Tactics: A Game Plan for Discussing Your Christian Convictions (14 page)

People ask questions for different reasons. Sometimes they ask a question because they're curious or confused. They want information they think you can provide. Other questions are "rhetorical," tossed out simply to stimulate thinking or move the conversation forward. No response from you is necessary, nor is one expected.

"What gives you the right . . . ?" is different. It's not really a question at all. There's no curiosity involved. Instead, it is a statement disguised as a question, a kind of goal-line stand meant to stop you in your tracks. "Who are you to say?" is another example, along with its cousin, "Who's to say?"

These challenges
can easily
put you on the defensive because it's pretty clear they are not requests for information, nor are they harmless rhetorical probes. The question from the UCLA student was in that category. It wasn't rhetorical, nor was it a mere pursuit of facts. It was a challenge. She was making a point with a question, but what was it?

The best way to navigate in this situation is simply to point out that the question is confusing. Our trusty "What do you mean by that?" is perfect here. You might also say, "I get the impression you think I've made a mistake here. Where did I go wrong?" This will force the person to rephrase her question as a statement, which is precisely what you want.

In my case, I told the UCLA student her "question" was confusing. Did she really want to talk about rights? Did she really want to know what my credentials were, or what authority I had to speak on these things?
Clearly not.

Anyway, I wasn't laying claim to any authority, nor was I promoting my pedigree, academic or otherwise. The only rights I was appealing to
were
rational rights. I offered an argument that stands or falls on its own merits, not on the authority of the speaker.

Who’s to say? Ultimately, the person who has the best reasons is in the best position to say what is true and what is false. This is the way sound thinking has always worked.

I wanted the student to think about what she was really saying with her "question," then rephrase it in the form of a statement. The most important thing to remember about these questions is that behind them lurk strong opinions that are open to challenge if they can be flushed into the open. That's what I was after.

For example, "What gives you the right to say someone else's religion is wrong?" can be restated as "No one is justified saying one religious view is better than another." "Who's to say?" means "No one could ever know the truth about
that," or "One
answer is just as good as another." "Who are you to say?" usually means "You're wrong for saying someone else is wrong." (This last one is obviously contradictory, but you might not have noticed that problem if the claim remained hidden behind a question mark.)

Each of these is a strong assertion. And each is open to challenge, which is my point. The statement-question has power only when it's allowed to be played. If you force the implicit claim to come to the surface, the objection loses its luster, and you can address the real point lurking in the shadows.

A WORD ON STYLE

There are two basic executions of the
Columbo
tactic. The first is the bumbling approach of Lieutenant
Columbo
himself — halting,

head-scratching
, and apparently harmless. This tack should be easy for most of us because that's often how we feel when we're trying to gain a foothold in a conversation. The second is more confrontational and aggressive. It's the technique a lawyer uses in a courtroom.

The style you adopt in any conversation will depend on your goal. Do you want to persuade the other person, or do you want to refute him? Persuasion comes across as more friendly because your goal is to win the person, not necessarily to win the argument. By contrast, lawyers want to win the argument. In order to convince the jury, they must refute the defendant.

Since my goal is usually to persuade, in most conversations I adopt the genial approach of Lieutenant
Columbo
himself. I soften my challenge by introducing my questions with phrases like, "I'm just curious . . . ," "Something about this thing bothers me . . . ," "Maybe I'm missing something . . . ," or "Maybe you can clear this up for me. . . ."

Sometimes, though, my purpose is not to persuade the person I differ with, but to persuade the ones who are listening. This is the situation I face in a debate. I realize there is little hope of winning my opponent. The audience, though, is generally more open-minded. If I can prove my challenger wrong, I can win many of those who are on the fence, as long as I mind my manners.

In informal debates, I can use either style, depending on the situation. If someone is squaring off with me when others are listening in, I might choose a refutation style for the sake of the bystanders. This is especially true if my challenger is belligerent and I have little confidence that he will be moved. Prudence dictates that I refute him and persuade the crowd. In a classroom setting, I usually have a better chance of influencing the students than I have of changing the professor. Even so, because I am a student in his class I would usually take a more indirect, laid-back approach as an act of courtesy.

SHEEPISH IN SEATTLE

Once in a restaurant in Seattle, I got into a chat about religion with the waitress serving my table. My general comments in favor of spirituality were met with an approving nod, but a shadow of disapproval crossed her face when I mentioned that some religious beliefs seemed foolish to me.

"That's oppressive," she said, "not letting people believe what they want to believe."

Now, much could be said about this challenge. For example, notice that she took my judgment on religious belief as a threat to personal liberty. I ignored that problem, though, and zeroed in on a more fundamental flaw.

"Do you think I'm wrong, then," I asked, using a variation of the first
Columbo
question.

At this she balked, unwilling to commit the same error she had just accused me of making. "No. . . . I'm not saying you're wrong. I'm just trying to . . . to understand your view."

I chuckled. "It's okay if you think I'm wrong. Really, it doesn't bother me. I just wonder why you don't admit
it?
Look, if you
don't
think I'm wrong, then why are you correcting me? And if you
do
think I'm wrong, then why were you oppressing me?"

Of course,
I
didn't think her comment was oppressive, but now I was playing her rules against her. Boxed in, she faltered for a moment,
then
changed the subject. "All religions are basically the same, after all."

