Timothy Willard
13 min read ⭑
I hate apologetics.
It took me 14 years to finish my undergraduate degree. I ducked in and out of four different colleges, two of which asked me not to return, and at one of them, it wasn’t a request but an expulsion. Half of those years I spent in a band, playing local and national gigs; the other half I spent touring the country with my bandmates, Ethan and Aubrey, in a mint-green Ford Econoline van we called The Breathmint.
During The Breathmint years, I attended what I describe as the University of the Holy Spirit. No, it’s not a real university, but then again, it’s more real than most endowed institutions. My professors were George MacDonald, G.K. Chesterton, C.S. Lewis and St. Augustine. My textbooks were “Phantastes,” “Lilith,” “The Man Who Was Thursday,” “Orthodoxy,” “The Ransom Trilogy” and “Confessions.” My adjunct lecturers were Hemingway, Wordsworth and Edgar Allan Poe. I submitted my tests as poems to no one. And King David was my guidance counselor.
Those years in “real universities,” I picked up just enough formal Christian apologetics to be dangerous. Because most of the schools I attended emphasized training students to respond to “the world’s philosophy,” commonly referred to as secular humanism, more than teaching them to think about and engage with the philosophies that have shaped the world, I became adept at spotting weaknesses in “their philosophy” and arguing for the right philosophy: mine. I say adept, but I don’t know that I was good, really. Because when you’re 25, it’s easy to believe you’ve got this world licked. You don’t know what you don’t know. At least I didn’t. I thought I saw it all, not knowing I was blind to most of it. Good thing hindsight is 20/20.
Priyanshu Singh; Unsplash
Looking back, I think I just liked to argue. And I am persuasive when I want to be.
The faculty of the University of the Holy Spirit, however, were rather silent on apologetic argumentation, which sounds odd since all the Christian universities use their writings as primary texts and foundational material for their apologetics programs. When I read Chesterton for myself, I saw a live mind playing in fields of ideas. When I read Chesterton in real universities, I saw a live mind whose arguments I was to use as talking points.
The word “apologetics” conjures images of dusty books filled with jargon like “worldview,” “presuppositional” and “syllogism.” The word also acts like a “Wayback” machine — like the one we’re in right now — and takes me back to Brattleboro, Vermont, on one of those blustery New England winter days, with steel-gray skies and flurries swirling as if they anticipate the arrival of a Viking horde. No Viking horde showed up that day. Just me and Ethan and Aubrey. We stopped in Brattleboro on our way to a small colonial Baptist church I can’t name in a town I don’t remember. They wanted us to lead a worship service. We obliged because we loved touring in Vermont. As Ethan and Aubrey walked to get coffee, I set out on a side quest to see if the local used bookstore had an antique edition of G.K. Chesterton’s “Orthodoxy.”
We were regulars now in Brattleboro. Months earlier, when the cool summer river waters coursed along the edge of town, we played an impromptu gig on an outdoor cafe patio. The spot overlooked the Connecticut River. A mile or so north, you’ll find where the West River and the Connecticut River meet. There, beneath the river, the Abenaki petroglyphs lie submerged; the carved stones flooded when the Vernon Dam was built in 1909. The Abenaki have their own name for the West River: Wantastekw. One possible meaning is “the river where things get lost.” That summer gig day, I didn’t feel the lost things. Only the faint breeze sweeping down the Vermont pines. But on this flurry-filled day with empty streets and dull shadows down alleys, even if you didn’t know about the lost history, you could sense the lost things. They don’t announce themselves. They hum beneath the weather, and their tune is a requiem all their own.
There’s something uncommon about a Vermont summer day. It’s playful, and its heat is the kind you invite into the shade of the mountains. That day, as we played our own songs, worship songs and Pearl Jam covers, with the dark river water beneath us, the day played with us. And we both heralded the light of summer’s whimsy and sway.
But on this Vermont day, that light seemed a distant memory.
