DAVID AND GOLIATH
On my run yesterday (Good Friday), I passed College Green on the PENN campus, where eleven Good Friday's ago I took on one of the most esteemed professors on campus, in a battle of Christian apologetics. He won, decisively.
His name was Robert Davies, and he was one of PENN's most celebrated faculty members. Highly pedigreed and with a resume bursting with awards and accolades, Professor Davies was one of PENN's elite. He was also an ardent non-Christian.
I didn't know any of this when I sidled up to him on Good Friday 1992. It was my freshman year, and in what would become a tradition on campus for at least a few years, Christian groups gathered on the Green to sing praise songs, share testimonies, and engage the campus on the topic of Jesus.
A man in a tweed blazer looked solemnly upon these proceedings, huddled under an umbrella and holding some electronic device. (I found out later he was measuring sound levels, so that if things got out of hand, he could report us to the campus authorities.) I decided to take a chance and approach him. I introduced myself and told him what was going on. He seemed to know already, and continued to frown.
We soon got into a discussion on religion and spirituality. I was going to win this guy for the Kingdom, darn it! But Professor Davies had an answer for every answer I had, and had questions for me that I didn't even know were questions to ask. I didn't leave our conversation questioning my faith, but nor did I feel I had any impact on helping Professor Davies see something different than what he'd always seen.
My Christian friends were whispering to each other as I left this conversation and headed towards them. "Don't you know who that is?" Ignorance is bliss. I didn't know, nor had I cared when I first approached the man under the umbrella. Perhaps if I did, I wouldn't have dared taken that step.
The next year, Professor Davies passed away. The campus paper eulogized him, recounting his many achievements and celebrating his impact on the campus. Even though I'd only met him once, I too was saddened. In reading about him in the paper and hearing about him from friends of mine, I sensed that this was truly a great man. He did much in his life, not only accomplishing much in his field but also making a difference in many peoples' lives. He would truly be missed.
And yet I was also saddened because we had a moment together, a moment that reflected his lifelong opinion of God and spirituality. And I knew his heart was hard towards things eternal. For all the richness in our lives and the number of our days, eternity is, well, forever. And for all Professor Davies did in this life for this life and this world, I didn't know if he had done anything to prepare himself for the eternal. And that made me sad.
On my run yesterday (Good Friday), I passed College Green on the PENN campus, where eleven Good Friday's ago I took on one of the most esteemed professors on campus, in a battle of Christian apologetics. He won, decisively.
His name was Robert Davies, and he was one of PENN's most celebrated faculty members. Highly pedigreed and with a resume bursting with awards and accolades, Professor Davies was one of PENN's elite. He was also an ardent non-Christian.
I didn't know any of this when I sidled up to him on Good Friday 1992. It was my freshman year, and in what would become a tradition on campus for at least a few years, Christian groups gathered on the Green to sing praise songs, share testimonies, and engage the campus on the topic of Jesus.
A man in a tweed blazer looked solemnly upon these proceedings, huddled under an umbrella and holding some electronic device. (I found out later he was measuring sound levels, so that if things got out of hand, he could report us to the campus authorities.) I decided to take a chance and approach him. I introduced myself and told him what was going on. He seemed to know already, and continued to frown.
We soon got into a discussion on religion and spirituality. I was going to win this guy for the Kingdom, darn it! But Professor Davies had an answer for every answer I had, and had questions for me that I didn't even know were questions to ask. I didn't leave our conversation questioning my faith, but nor did I feel I had any impact on helping Professor Davies see something different than what he'd always seen.
My Christian friends were whispering to each other as I left this conversation and headed towards them. "Don't you know who that is?" Ignorance is bliss. I didn't know, nor had I cared when I first approached the man under the umbrella. Perhaps if I did, I wouldn't have dared taken that step.
The next year, Professor Davies passed away. The campus paper eulogized him, recounting his many achievements and celebrating his impact on the campus. Even though I'd only met him once, I too was saddened. In reading about him in the paper and hearing about him from friends of mine, I sensed that this was truly a great man. He did much in his life, not only accomplishing much in his field but also making a difference in many peoples' lives. He would truly be missed.
And yet I was also saddened because we had a moment together, a moment that reflected his lifelong opinion of God and spirituality. And I knew his heart was hard towards things eternal. For all the richness in our lives and the number of our days, eternity is, well, forever. And for all Professor Davies did in this life for this life and this world, I didn't know if he had done anything to prepare himself for the eternal. And that made me sad.
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