CHAPTER 1
Why Are Questions Better Than Answers?
I'll never forget his name. It was one that I'd never heard before — Artyum. He was from Ukraine and was possibly the most sincere seeker I've ever met. I just didn't know what to do with him. We struck up a conversation on the center lawn of the American University in Washington, DC, on a spring-like day in November. It wasn't supposed to be that warm. But there we were, Artyum and I, basking in the sunshine, when the calendar said that we should have been inside sipping cups of hot chocolate.
We talked about the weather, classes, hometowns, and things like that. Then he asked me what I did on campus. When I worked for an organization with the name Campus Crusade for Christ (now known in the United States as Cru) and people asked, "What do you do?" it didn't take long to steer the conversation toward the gospel. It's one of the perks of being a crusader.
As a trained evangelist, I steered our chat to the point where a little green booklet became the focal point of our conversation. "Knowing God Personally" is an adaptation of Bill Bright's "The Four Spiritual Laws" and is a good evangelistic tool for sharing the gospel. I still believe that as much as ever. But what happened that day at the American University changed my thinking about some of the ways we do evangelism.
I'd been trained and had conducted seminars in how to introduce the booklet, how to progress through the booklet, how to avoid distractions during the booklet, how to bring someone to the point of decision at the end of the booklet, and how to walk him or her through that eternity-changing moment of conversion after concluding the booklet. I could state the advantages of using such a tool (and there are many). I could show the drawbacks of just winging it and not using such a focused tool (and there are many). And I could share stories of how God has used it to lead many people to the Savior.
I read the first point, "God loves you and created you to know Him personally." I don't remember pausing at that point. I don't think I even breathed. But somehow Artyum interrupted.
"What do you mean when you say the word God?" he wondered aloud. "And what do you mean when you say the word love? And, most importantly, how do you know all this is true?"
It was a difficult moment for me. All of my training had told me to sweep away any and all questions with, "That's a good question. How about we come back to that when I'm done reading the booklet?" That line had worked well many times for me. The inevitable result was that the questions would be forgotten and never brought up again. That's because many, maybe most, questions that are asked early during an evangelistic presentation are not real questions — they're smoke screens. The questioner is trying to avoid the conviction that is sure to come when one confronts the gospel.
So they stop the presentation before it gets uncomfortable with, "Well, we can't really believe the Bible; it's got too many contradictions in it," or "There are so many religions in the world, how can anyone know which one's right?" or a million other pretentious comments that should be swept away with the "that's a good question" line.
But Artyum's questions were different. They weren't smoke screens. I know the difference between an honest inquirer and a truth avoider. Artyum's questions were foundational. Could I progress to the second page in the booklet and read, "People are sinful and separated from God," if he was stuck on the words God and love? What would be in store for us when we hit the word sin?
I mentally reviewed the background data that I'd gathered earlier in our chat and connected it to our present discussion. Being from Ukraine, Artyum had been reared in an atheistic, communist world, reading Nietzsche and Marx and thinking deeply about life. He was a history major who loved philosophy and was bothered by the intellectual shallowness displayed by most Americans. He wasn't annoyed by my initiation of evangelism. He genuinely wanted to work through his questions. Unlike me, however, he didn't feel any pressing need to work through the booklet. He did feel, however, a sense of importance about working through real interaction about weighty questions.
What followed was a ninety-minute discussion, revolving around questions that strike at the foundation of faith: "How do we know what we know?" "What do we know for certain?" and "What difference does it all make?" Toward the end of the conversation, I was asking more questions of him than he was of me.
Artyum helped me rethink the task of evangelism. Questioning Evangelism is the result of that process. And in all of the examples in this book, Artyum's is the only name that I haven't disguised. Although I refer to real people in real conversations, all other names have been changed. But I've kept Artyum's name, hoping that someday he'll see this book and contact me, telling me that he's come to faith in Christ. He didn't that day on American University's lawn. I lost track of him soon after the weather returned to normal November temperatures.
Why Are We Frustrated?
I came away from that conversation both excited and frustrated. Communicating at that level of intensity and truth seeking was invigorating. That level of excitement was relatively new, but the frustration was all too familiar. Another nondecision. People don't as readily "pray the prayer" with me as they do with famous speakers I've heard. Those natural evangelists are always sitting down next to someone and sharing the gospel. And they always lead every person to a salvation decision. (And it's always on an airplane!)
