Communicating in Context
Ravi
Zacharias
One of my Old
Testament professors in seminary was blessed not only with fine expository and
oratorical skills, but also with a sharp wit. He was renowned throughout the
seminary community for his biting one-liners that generally evoked much
laughter, as long as the class was not on the receiving end of the barb.
Among his witticisms
that stand out in my memory is one he repeated a dozen times each semester, as
he waxed eloquent on the need to return to genuine expository preaching: "Keep
your finger on the verse." By this he warned the would-be preacher not to stray
from the passage under study. While that reminder was well received in theory,
the dark clouds of despondency would descend upon the student preacher who
finished his or her sermon and sat down to await the professor's verdict. The
moment of truth would arrive as the professor would mount the platform, level
his gaze at his meekly seated victim and say, "Great sermon; poor text." The
indictment brought anguish, for it meant that the ideas which had been
expounded, though wonderful, had not emerged from the text.
All presenters of the
gospel must heed this educator's caution. Often audiences are subjected to a
barrage of ideas that betray more the pet peeve or preoccupation of the speaker
than they do the intention of the text. But any text wrenched from its context
is in danger of becoming a pretext. Which of us is not familiar with the
discomforting ploy often used in prayer meetings where the object of a prayer is
to stab the conscience of someone within earshot, rather than to touch the heart
of God? As certain as we are that the intention of such a prayer is woefully
wrong, so equally certain we may be of the fallacy of an exposition that has
nothing to do with the text.
It is good counsel to
the communicator and sound wisdom to stay with the theme. But as an apologist I
dare say there is another equally important side to this whole issue. It is also
vitally important to know the audience. "Keep your finger on the text--and
your ear to the audience." To ignore the latter could well elicit the
indictment: "Great sermon; wrong crowd."
This ever-present
challenge of contextual pertinence was brought home to me with extraordinary
force during a visit to Greece. I remember the emotions that swarmed within me
as I stood on Mars Hill. In the background was the imposing Acropolis--that
rugged protrusion of rock upon which Pericles built the structures that he hoped
would bespeak the glory of Greece. Still standing in its battered but timeless
splendor are the pillars of the Parthenon, the temple of Athena, the goddess of
wisdom. The whole pursuit of philosophy has since, in theory, represented the
love of wisdom. To these parts came Greece's most prominent personalities,
including Alexander the Great who had studied under Aristotle. To Greek culture,
this was sacred terrain.
In the foreground was
the Agora, the market place that in Paul's time throbbed with the sounds of the
footsteps and the noise of buyers and sellers. The book of Acts tells us that
Paul engaged the best of them in debate. And at the base of Mars Hill is a huge
bronze plaque with the words of Paul's famed Mars Hill address, recorded for us
in Acts 17.
It is a still stirring
sermon that he once delivered to Stoics and Epicureans, among others. He began
by saying, "Men of Athens! I see that in every way you are very religious. For
as I walked around and looked carefully at your objects of worship, I even found
an altar with this inscription: To An Unknown God. Now what you worship as
something unknown I am going to proclaim to you" (Acts 17:22-23).
Parenthetically, I
might add that there was not just one altar to an unknown god, but scores of
them. The history of how these altars came to be is fascinating. Six hundred
years earlier this city had been smitten by a dreadful plague, and the people
had sought desperately for ways to arrest its spread. The poet Epimenedes
devised a detailed plan to appease the gods, and hundreds of sheep were set free
from the Areopagus. Whenever any sheep lay down, it was immediately consigned to
the nearest altar and sacrificed to the god for whom that altar stood. If
perchance there was no altar nearby, one was erected to "An Unknown God," and
the sheep was sacrificed there.
Such was the backdrop
to these expressions of ignorance and fear. Yet, there was possibly a
philosophical underpinning to such confessed agnosticism. One of Plato's oft
repeated reminders to his students was that the true mark of learning was to
recognize where one was ignorant. Thus, Paul deftly harnessed both the weakness
of their religion and the strength of their philosophy to point to the one who
is omniscient--God as revealed in Christ. He alone was the answer for both the
weak and the strong. Paul was keenly aware of his context, and with compelling
relevance he won their hearing. Some influential men and women made their
commitment to Christ that day, and the Church was established in Athens on firm
footing. What you worship as something unknown, I proclaim to you as known: "The
God who made the world and everything in it is the Lord of heaven and earth and
does not live in temples built by hands" (Acts 17:24).
From Athens to modern
times, the challenge remains the same: Keep your finger on the verse and give
ear to the cries of the mind and heart, ever being aware of the dislocation of
the will. For this condition only the Spirit is strong enough, and gentle
enough, to effect change. The altars to unknown gods are still with us today,
but in God's power we can proclaim the truth of Christ among us, and merit the
exultant one-liner: "Great sermon; right audience. What a God!"
---
Ravi
Zacharias is founder and president of Ravi Zacharias International
Ministries.