Francis Schaeffer uses the illustration of “taking the roof off” in reference to dismantling intellectual safety structures which we build to protect ourselves from reality itself. We convince ourself that a lie is true. We ignore the facts which make us uncomfortable. We do this in order to live a life of our choosing, namely one where God does not occupy his rightful place. Reality has a way of coming crashing down on us, so we build a roof to shelter us. We protect ourselves.

If it is true that we believe lies or ignore parts of God’s reality, then the most loving thing that someone can do is to take that roof off and allow us to feel reality as it really is, to experience the rain as well as the sun. Until that roof is gone we live with a false security.

But taking the metaphor a bit further, we can critique our own flawed methodology. If someone arrived at my home and began yelling and mocking me for my roof, I would not sit and listen to them. If they began punching holes in my roof without permission, I would be inclined to call the authorities.

Yet that is often what we think of when it comes to apologetics. The loving act of providing a reasonable critique of the world’s lies and defense of the gospel is not done through one liners, angry shouting, or in televised debates with skilled orators. It is done with boldness and grace, fervor and love. It is done when some level of trust has been built.

If someone were to come to my home and point out rotten spots in my roof, showing where the structure was compromised and the materials disintegrated, I would begin to listen to their solutions. I wouldn’t expect less from an inspector, and I for sure wouldn’t expect less when it comes to my worldview.

“He died, and no one cried.” (2 Chron 21:20)

I cannot think of many epitaphs which bring more sadness than the ones revealing the stark reality that no one was sad. There is a real horror to contemplate dying and not being missed.

From one perspective, it seems to be no big deal. If this life is all there is; if all is nothing but an accident; if life and death are only two sides of the same insignificant coin; then it should not matter. I should not be sad when I think that one day I will die and no one will care. I should not feel an uneasiness in my conscience for living a live worthy of others hating me, or worse yet, ignoring me. It is what it is. There is life, and there is death, blessed be the name of materialistic nihilism.

But who can live that out consistently? Who among the angry horseman could close their mouth and stop their pen? Who could systematically begin to wipe of the face of the earth every remembrance of themselves? Who could find peace in the face of indifference? There is something that cries out within us. Is it only an evolutionary incentive for the further reproduction of genes? A wishful thinking of a false meaning so as to make a more stable society for my offspring? I think not.

But from another perspective, it is fearful. If life has meaning; if death is a door; if there really is a purpose behind all that I see and a Being over all there is; then living a life where no other divine image bearers take notice when I am gone is a serious business. For if I was created to reflect the love of the eternal Triune God, but no one ever saw that love, what was the point? If a watch cannot tell time or a pitcher hold water, what worth does it hold?

There is more to life and death than the fading memory in the mind of humanity, regardless of what the secular humanists may preach. They grip a vapor. They grasp at the wind. There is life and there is death, and then the Judgment. And perhaps one small step toward living a life in light of that judgement is considering those who ought to cry when I die.

We recently finished reading Fool’s Talk: Recovering the Art of Christian Persuasion by Os Guinness in a book group and the following was one major lesson for me.

“In the earlier days of the church there were two symbols for the art of Christian advocacy, which had come down from ancient practices in law and rhetoric. One was a closed fist. This represented the dissuasoria, the negative side of apologetics that used all the highest strengths of human reason in defense of truth. Mustering all the powers of reason, logic, evidence and argument, closed-fist apologetics had the task of answering every question, countering every objection, and dismantling false objections to the faith and to knowing God. In the words of St. Paul, “We are destroying speculations and every lofty thing raised up against the knowledge of God, and we are taking every thought captive to the obedience of Christ” (2 Cor 10:5). The other symbol was the open hand. This represented the persuasoria, the positive side of apologetics that used all the highest strengths of human creativity in the defense of truth. Expressing the love and compassion of Jesus, and using eloquence, creativity, imagination, humor and irony, open-hand apologetics had the task of helping to pry open hearts and minds that, for a thousand reasons, had long grown resistant to God’s great grace, so that it could shine in like the sun.”

(Guinness, Fools Talk, 253)

This is probably one of the most helpful metaphors for me to keep in mind during my conversations. So often when thinking of apologetics I think of only one, and most often the closed fist. And then I think that the closed fist is characterized by the quick answers, the sure fire responses, the “stingers” that bring the skeptic to their knees. That is unhelpful on two counts. Without the open hand, the individual leaves with a warped view of Christ. Secondly, a “closed fist” comprised of witty snippets and catchy slogans is more of a weak, open-handed slap than a closed fist. It is more likely to leave the hearer questioning my logic than questioning their worldview.

But I also can err on the other side, that of having only the open hand, prone to think that I can “preach the gospel constantly, and if necessary use words” (a quote from St. Francis needs to be scoured from all social media platforms and popular level books on the Christian faith). We use words to communicate ideas from a mind that must think logically in order to best understand the reality in which God has placed us. And when minds, and logic, and ideas, and words do not faithfully represent this God-given reality, they must be challenged. And this challenge must be met with equal force as the counter-challenge, which often comes in the form of a closed fist from the world, attempting to displace its Creator. So an open hand without the fist, as the fist without the open hand, is unbalanced.

These two pictures, that of the closed fist and open hand, must be taken together, never farther apart than my left from my right. And if I am able to maintain this balance, wisely choosing which one to utilize at which time during my conversations, I just might be accused of acting like Jesus.