Some people have told me that my lack of evangelistic fruit results from lack of prayer. I certainly don't pray enough, but I wonder if that's all there is to it. Other people have told me that I don't push hard enough in "closing the sale." I don't know how to respond to that; the gospel isn't a product that we sell. On introspection, I've wondered what I haven't said to work the same magic as so many others.
I've found that I'm not alone in my frustration. In fact, frustration might be the most common emotion that Christians associate with evangelism (followed closely by guilt, confusion, and despair). Our frustration is multifaceted. We're frustrated that our message doesn't yield more decisions, genuine fruit, cultural impact, or advancing of God's kingdom in the way Jesus talked about.
First, we just don't have as many evangelistic conversations as we know we should. The message that has gripped our hearts and forms the centerpiece of our lives remains unspoken, unshared, and unproclaimed. We miss opportunities to tell people what Jesus means to us. Our culture's secularism has silenced us when we should be sharing. We wonder why the topic that is so often on our minds is so seldom on our lips.
Second, most of us don't hold a candle to people who are gifted by God as evangelists. And when we actually do step out in faith and share Christ, not as many people as we'd like bow their heads and pray "the sinner's prayer." So hearing about the successes of a Billy Graham only adds to our frustration. Instead of motivating us to be bold, the success stories discourage us. That's not an excuse, though. Paul told Timothy, who was a timid non-evangelist, to "do the work of an evangelist" (2 Tim. 4:5). So we find ourselves clinging to the promise that God forgives even the greatest of sinners — assuming that sinners means those who are evangelistic failures — and hoping for a method of evangelism for non-evangelists.
Third, we're frustrated by the lack of lasting fruit. If you've ever "led someone to Christ" and then later found that person totally uninterested in spiritual growth, you know the pain I'm referring to. True, not all the seeds in Jesus's parable landed on good soil. Still, we wonder why some plants spring up and then wither in the sun, or on the rocky soil, or under the distractions of this world. We wonder why, for all of our evangelistic efforts, the percentage of born-again Christians in our country has remained stagnant for more than thirty years. Yet the percentage of Mormons, Muslims, and purchasers of New Age crystals has grown.
Fourth, we're frustrated by our lack of saltiness, that is, cultural impact. If we're supposed to be the "salt of the earth," a preservative, why is our culture decaying?
These frustrations are realized in an environment of such religious diversity that many of us question some of our basic assumptions about Christian belief. Different religions are not theoretical concepts practiced in other countries; they're practiced by the people next door.
On one of my son's basketball teams, for example, is a boy who wears a turban in accordance to his Sikh religion's commandments. This same son's biology lab partner is a boy named Mohammed, who fasts during Ramadan. On another son's basketball team are two boys: one attends Hebrew school in the evenings in preparation for his Bar Mitzvah, and the other studies Arabic as part of his weekend schooling as a Muslim. They're all best friends at public school during the weekdays.
Our local library advertises seminars on yoga, meditation, crystal usage, and the teachings of Mormonism.
The reality of pluralism (the existence of differing points of view) tempts us to consider the assertions of relativism (the validity and truthfulness of all points of view). In our most honest moments, we wonder how we can hold to Jesus's claim that "no one comes to the Father except through me" (John 14:6). Our frustration and intimidation, then, lead to a condition that borders on evangelistic paralysis, or what one speaker referred to as "spiritual lockjaw."
Is There a Better Way to Evangelize?
We can have better results from our evangelizing. Our efforts can produce more fruit, advancing the kingdom further than has been recently achieved. A better way exists, and it looks, sounds, and feels more like Jesus, the rabbi, than like Murray, the used-car salesman. It involves more listening than speaking, inviting rather than demanding a decision. Perhaps the most important component to this kind of evangelism is answering questions with questions rather than giving answers.
Maybe I think this way — responding to questions with questions — because I'm Jewish. I grew up with dialogues that went like this:
Randy: How's the weather down there?
Granny Belle: How could the weather be in Florida in the middle of July?
Or
Randy: So, how have you been?
Uncle Nat: Why do you ask?
Or
Randy: How's your family?
Aunt Vivian: Compared to whom?
I'd like to think, though, that I answer questions with questions because I'm following the example of Jesus. It's uncanny how often our Lord answered a question with a question.
A rich man asked Jesus, "Good teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?" That question was a great setup for a clear, concise gospel presentation. I can almost hear a disciple whispering in Jesus's ear, "Take out the booklet." How could Jesus not launch into the most perfect model for every evangelistic training seminar for all time? But how did he respond? He posed a question, "Why do you call me good?" (Mark 10:17–18).
