Beyond Apologetics

 

The Art of Holding Sacred Tension

 

 

The modern apologist often steps into the room with a sword already drawn. In one hand: Scripture. In the other: certainty. But beneath the shining armor of inerrancy lies something older and more fragile—a fear of loss. A fear that if a single crack is found in the surface of the sacred, the whole foundation might crumble. They stand ready to defend, not because the text demands it, but because mystery feels unsafe.

 

The word apologia once meant a reasoned defense—a thoughtful response to accusation or doubt. But in the hands of some modern conservatives, it has hardened into a reactionary stance, where Scripture is treated less as a living word and more as a brittle contract. Every contradiction becomes a potential threat. What could invite reflection is instead silenced for the sake of consistency.

 

But Scripture wasn't written for the courtroom. It was sung by shepherds, wrestled by prophets, wept over by poets. It is full of gaps, ruptures, repetitions. The Old Testament in particular unfolds not as a seamless record, but as a layered symphony—ancient, raw, and unafraid of its own mess. To read it as a binary of true or false is to mishear its music.

 

Harmony in Tension

 

Consider the creation narratives of Genesis. In one, humanity is created at the crown of a cosmic order, spoken into being alongside the stars, made in the very image of God. In the other, man is molded from dirt, placed in a garden where the divine walks in the cool of the day. Which is true? The question itself is misplaced. These are not meant to be competing drafts—they are complementary visions. To seek harmony is not to collapse them into one, but to let their tension resonate.

 

Or take the flood story: one account says the rain fell for forty days; another says the waters remained for a hundred and fifty. We can rationalize—forty days of increasing rain, followed by one hundred and fifty of lingering waters—but the numbers are not there for forensic alignment. Forty is the number of trial. One hundred and fifty echoes fullness—gestation, enclosure, a watery womb. The contradiction opens space for symbol. The apologist tries to seal the gap. But the mystic leans in.

 

Then there’s Goliath. In one text, he is slain by David; in another, by a man named Elhanan. Some scribes try to harmonize the texts by adding clarifying phrases. But what if “Goliath” is not merely a name, but a title? A symbol of brute strength—of visible, towering power. Perhaps David and Elhanan both faced the giant, because the giant appears in every age. If we demand a single hero, we can miss the deeper point: the Goliath archetype must be slain again and again.

 

Even the Sabbath commands diverge. In Exodus, Sabbath is rooted in creation—God rested, and calls you too as well. In Deuteronomy, it is grounded in liberation—you were slaves, and now you are free. These are not opposing justifications; they are layers of meaning. What is the crowning act of creation, if not liberation from chaos and toil? What is divine rest, if not the freedom to stop being defined by your usefulness? Sabbath is not a rule to obey, but a reality to enter. It was made for man not the other way around.

 

All these seeming contradictions—and there are many more—are not signs of error. They are signs of life. Like the folds of a great tapestry, they create depth and dimension. Like a piece of music in a strange key, they draw the ear to listen more closely.

 

 

Two Modes of Apologetics

 

This brings us to a distinction between two different modes of apologetics.

 

The first is apologetics as fortification—a defense often driven by fear. It requires Scripture to be internally flawless and unambiguous, because its power is thought to rest on perfection. When confronted with tension, it must harmonize, flatten, resolve. It sees ambiguity as an enemy.

 

The second is apologetics as invitation—a posture of reverence and engagement. This mode allows the sacred text to breathe. It sees contradiction not as failure, but as invitation. It trusts that God is not afraid of being misunderstood. It defends not the system, but the relationship.

 

Paul offers a striking example of this second posture in Acts 17. Standing before the Athenian philosophers at the Areopagus, he does not begin by tearing down their altars or mocking their myths. Instead, he finds the one marked “To the Unknown God”—and names it. “What you worship as unknown, this I proclaim to you.”

 

This is not dilution. It is discernment. Paul does not erase the symbols of another culture—he interprets them. He enters their story and gently turns the lens. This is not apologetics as conquest. It is apologetics as communion.

 

 

Faithfulness Over Certainty

 

Here we reach the heart of the matter.

 

“Truth,” at its etymological core, is not first about accuracy or correctness, but about faithfulness—to reality, to relationship, to something enduring and dependable. It’s not just a statement to verify; it’s a posture to keep. Before truth became a fact to prove, it was a vow to honor. To be true was to be loyal, to endure, to hold fast.

 

Sacred tension does not ask for brittle certainty. It calls for relational fidelity. And perhaps that is the invitation hidden in all the contradictions—not to control the text, but to keep faith with it. Not to silence the dissonance, but to hear the harmony it conceals. Not to reduce the Word to a flawless system, but to remain faithful to the voice that still speaks through it.

 

 

The Final Invitation

 

Beyond apologetics lies the art of holding sacred tension.

The place where contradiction births conversation.

Where resonance takes priority over record.

Where the Word is not reduced to a manual, but revealed as a mystery.

 

Not a system to be defended—

but a voice to be heard.

 

And in that mystery, we find not certainty, but presence.

Not control, but communion.

Not answers, but invitation.