When the Argument Disappears: Recognizing Evasion in Apologetic Debate

Michael Antonio Jeter

The Apostolic Record

Apologetics begins with a deceptively simple premise: truth can withstand examination. If we believe a proposition to be true, particularly when we claim that Scripture establishes it, we should not fear placing that proposition before the evidence, hearing objections to it, testing our interpretation, and answering those objections as carefully as we are able. This is part of what Peter contemplated when he instructed believers to be prepared to give an apologia, a reasoned defense, for the hope within them (1 Peter 3:15). It is also consistent with the broader biblical pattern of reasoning, examining, testing, and searching the Scriptures to determine whether the things being taught are actually so. Apologetics therefore requires conviction, but conviction alone is insufficient. It also requires intellectual integrity, because the person asking another to examine his beliefs must be willing to place his own beliefs beneath the same examination.

That sounds straightforward until the argument touches something that has become deeply embedded in a person's life. Religious beliefs rarely exist as isolated intellectual propositions. They become connected to family, teachers, congregations, denominations, friendships, education, reputation, ministry, and memories accumulated over decades. A doctrine learned in childhood may eventually become part of the framework through which a person understands Yah, Scripture, salvation, worship, and even himself. Consequently, asking whether that doctrine is scripturally sound may eventually involve far more than asking what a particular verse means. If the evidence begins to challenge the doctrine, it may simultaneously challenge years of teaching, trusted authorities, relationships, and conclusions that once appeared settled beyond question.

This is where apologetics can become especially difficult, because there comes a point in some discussions when the nature of the conversation changes. Two people may begin by examining a proposition together, but somewhere along the way one of them may cease examining the proposition and begin protecting something attached to it. The change is not always conscious, and it should not automatically be interpreted as dishonesty. Nevertheless, it can often be recognized by what begins happening to the argument itself. The original question becomes increasingly difficult to keep in view. Objections multiply without previous objections ever being resolved. Standards of evidence change after evidence has been supplied. Peripheral matters assume greater importance than the proposition under examination. Eventually the discussion may shift from the argument to the person presenting it.

The apologist must learn to recognize that transition, but he must do so carefully. Evasive behavior does not establish that the other person's theological position is false. A person can argue poorly for something that is true, just as another can argue brilliantly for something that is false. Irritation, defensiveness, deflection, or even personal hostility cannot substitute for demonstrating the truth or falsity of a proposition. What such behavior can establish is something considerably narrower and nevertheless important: the argument presently before the person has not been answered. Recognizing that distinction protects apologetics from becoming a contest in which every emotional reaction is interpreted as evidence that the apologist has won.

When Examination Becomes Defense of a Commitment

A genuine apologetic discussion has an identifiable subject. A proposition is advanced, evidence is offered for it, an objection is raised, and the objection is examined. If the objection succeeds, the original argument must be reconsidered. If the objection fails, intellectual honesty requires acknowledging that particular failure rather than simply replacing it with another objection and behaving as though nothing has happened. There may certainly be several independent objections to an argument, and a serious critic is entitled to raise all of them. What distinguishes examination from evasion is whether those objections are actually being resolved as the discussion progresses.

Consider what happens when a particular passage is presented as evidence for a doctrine. The context is examined, and the interpretation offered for that passage is shown to be difficult to sustain. Rather than defending the interpretation or demonstrating why the contextual objection fails, another passage is introduced. That passage is examined as well, after which a third appears. Eventually the discussion moves from Scripture to church history, from church history to lexical arguments, from lexical arguments to scholars, and from scholars to denominational consensus. Each of those subjects may legitimately contribute to theological examination, but their legitimacy does not answer the earlier questions that were left behind. A discussion can contain enormous amounts of theological information while becoming progressively less capable of identifying what, precisely, is still being disputed.