When religious leaders asked Jesus if it was right to pay taxes, Jesus referred to a coin and asked, "Whose image is this?" (Matt. 22:20). When the Pharisees, "looking for a reason to bring charges against Jesus," asked Him, "Is it lawful to heal on the Sabbath?" Jesus's response was a question: "If any of you has a sheep and it falls into a pit on the Sabbath, will you not take hold of it and lift it out?" (Matt. 12:10–11).
I once did a study of how Jesus answered every question that was asked of Him in all four gospels. Answering a question with a question was the norm. A clear, concise, direct answer was a rarity.
So when I answer a question with a question, I'd like to think I'm following the example of Jesus, but to be honest, I most likely do it because I become tired. After years of answering the questions of nonbelievers, I grow tired of my answers being rejected.
At times (far too many, I'm afraid), I've answered questions with biblically accurate, logically sound, epistemologically watertight answers, only to see questioners shrug their shoulders. My answers, it seemed, only further confirmed their opinion that Christians are simpletons. My answers had, in fact, hardened them in their unbelief rather than softened them toward faith. I realized that, instead of moving people closer to a salvation decision, an answer can push them further away. Rather than engaging their minds or urging them to consider an alternate perspective, an answer can give them ammunition for future attacks against the gospel.
So I started answering questions with questions, and have gained far better results.
Once a team of skeptics confronted me. It was during a weekly Bible study for freshmen guys that we held in a student's dorm room. The host of the study, in whose room we were meeting, had been telling us for weeks of his roommate's antagonistic questions. This week, the roommate showed up — along with a handful of like-minded friends.
The frequently asked question of exclusivity arose, more an attack than a sincere inquiry.
"So, I suppose you think all those sincere followers of other religions are going to hell!"
"Do you believe in hell?" I responded.
He appeared as if he'd never seriously considered the possibility. He looked so puzzled, perhaps because he was being challenged when he thought that he was doing the challenging. After a long silence, he said, "No. I don't believe in hell. I think it's ridiculous."
Echoing his word choice, I said, "Well, then why are you asking me such a ridiculous question?"
I wasn't trying to be a wise guy. I simply wanted him to honestly examine the assumptions behind his own question. His face indicated that I had a good point, and that he was considering the issues of judgment, eternal damnation, and God's righteousness for the first time in his life.
The silence was broken by another questioner, who chimed in, "Well, I do believe in hell. Do you think everyone who disagrees with you is going there?"
I asked, "Do you think anyone goes there? Is Hitler in hell?" (Hitler has turned out to be a helpful, if unlikely, ally in such discussions.)
"Of course, Hitler's in hell."
"How do you think God decides who goes to heaven and who goes to hell? Does He grade on a curve?"
From there, the discussion became civil for the first time, and serious interaction about God's holiness, people's sinfulness, and Jesus's atoning work ensued. Answering questions with questions turned out to be a more effective, albeit indirect, way to share the gospel.
Another time when questioning worked better than answering was during a lunchtime conversation with an atheist philosophy professor. He was the faculty advisor for the campus philosophy club, and I was a campus minister for Campus Crusade. Together, we had cosponsored a debate about the problem of evil, and afterward we met to evaluate how the event had gone.
After some discussion of such things as how we could have publicized the event better, and what topics we could address in future forums, I asked him his opinion about the content of the debate.
I realized that I was in way over my head and that nothing I could articulate about the Christian perspective on evil could top what some brilliant philosophers had said the previous evening. But I wanted to see if I could get the conversation out of the philosophical realm and onto a personal level. I was concerned about this person's soul.
He told me that he still thought that Christians failed to present a decent answer for the problem of evil. So I posed the question to him. After confirming that he was an atheist, I asked, "What's your atheistic explanation for why terrible things happen?"
He paused and finally said quietly, "I don't have one."
I told him that this wasn't just some academic issue for me. As someone with a Jewish heritage, I had to wrestle with the reality of the Holocaust. I recounted my last visit to the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum and how emotionally difficult it was for me. I asked him again if there was an atheistic way to make sense out of the Nazis' slaughter of six million of my people.
Again, his answer was a nonanswer.
I told him that the Christian answer to the problem of evil definitely has its shortcomings and that I, for one, am not intellectually or emotionally satisfied with it. But I also told him that my incomplete answer was better than no answer at all. The rest of our lunchtime consisted of a productive and respectful tête-à-tête that moved us closer to each other and, I hope, moved him closer to seeing some flaws in his own worldview.