It was a parry—a stock retort. I suspect it had worked for her before, and now she was trying it on me. But I noticed something about the comment. She had just made a claim, and it was up to her to support it. It was time for another
Columbo
question.

"Religions are basically the same?
Really?
In what way?"
I asked.

My question had a remarkable effect. I was amazed at the impact those simple words had on her. Her jaw fell slack, and her face went blank. She didn't know what to say. She had obviously not thought much about the details of other religions. If she had, she'd have known they are worlds apart. Why the empty claim, then, if she had no idea of its truth? I suspect she'd gotten away with it before.

Finally, after a long pause, she came up with one similarity: "Well, all religions teach you shouldn't kill people; you shouldn't murder."

In point of fact, many religions aren't concerned with morality at all. A distinctive of the great monotheistic religions is their concern about ethical conduct, but that's exceptional, not standard. All religions aren't basically the same. Instead of lecturing her about it, though, I used my questions.

"Consider this," I said. "Either Jesus is the Messiah or he isn't, right?"

She nodded.
So far, so good.

"If he
isn't
the Messiah," I continued, "then the Christians are wrong and the Jews are right. If he
is
the Messiah, then the Jews are wrong and the Christians are right. So, one way or another, somebody's right and somebody's wrong. Under no circumstances can they both be 'basically the same,' can they?"

It was a straightforward line of thinking that yielded what should have been an uncontroversial conclusion. Yet she ignored my question, regrouped, then continued: "Well, no one can ever know the truth about religion."

This is another assertion that should never go unchallenged, so I calmly asked, "Why would you believe a thing like that?"

The turnabout caught her by surprise. She was used to asking this particular question, not answering it. I was violating the rules, asking her for a reason for her beliefs, and she wasn't prepared for the role change.

I waited patiently, not breaking the silence, not letting her off the hook. Finally, she ventured: "But the Bible has been changed and translated so many times over the centuries you can't trust it."

Notice two things about this response. First, she had changed the subject once again. The alleged corruption of the Bible had nothing to do with the possibility of knowing religious truth. Even if the Bible vanished from the face of the earth, knowledge of God could still be possible, at least in principle. Second, her dodge was in the form of another claim, an assertion that it was her job to defend, not my job to refute.

"How do you know the Bible's been changed?" I asked. "Have you actually studied the transmission of the ancient documents of the text of the Bible?"

Once again, the question stalled her. "No, I've never studied it," she finally said. This was a remarkable admission, given her confident contention just moments before. But she didn't seem the least bit bothered.

I didn't have the heart to say what I might have said in a case like this—"Then you're saying you are sure about something you really know nothing about." I might have added, "If you've never studied this, how do you know the Bible has been changed as you say?"

Instead, I simply told her I had studied the question extensively and the academic results were in. The manuscripts were accurate to over 99 percent precision. The Bible hadn't been changed.

She was surprised.
"Really?"

By this point the waitress was running out of comebacks. She watched her options evaporate one by one and began to get uncomfortable. "I feel like you're backing me into a corner," she complained.

I wasn't trying to be unkind or to bully her intellectually. I listened to what she said and took her points seriously. Yet with each claim she made, I asked fair questions that she had no answers for. Apparently, she'd never given any thought to the opinions she held with such certainty. She was dumbfounded by the challenges and complained she was being cornered.

This young lady was like so many I have encountered. She knew all the popular slogans, but when fair
Columbo
questions eliminated foolish options, the truth began closing in on her. This dear person was speechless, not because I was clever, but because, I suspect, she'd never had to defend her own responses before.

When she says to Christians, "Your narrow views are oppressive," or "The Bible's been changed so many times," or "All religions are basically the same," they retreat in silence. They haven't been taught to simply raise their eyebrows and say, "Oh? How do you know?"

Critics rarely are prepared to defend their own "faith." They have seldom thought through what they believe and have relied more on generalizations and slogans than on careful reflection. To expose their error, take your cue from Lieutenant
Columbo
. Scratch your head, rub your chin, pause for a moment, then say, "Do you mind if I ask you a question?"

As with the emperor and his imaginary clothes, all it takes is one person to calmly say, "You're naked." That's the power of
Columbo
.

WHAT WE LEARNED IN THIS CHAPTER

In this chapter we focused on what happens
after
you have a conversation and are now looking back, trying to appraise your effectiveness as an ambassador. We started out by exploring three specific ways you can improve your skill at
Columbo
.

First, try to anticipate objections you might face, and then think of questions in advance. This allows you to formulate responses before the pressure is on. Second, take some time for self-assessment after each encounter. Ask how you could have phrased questions more effectively or conducted yourself differently in the conversation. Enlist a friend in the process, especially if he was with you during the dialogue. Finally, if you think of anything new, role-play your ideas—and potential rejoinders from the other side—out loud.

Next, we learned how to defend against the
Columbo
tactic when someone uses it against us. Remind yourself that you are in control of your side of the conversation. Politely refuse to answer the person's leading questions. Then, ask him to simply state his point and his reasons for it so you can give the issue some thought.

We also learned to be alert for questions that are not really questions at all, but assertions in disguise (e.g., "Who are you to say?"). When you encounter this situation, point out that the question is confusing. Then ask the person to rephrase it in the form of a statement. Or simply ask your first
Columbo
question, "What do you mean by that?"