I wound through the cold, empty streets to a Brattleboro bookstore. It was a mazed shop, filled floor to ceiling with books. And it smelled like it looked: old and bookish, like someone had burned wet wood in an old barrel and never removed the ash. Gray light from the front window tried to reach past the front counter, but it only mustered dim shadows beyond the shelves. The shop felt abandoned yet strangely inviting, like the books themselves were attempting a coup against the languid weather. I felt alone. But wasn’t.
I didn’t notice him at first because he blended into the book-filled wall behind the counter. And he didn’t stir or say anything when I walked in. I walked the aisles as one does when trying to read worn, mostly sideways titles on brittle spines, like a snail.
Spoons and Billy the Kid
I heard him before I saw him.
“Anything in particular that you’re looking for?” came the voice from behind the counter. No tinge of “New England” in his accent. Just the plain accent of an uninterested bookstore clerk.
“Hey, yes. Actually, do you have any copies of G.K. Chesterton’s book, ‘Orthodoxy’? I just finished it but would love to find an older copy.”
“What genre is Chesterton?” he said, as he stepped from behind the counter toward my aisle.
“He’s a religious, Christian writer,” I said, turning to see him walk toward me.
“Our religion section is over here.”
I followed him and watched as he located the section and scanned it for Chesterton.
“Looks like we have a copy,” he said, pulling it out and handing it to me.
I took the book and turned it over a couple of times. “Perfect — I was hoping there’d be something of his here.”
I don’t remember what edition it was or what it looked like — the shape it was in — because my memory holds only the ensuing conversation. But even that conversation sits blurred in my memory, not because it was forgettable, but mostly because of embarrassment.
“So what is it about — what did he write?” said the clerk as he walked back to the counter.
“Well, it’s an explanation of the author’s belief. He wrote different books — some religious nonfiction, poetry and fiction — I’m Tim, by the way.”
“Spoons,” he said, turning toward me and picking up the newspaper splayed on the counter.
And here is where my memory fades in and out. Spoons was already a film character to me. Dry, aloof, and, really, his name was Spoons.
Spoons seemed interested in Chesterton. And quasi-interested in belief. I don’t recall his exact question, or maybe it was a comment. I only remember that even though he seemed interested in belief as a topic, he had none. And I saw that as an open door. So, I stepped through it.
I was like Billy the Kid walking into a saloon, pistols on my hips and a firefight in my heart. Spoons, though he seemed aloof, was more than game for a discussion about the philosophical concept of belief. And I was ready for it, armed with my apologetics six-shooters. I think at one point in our discussion, a tumbleweed blew in between us, and you could hear the faint rattle of a snake.
He opened the duel — uh, conversation — with his atheism, challenging the existence of God. And of course, like any good apologist, I relished the opportunity to prove God’s existence, right there in that beatnik New England bookstore. I was sure I could do what no philosopher in history has managed: prove God’s existence.
So I lit in, with both barrels blazing. For my historic apologetic onslaught, I chose the tuning-fork metaphor. If you’re unfamiliar with its basic structure, here’s a little primer. And yes, I had to look it up online because, frankly, I’ve forgotten it.
The Tuning Fork
I never told him I was a Christian. I was playing a philosophical game.
“When you tune a piano,” I said, “you don’t tune it to something arbitrary, to a random source or even to itself. For any piano to play a C, all pianos must draw on the same source for what C is.”
Spoons agreed. Without a standard to tell us what a C is, no piano could have one. Every piano’s middle C would sound different.
So I said, “The tuning fork is the universal guide, the measure for what middle C sounds like and what a D sounds like.” That’s why you can now download an app. The strings on a guitar are E, A, D, G, B, E. You play a string, and the tuner tells you whether you’re flat or sharp, and then tells you when you’ve landed on the pure note.
Getting him to agree was the turning point.
“Yes,” he said calmly. “We need some objective measurement, or our instruments couldn’t be tuned to play in unison.”
I had him.
