Stump the Pastor - Vol 11 No 3

Mike stood alone, behind the podium, fielding questions as students tried to “Stump the Pastor.” 

It was obvious the moment the light caught his silver hair as he walked down the hall toward the amphitheater that Mike was not like rest of his classmates.  If his hair didn’t give it away, perhaps the collared shirt with medium starch and neatly pressed khakis would contribute to the contrast.  But coffee in hand, computer bag at his side, he was completely at home amidst his classmates who were decades his junior. He smiled amicably as he comfortably passed clusters of them laughing too loudly, swearing casually and many dressed in fabric about the size of a Bounty paper towel with enough left to still wipe up a spill.  They were killing time before a philosophy club meeting that almost didn’t happen.

Almost.

At the front of the amphitheater beside the podium, the organizer gaped at his phone and cried, “Oh s***!  Our f******** speaker can’t come!  He’s canceled.  What are we going to do?”

The room went quiet and all eyes went to the front. Then just as suddenly the buzz of conversations filled the room as groups began making other plans.

And then Mike spoke up.  “Hey guys!” he said, raising his voice just enough to cut through the noise. “I have an idea.”

Eighteen sets of eyes turned to him and quieted. Curious. Skeptical.

Mike grinned.  “It’s something none of you have ever done.”

Now he really had their attention.

“What’s that?” someone asked.

“You’ve never had the opportunity,” Mike said evenly, “to ask someone real questions about the Bible. About the Gospel.  You can ask me anything you want, and I will give you a biblical worldview about it.  Nothing is off the table.  But I will give you answers from the Bible.

A few scoffs.  “Why would we care?  The Bible is a dead book.”  There were a few laughs, but no one walked out.

“I’m a confirmed Atheist,” one man called out dismissively. 

Mike continued his smile undaunted.  “No,” he replied gently but loud enough for all to hear, “you’re a confirmed liar to yourself.  You’re deceiving yourself. You know better than you’re admitting.  I know from the Bible.”

It might have ended the conversation.

Instead, it opened it.

“O-kay,” the organizer hesitantly spoke still looking for salvation for the meeting, “what kind of questions are we even talking about?”

Mike didn’t hesitate and moved toward the podium.   “Let’s start with the most basic one. ‘What is the Bible?’”

People started sitting down until Mike was the only one still standing. The others were scattered around the room and, by the grace of God, were listening.

Then someone shrugged. “It’s just a book written by men a long time ago. Totally irrelevant.”

“I appreciate the honesty,” Mike said. “And you’re partly right. It was written by men. But they were special men, in a special situation. If you’re going to say that, at least be complete.”

That opened the floodgates.

For the next hour and a half, Mike stood alone, behind the podium, fielding questions as most of the eighteen students tried to “Stump the Pastor.”  They talked about Truth and Bible translations.  The meaning of words. They talked about the hypostatic union and the sinfulness of man.  They talked about man’s inherent dignity because he is made in the image of God.  And they talked about capitalism and Marxism and gender ideologies…all from a biblical worldview.

But don’t get the wrong impression. This was no tidy lecture from the 1950’s. No neat rows of attentive students with pencils poised and manners intact. This was something else entirely. Vulgarity ruled the air; obscenities, blasphemies and casual references to sexual and moral excess poured out as freely as rain into a storm drain. In the back, two girls lounged side by side. One wore a top so revealing it left nothing to the imagination, her cleavage openly displayed. The other woman draped an arm around her, fingers roaming without shame before they leaned in to kiss. No one even seemed to notice. Mike wondered if their actions were intentionally aimed at trying to get him flustered.  They don’t know him.  No, it was an hour and a half of battling for the minds and souls of these young men and women…

And he loved it.

When the room reservation expired, someone casually asked, “So… where are we eating?”

They chose sushi.

And God—quietly, unmistakably—had been at work.

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