philosophical, theological and scriptural reasons for my belief that the existence of an all-powerful, all-loving God is not incompatible with the reality of suffering and evil. Specifically, I argued that in the gospel we not only have a theoretical answer to the problem of evil, but we actually have God entering into the human condition to deal with evil as a matter of history. The point, I argued, is that the gospel provides the best answer to suffering.
The event was geared to get Christian and Muslim students to sit next to each other and interact on the material presented. But sadly, like many such meetings, Muslims and Christians kept to their own sides of the room. During the event, I saw a Muslim student sitting with his friends, and I knew, just from seeing his reactions to me and the scowl on his face, that he would be the first student to interact with me after we finished our remarks. Sure enough, as soon as my counterpart and I closed our remarks, the student stood up and all but ran to the front of the room to confront me.
In a loud voice, he began his questioning. “I heard you appeal to logic and reason during your talk,” he said. “But how can you believe such nonsense like the Trinity?” The volume and zeal in his voice had their desired effect. A crowd gathered around us to see who could best whom. I wanted to address the student’s question, if for no other reason than that the Trinity is a stumbling block for most Muslims who consider the gospel, but I was not interested in a verbal slugfest. So I gently responded by offering a question of my own. “The Trinity is an important topic, but can I ask you a question first? Do you want to consider my answer, or do you want to stump me in front of everyone? Do you want a conversation or a fight? I’m interested in the first one, not the second. If you want a spirited discussion, great. Otherwise, I’m not interested.”
His tone changed as he responded, “No, I want a conversation. I want to hear your reasons for believing in the Trinity.” And with that, we had an actual conversation. It was a spirited conversation to be sure, but it was a real conversation, and those who stood by listened intently.
I am an attorney by training, so the best way I can think to expose someone’s underlying biases and barriers is to ask questions. In case you are leery of following the voice of a lawyer, you can take solace in the fact that we have great examples of world-changing thinkers who have done exactly what I suggest. The great philosopher and teacher Socrates was famous for answering a question with a question. In fact, professors at institutes of higher learning all over the world employ the Socratic method by answering questions with questions. Though initially frustrating to students (I flash back to my Constitutional Law class), this method gets them to realize the underlying assumptions they bring to the topic.
And if Socrates is not enough of an authority to show us the value of this principle, let’s consider Jesus. He answered the rich man’s question (“What must I do to inherit eternal life?”) with a question (“Why do you call me good?”). Jesus did this throughout his earthly ministry. (A particularly masterful example is Jesus’ confrontation with the scribes recorded in Luke 20:1-8.) In every encounter, Jesus exposed the motives behind the questions. In doing so, he teaches us another valuable maxim: addressing the question’s content is not as urgent as addressing the question’s intent.
2. A careful ear listens for the cost.
Asking questions is good only if we listen to the answers. Strange, is it not, that we need to be reminded of so obvious a truism? But most of us can recall times when we asked someone for the time, only to realize moments after being told the answer that we still didn’t know what time it was. Careful listening, as important as it is, has become something of a lost art.
We must also be careful to listen to others’ explanations of their circumstances and their worldviews, not just their answers to our questions. I think of an incident involving the satirical storyteller Quentin Crisp. He was in Northern Ireland when the strife between Catholics and Protestants was quite intense. During a performance there, he stated that he was an atheist. A woman in the audience immediately stood up and asked him, “But is it the God of the Catholics or the Protestants you don’t believe in?” She obviously hadn’t listened carefully to Crisp, revealing more about her personal biases than Crisp’s—and getting more laughs than Crisp did in the process.
Careful listening not only keeps us from making fools of ourselves, but also helps us to understand the costs others face in considering the gospel. About a year after I had become a Christian, I received a phone call at my home. As soon as I said hello, I heard a woman’s heavy Middle Eastern accent. “Mr. Murray? I heard that you converted from Islam to Christianity. How could you do that?”