At such a point, one of the most useful questions an apologist can ask is also one of the simplest: What happened to the original argument? If it was refuted, where was it refuted? If an answer was inadequate, what precisely was inadequate about it? If the original objection remains valid, why does it remain valid after the response that was given? These are not devices for cornering an opponent. They are methods of restoring order to an examination that is beginning to lose its subject.

Deflection becomes especially apparent when the response no longer addresses the proposition at all. If proposition A has been presented and supported with evidence, a discussion of proposition B does not refute A. Nor does questioning the apologist's credentials, denomination, education, associations, motives, personality, or tone. There may be circumstances in which some of those matters are relevant, but they cannot become substitutes for examining the argument itself. “Who are you to say this?” is not an answer to “What does the text say?” A criticism of someone's tone does not establish that his exegesis is wrong. An accusation concerning motive does not invalidate evidence. Once the discussion shifts in that direction, the apologist should resist being pulled into an endless defense of himself and return, as calmly as possible, to the proposition under examination.

The same is true when the standard of evidence continually changes. Someone may initially request explicit scriptural support. When that support is produced, the requirement becomes multiple passages. When those are produced, historical consensus becomes necessary. When history is examined, scholarly opinion becomes decisive. When scholarship proves less uniform than expected, another criterion appears. None of these evidentiary categories is inherently improper, but if the conditions for establishing a proposition change every time the previous condition has been satisfied, the question eventually becomes whether any conceivable evidence would be permitted to challenge the belief.

That question reaches beyond debate technique and into the deeper human problem that apologetics sometimes encounters. A belief can gradually cease functioning merely as a conclusion and begin functioning as an obligation. A person may feel obligated to the denomination that formed him, the minister who taught him, the family that raised him, the theological tradition within which he has worshiped, or the positions he has himself taught to others. To reconsider the doctrine may therefore feel like disloyalty to far more than an interpretation. It may appear to threaten an entire network of relationships and commitments that have accumulated around it.

This helps explain why the strongest resistance can sometimes appear precisely when an argument reaches the place where reconsideration would become costly. The phenomenon commonly called cognitive dissonance describes the discomfort that can arise when new information conflicts with established beliefs or commitments. That concept should never become an apologetic weapon. Telling someone that he rejects our argument because he is suffering from cognitive dissonance proves nothing and may itself become a way of avoiding his objection. Nevertheless, the underlying human difficulty is real. Discovering at sixty that something believed since childhood may have been mistaken carries a different emotional weight from correcting an opinion formed yesterday.

For that reason, the apologist should be capable of firmness without contempt. We do not know another person's heart merely because we can identify what is happening in an argument. We may observe that a question has gone unanswered, that the subject has repeatedly changed, that the evidentiary standard has moved, or that criticism has become personal. Those are observable features of the discussion. Claiming that we therefore know another person's secret motives goes beyond the evidence. There is an important difference between saying, “You are afraid to admit that I am right,” and saying, “The question I raised has still not been addressed.” The first presumes knowledge of another person's interior life; the second returns attention to something that can actually be examined.

The Standard Must Apply to the Apologist

There is a danger in discussing evasion in apologetics that must be confronted directly. It is remarkably easy to read an article about deflection, moving goalposts, entrenched beliefs, and cognitive dissonance while imagining that every description applies to the person across the table. If the apologist does that, he has missed the central discipline of apologetics. Everything that can happen to the challenger can also happen to the defender.

The apologist can become emotionally invested in his own argument. He can protect teachers he admires, interpretations he has published, communities to which he belongs, and conclusions around which he has constructed his own theological identity. He can move the goalposts when contrary evidence becomes uncomfortable. He can dismiss a critic because of credentials rather than answering the criticism. He can characterize every persistent objection as hostility and every disagreement as evidence that his opponent is unwilling to accept truth. Most dangerously, he can become so accustomed to defending his position that he no longer remembers that the purpose of apologetics is not to preserve his argument but to discover and defend what is true.