A symphony sounds the way it does because every instrument is tuned to a universal standard. A is A is A. It can’t be B, and it can’t be flat. Without that, you couldn’t play a single instrument, let alone several together. That’s where the unity comes in and makes harmony and symphonies possible.
That is the tuning argument, and Spoons agreed to all of it.
Then I made my big reveal.
I said, “It’s the same with God. For us to say there’s a right and wrong, there must be an objective right. You can’t say something is wrong if nothing can be right, and the reverse is also true. So there must be a moral measure for us to call anything good or bad, right or wrong.”
I thought I was so smart, so cunning, so clever. But at the end of the reveal, Spoons didn’t look dejected. He looked fed up. I was the same old thing, the Christian playing his part, trying to convince him by argument that he was wrong.
His answer was simple:
“Well, that might be your truth, but it’s not mine.”
“What Spoons needed was a light. I gave him a blowtorch. But ever since, I’ve done my best to become a candlemaker.”
I could read Spoons’ disappointment in his face.
I heard it in his tone. I had betrayed his trust.
I never told him I was a Christian. He thought we were two people discussing the mystery of music and the world’s universal characteristics. But I was trying to win an argument. Because I thought that’s what apologetics was.
Our conversation ended right then.
And Spoons picked up his paper and ignored me — the only patron in the bookshop. I laid the book on the counter and walked out. Embarrassed. Sickened. The gravity of the moment hit me as soon as I left the shop. A man engaged in a conversation he thought would be interesting and generous. And I turned it into a fight to win.
When I climbed back into the van, where Ethan and Aubrey were already waiting and sipping their coffee, I blurted, “I will never do that again.”
“What?” they both asked.
“Try to win an argument to prove God — never again. I hate apologetics.”
That was the beginning of a long journey for me. A journey toward beauty and attention and care.
The Hope Within Me
When I look back on my interaction with Spoons, I remember how embarrassed and shocked I was by my inattentiveness. One natural reaction is to say, well, you should be more attentive. You should not just be more attentive but also be kind and adopt a generous, hospitable mindset. I think there’s truth to that and maybe a lesson to learn. But I think it misses the point. My God asks us not to fight, but he also doesn’t ask us to be pushovers.
With Spoons, I didn’t understand that defending the gospel meant more than constructing an argument. Well, the defense of the gospel sometimes is an argument. We see this in Paul, who had to stand before the Sanhedrin, Roman governors and kings. His argument responded to an accusation against him, or perhaps one born of ignorance. In that case, it is right to defend. And maybe my tuning-fork metaphor would have worked in a setting more like Paul’s (Phil. 1:16; Acts 22:1; 23:1-10; 24:10; 26:1-2).
But there is something else here. There’s answering an accusation, as we see Paul doing multiple times in the New Testament, but there’s also answering an inquiry. We look at Peter, and we read, “always being prepared to make a defense to anyone who asks you for a reason for the hope that is in you” (1 Pet. 3:15, ESV).
The hope that is in you.
Peter reminds everyday followers of the Way to prepare to defend not their beliefs, but their hope. How does one defend hope? Well, the Greek apologia in the New Testament means a defense. But Peter frames defense as a response to someone asking you to give an account — logos — a reason or explanation for the hope within you. I didn’t understand the difference between defending the gospel against an accusation and explaining the hope within me.
A Poetic Witness
One of the most powerful defenses of the Christian faith is to be a poetic witness — to live beautifully, to self-empty, to give up our rights and to invite all whom we encounter in this life to something higher.
Later, on that same trip, we met with a pastor from a Presbyterian church farther north in Vermont. He told us about the darkness and spiritual heaviness that lay over the state and much of New England. That day, the pastor asked us to pray with him about it. He prayed for presence. He prayed for the light of Christ to cover the state and illuminate hearts.
Light. I think that’s what Spoons wanted. Someone sharing light.
When we played that gig on the patio, looking over the river where things go to be lost, we gave something of ourselves, hopefully something beautiful and a light. No one really talked to us about what we were singing or why we were there, but that day we inhabited Brattleboro as people and as emissaries of the light.