Other than the quite natural reaction of asking her who she was and how she got my home phone number, my inclination was to launch into an argument about the Bible’s veracity and Christian doctrine—which I did. I laid on her a dissertation about the philosophical, theological and historical proofs for Christianity, citing theologians from Augustine to Zwingli. When I finished my response, I sat back in silence and let my diatribe sink in, thinking she would be utterly impressed with the sheer volume of my arguments. But then she responded with a simple follow-up question. “That’s all very nice, but I want to know how you could become a Christian knowing what you would lose.”
I felt like I had taken a long walk off a short pier. I had failed to listen to the woman’s question, and instead of addressing her primary issue, I had spent time trying to impress her with information she wasn’t asking about or ready for. I could have easily understood where she was coming from by simply asking her what she meant when she asked, “How could you do that?” (This is yet another reason why asking questions is so important.) But I forged ahead with an answer to the question I thought she was asking. The lesson I learned that day was simple yet powerful: careful listening is integral to understanding another’s place on the journey toward truth.
Often the cost a person faces is not as obviously or easily admitted as it was when I spoke to the woman on the phone or talked with the student at the university. The hiddenness of the cost, or a person’s unwillingness to reveal it, may make it difficult to see. Careful listening is key in such situations, because a person’s cost often bubbles up to the surface during conversations—sometimes obviously, sometimes subtly.
A Christian cannot pretend that the cost of truth does not apply to her. Indeed, it applies in many ways. Christians have often engaged with each other in debates about nonessential doctrines and have gotten emotionally worked up or even offended at one another in the process. Why? Because everyone—yes, everyone—has an emotional attachment to their view, no matter how trivial. Some attachments are more easily severed than others. But they are still there. This is as true for Christians as it is for anyone else.
For a Christian to admit that she, too, faces consequences in considering the possibility that the gospel is not true is nothing more (and nothing less) than credibly engaging in conversation. And to do so is not to say that we hold onto our faith tenuously. Far from it. Rather, we show that we are confident enough to shine the light of evidence and reason on our beliefs. And that light shines brightest when it is powered by sincerity.
3. Truth has a cost, but why should I pay?
Another very important question rises from the reality that truth has a cost. Why should we pay it? What makes truth worth taking such enormous risks? In the pages that follow, we’ll examine the central questions that the major non-Christian worldviews seek to answer. Those worldviews exist—and people give their allegiances to them—because they think the answers to those questions are worth it. In the chapters to follow, I intend to sustain the thesis that the gospel not only validates those questions, but also offers better answers than any other worldview. It is these answers that show why the gospel is worth paying the price. And it is to them that we now turn.
Abdu Murray, an attorney by training, is co-founder and president of Embrace the Truth International and serves as an associate with RZIM. For more information, see http://embracethetruth.org/.
1Judith Viorst and Shelly Markham, Love and Shrimp (New York: Samuel French, 1993), 41.
2C. S. Lewis, Surprised by Joy: The Shape of My Early Life, rev. ed. (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 1995), 221.
3C. S. Lewis, Mere Christianity, HarperCollins ed., (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 2001), 32.
4Ravi K. Zacharias, New Birth or Rebirth? Jesus Talks with Krishna (Colorado Springs: Multnomah, 2008).
5Ravi K. Zacharias, Why Jesus? Rediscovering His Truth in an Age of Mass Marketed Spirituality (New York: FaithWords, 2012), 55.
6Thomas Nagel, The Last Word (New York: Oxford University Press, 1997), 130, emphasis mine. Interestingly, Nagel has recently released a book in which he concedes to some degree the credibility of the evidence for a non-material cause of the universe. See Thomas Nagel, Mind and Cosmos: Why the Materialist Neo-Darwinian Conception of Nature Is Almost Certainly False (New York: Oxford University Press, 2012).
7Aldous Huxley, Ends and Means (London: Chatt & Windus, 1946), 310.
8 Upton Sinclair, I, Candidate for Governor: And How I Got Licked (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1935), 109.