Bilingual Conversations For A Secular Age

What Are We Talking About?

When I was in high school, one friend gently tried to help me see the limits of my unbalanced approach to life. In the zeal of adolescence, I was relentlessly focused on the satisfaction found in gathering evidence, organizing arguments, and using logic to make my points.

My friend asked me to consider that emotions were as important to life as ideas. Unfortunately for him, I was armed to the teeth with reasons he was wrong. Emotions can mislead us, but logic? It’s eternal truth.

Even though I was right, I was also wrong. By limiting myself to the language of formal logical deductions, I was closing myself off to the experience of friendship, sadness, and joy. 

We were talking past each other, and I didn’t know how to bridge the gap. He felt sad that I was invulnerable; I pitied his sentimentality. Now, I can only look back on my immaturity and laugh.

But when I see how Christians and secularists talk about science, sometimes it feels like déjà vu. For my part, I tend to focus on “what’s important”—the activity of God in the world. I’d rather worship the Creator than get bogged down in the nitpicky scientific details. By temperament, I’m an idealist, not an empiricist. 

When I listen to some naturalistic scientists speak, it seems they have cut out the idealism in favor of the facts. For instance, listen to how Richard Dawkins explained the mysteries of awe and love:

I do not believe in anything beyond the material world, no matter how poetic you feel, no matter how much you're in love, or no matter how deeply you feel emotionally about looking at nature, looking at fields of wheat, looking at the stars. These are all human reactions, which I feel as strongly as anyone. But there is nothing supernatural about that.

As a human being, when contemplating the Milky Way, I get a feeling in the pit of my stomach. There's nothing supernatural about that, it's something in my nervous system. That's not to demean it — it feels real to me. But it's not truth in the scientific sense, which really is actually physically true about the material world.

If I’m hearing him right, Dawkins restricts “truth” to physical facts about the material world. He doesn’t believe in anything beyond it. From his perspective, love and awe, no matter how strongly it is experienced, are rumblings in the nervous system. For instance, Dr. Barbara Fredrickson’s theory of love explains “love” by reference to “mirror neurons, oxytocin, and vagal tone.”

My first instinct is to dismiss this, just as a pure naturalist might dismiss faith. And in that mutual dismissal, a conversation becomes a controversy. This dynamic can lead to a place where scientists feel Christians are ignoring evidence, and Christians feel scientists are missing the point with a description that feels profoundly incomplete.

Instead of a conversation, we’re left with a conflict. It’s great for selling books, but it’s terrible for building friendships.

So, how can we find a better way to engage with each other?

First, we need to be grounded in God’s love. If we’re insecure about our faith, our body language and tone of voice will give it away. Even as we anxiously try to convince someone else that we are right, everything else about us will indicate an insecurity that we might be wrong. 

But once we’re secure in God’s care for us, then everything else comes relatively easy. We can ask questions, listen patiently, empathize deeply, and enjoy learning about the intricacies of the scientific explanations in every area of our lives.

For instance, how can a thorough understanding of the neurobiological pathways activated during worship music threaten us? With each new insight, we gain new language to praise God! But also, as we express genuine appreciation for scientists and the language of science, we build bridges of trust. 

When someone senses that we are peaceful, curious friends, my experience is they tend to slowly get relaxed and comfortable. They can tell me their honest questions about God, the way Christians have hurt them, and the reasons they don’t believe. Instead of fearing that I am going to use their vulnerability as a weapon to convert them, they know my only goal is to be a good friend.

Instead of arguing with them, I can share how I see the world. Yes, there are plenty of logical arguments that love is an immaterial reality. But speaking as one human being to another, either your eyes are open to see these spiritual realities, or not. Two people can look at the same strand of DNA, understand the sequence of nucleotides with equal intelligence, and interpret the raw data in two conflicting ways. One sees confirmation that the material world is all that exists, the other bursts into unrestrained thanksgiving for the Creator’s handiwork. 

I trust that my friends are looking at the world as honestly and sincerely as they can, just through a different lens. The transcendent realities of purpose, meaning, and love are being experienced by them, but without the language of faith that gives those realities a name.

Even as I connect with their perspective, I know that God is love, and I’ve felt awe at his beautiful, majestic work in Creation. What can I do but share my heartfelt experiences and invite them to be open to the same? 

But if we get into a shouting match or look down at their lack of faith, how will that increase their spiritual receptivity? None of my friends have ever come up to me and said, “Carson, you have an intimidating intellect. You’re so smart, in fact, it makes me think I’m probably wrong about my most important beliefs. Would you take a few hours to explain why you’re right and I’m wrong, so I can get things straightened out?” 

Instead, what if we look for common ground? We can share our experiences of awe, be curious about the scientific processes, honor their passion for knowledge, and listen without a need to have an agenda. We trust God’s work in their lives, and if they’re interested, we can share what we see. If we refuse to debate, it will be easier for us to make friends. 

Who can you build bridges with this week? 

I invite you to find an opportunity to start a conversation with a friend or family member about a topic of shared wonder (a beautiful sunset, a scientific breakthrough, or a new technology).

Your goal is not to win an argument, but to practice being bilingual:

1. Start by speaking their language. Ask questions about the "how." Appreciate the science, the skill, or the mechanics of what you're both observing. Find genuine common ground. That’s enough for a good conversation.

2. If they reciprocate your curiosity, share what you see. Speak from your heart, not to score a point, but to share your experience.

Our friends and conversations about faith with them aren’t trophies to boast about at church. They are our friends. What would it look like to speak their language so we can share our hope?

Do you want to use this reflection to help you and your friends follow Jesus together? In Uncommon Pursuit, we habitually practice the ask-discuss-do framework to help us connect with God and one another.

Questions For You and Your Friends:

ASK: 

1. When have you and a secular friend struggled to understand each other? What was that experience like for you? For them?

2. How do you feel about having deeper conversations about life with secular friends?

DISCUSS:

1. Read through the Dawkins’ quote together. What do you appreciate about his point of view? What seems to be missing?

2. Read 1 Corinthians 9:19-23 together. What do you notice about Paul’s example?

DO:

1. Take turns sharing about one person you’re praying will experience God’s love for themselves. 

2. This week, reach out to that person and practice speaking their language. 

3. Check in with each other midweek to see how the conversation went. Ask: “Did you speak their language?”

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Credit: Photo from Greg Rakozy on Unsplash