I was invited last week to listen to a professor of theology—quite famous for his Evangelical orthodoxy and at the same time his ecumenical openness. I was impressed. I was impressed by his tight case, his grasp of his opponents’ logical mistakes and unexamined assumptions. Overall, it was a marvelous ride for an overly educated Orthodox priest who mostly agrees and similarly wishes to resist the forces of religious indifferation. And as pleased as my intellect was by the thorough thrashing given to the religious pluralists, I walked away troubled at heart.
I was troubled because I knew by experience that no proof is final. Medieval proofs for the existence of God are disproved by later philosophers whose proofs are again overturned by their followers’ followers: “Of making many books there is no end.” Heretics and gainsayers must be answered, and the answers, we seem to assume, must be in the common coin of the realm—reasoned argument. Nonetheless, there is a deceptive sense of self confidence that assaults my mind when I hear a good argument for “our side.” This perhaps comes from the Kantian illusion blanketing our culture that differences really just boil down to lapses in clear thinking. And what is particularly ironic is that this good feeling of winning the debate comes even when “our side” seems to triumph by attacking the Enlightenment foundations of the opponent’s argument, without admitting its own enslavement to the very same paradigms. This is not to say that the “enlightened” rules of reasoning are inherently more or less evil than those of the Neo-Platonists or Medieval Scholastics; rather, it is to say that when push comes to shove, we must admit with the Apostle Paul that the message of the Cross is foolishness to those who are perishing. And any apologetic effort from St. Paul on Mars’ Hill and St. Justin Philosopher and Martyr all the way through Carl Olson’s and Sandra Miesel’s The Da Vinci Hoax, is just that: an apology, a defense, a proclamation, but not a proof.
Yet I want a proof. I want to satiate my intellect and subordinate that part of my psyche that knows without knowing, that merely trusts the message heard, the Tradition handed down by faithful men and lived by the holy (the saints): I’m looking for Life in all the wrong places. Once the adrenaline that comes from a good argument dissipates, the heart is still left longing. I return to my icon corner and say my prayers—not very well at first, fighting the intrusion of “good points” and better counters. I stand there, restarting the Lord’s prayer for the third time, for I can’t even seem to get through the most basic prayer without distraction. “Lord have mercy. Lord have mercy. Lord have mercy. Lord have mercy.” Slowly I begin to recognize the joy-filled sadness gradually warming my heart. “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me the sinner…” And so I come home.