For me and Spoons, my opportunity came when he asked me what kind of books Chesterton wrote. If I had known G.K. Chesterton better, I would have known that Chesterton would have hated my response to Spoons. Chesterton himself would probably have talked about the beauty and love of literature and poetry, found common ground there, and not taken the opportunity to fight, when what was needed was presence.
But so much of my Christian experience up to that point was about certainty, right doctrine and winning arguments. Doctrine is important. But I should have known that doctrine wasn’t what Spoons was searching for, or even needed, in that moment.
As Christians, we often want to tie everything into a theological bow. We struggle to leave things unresolved and let that white space of mind and margin of thought go to work. In painting, graphic art and architecture, white space is a primary ingredient. It is just as important as the ornament in Gothic architecture. When you walk into a Gothic cathedral, the details matter for creating a space that is hauntingly beautiful and inviting. But the open space itself matters as much as the detailed wood and stonework. We need to be OK with the white space needed for an inviting conversation.
And if I’d walked into that white space, so to speak, with Spoons, here’s what I would have said:
Oh, this is wonderful that you have “Orthodoxy,” but have you ever heard of Chesterton’s other great work that I love, “The Man Who Was Thursday”?
Well, you see, it’s about this poet who is charged to spy on the London anarchists by becoming one. I can’t tell you much more, because I’d ruin it. But the book is a wonderful romp that ends with a thrilling metaphysical twist, questioning our modern view of reality and meaning, and it does so by, well, frankly, showing us the ridiculous beauty of a hornbill!
Yes, I know, I know, I wasn’t expecting it either. I caught myself laughing and even crying at several parts, and being stunned at how Chesterton challenged my understanding of good and evil while also showing me a compelling way to view the world, my place in it and how the ordinariness of life answers more of our questions about the meaning of the world than any philosophy ever could.
And so you see, dear friend, that I don’t really hate apologetics. I simply hate what it became in me and how I understood it not at all and how I let the professional apologists turn me into something the world wasn’t asking for, and how I failed to see the very thing I was pursuing in my vocation — the beauty of a Pearl Jam cover sung beside the river where things go to be lost.
The world will always have its professional apologists. We will always have debates and conversations with great thinkers from esteemed universities. But what the world needs more of are the everyday yous and mes. The nonprofessional apologist. The singers, craftsmen and teachers. The pastors, home educators and investors. The fill-in-the-blank with your profession and vocation.
But in our ordinariness, we must not be common. Common in our thought, basic in our expressions. No, we must be enchanters. Not the pagan sort. But the Chesterton and Lewis sort. And we don’t need to write books like them, but we do need to understand the beauty of the hope within us like them.
Because when my God sent the God-man to Earth, he did not say, go forth and argue and bring debate into the great halls of the world. He said, “Ye are the light of the world. A city that is set on a hill cannot be hid. Neither do men light a candle, and put it under a bushel, but on a candlestick; and it giveth light unto all that are in the house. Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works and glorify your Father which is in heaven” (Matt. 5:14-16, KJV).
What Spoons needed was a light. I gave him a blowtorch.
But ever since, I’ve done my best to become a candlemaker. Because striking a match is fun. But watching my candle flicker? That is hope-full.
Timothy Willard is a writer, theologian, artist, creative consultant and independent scholar. He has authored four books, including the critically acclaimed Veneer: Living Deeply in a Surface Society. Millions have read Timothy’s inspirational writing, which has been featured in Christianity Today, The Gospel Coalition, Patheos, Acculturated, The Huffington Post and more. As a creative consultant and ghostwriter, Timothy has worked on 30 books with clients ranging from Chick-fil-A, Q Ideas, International Mission Board, Hobby Lobby and Coca-Cola Consolidated to NYT bestselling authors, Grammy Award-winning artists and former NFL MVPs. He lives in North Carolina with his wife and three daughters.