The Bereans provide an important corrective. They were called noble not because they accepted Paul's claims immediately, nor because they rejected them reflexively, but because they received what was being taught and searched the Scriptures to determine “whether those things were so” (Acts 17:11). That phrase establishes a demanding standard. The question was not whether Paul's teaching was familiar, comfortable, traditional, or supported by the preferred authorities of the hearers. It was whether it was so.

That same standard must govern us. If Moses contradicts a theological construction we cherish, the construction must yield. If the Prophets expose a contradiction within it, it must yield. If Yahshua overturns an assumption we inherited, the assumption must yield. If the Apostolic witness refuses to support something we have confidently taught, our confidence cannot become a substitute for evidence. The authority belongs to the testimony of Scripture, not to our investment in an interpretation of it.

This is why standing firmly in apologetics and remaining willing to change one's mind are not contradictory virtues. The person who has honestly tested an argument should not abandon it merely because someone dislikes its conclusion. At the same time, the person genuinely committed to truth should be willing to abandon his own argument the moment it is demonstrated to be false. There is no courage in stubbornly protecting error, just as there is no humility in surrendering truth merely because defending it has become uncomfortable.

This self-examination also prevents the apologist from declaring victory too quickly. The fact that an opponent begins deflecting does not make our premises sound. The fact that someone becomes combative does not prove our exegesis. The fact that a critic attacks our character instead of our argument may show that the argument remains unanswered, but it does not relieve us of the obligation to make certain that the argument was sound in the first place. Apologetics retains its integrity only when the same evidentiary discipline is applied in both directions.

Recognizing When the Discussion Has Changed

Scripture itself demonstrates that not every question arises from the same disposition and therefore not every question requires the same kind of response. Yahshua encountered people seeking understanding, people expressing doubt, people challenging His teaching, and people attempting to entrap Him. He did not treat every encounter identically. At times He explained patiently; at others He appealed directly to Scripture, exposed a false premise, answered a question with another question, or refused to continue on the terms His challengers attempted to establish.

The confrontation concerning His authority in Matthew 21 is especially instructive. When the chief priests and elders demanded to know by what authority He acted, Yahshua asked them whether John's baptism was from heaven or from men. Their subsequent deliberation revealed the difficulty. They did not simply ask which answer was true. They calculated what would happen if they answered one way and what would happen if they answered the other. One response would expose their inconsistency; the other would create difficulty with the people. Their problem had therefore become more than evidentiary. The consequences of answering had entered the calculation. Yahshua recognized the condition of the exchange and declined to answer their demand on the terms they had established.

That episode provides an important insight into apologetic dialogue. Sometimes the obstacle is not that the evidence has been inadequately explained. The obstacle is that accepting the evidence has acquired consequences. Once that occurs, repeating the explanation indefinitely may accomplish very little because clarity is no longer the principal problem.

The apostolic writings similarly distinguish productive reasoning from controversy that has become fruitless. Paul was certainly willing to argue. Acts repeatedly describes him reasoning from the Scriptures and attempting to persuade his hearers. Yet the same Paul warns against foolish questions and disputes that generate strife rather than understanding. Titus 3:9 speaks of controversies and contentions that have become “unprofitable and vain.” The point cannot be that difficult theological questions should never be pursued, because Paul's own writings demonstrate the opposite. The distinction concerns what the discussion is still accomplishing. Reasoned examination seeks resolution through truth; fruitless controversy can perpetuate itself long after the underlying questions have ceased to receive meaningful examination.

This is where the apologist must develop discernment concerning his own desire to continue. One of the strongest temptations appears when another objection is raised and we know that we can answer it. We answer, another follows, and we answer again. Eventually we may find ourselves responding not because the examination is progressing but because we cannot tolerate leaving an objection unanswered. The distinction is subtle because the desire to clarify can appear virtuous. Sometimes it is. Yet there comes a point when another explanation merely extends a discussion whose problem is no longer lack of explanation.

The apologist should therefore occasionally ask himself what he is trying to accomplish by continuing. If a genuine objection remains unresolved, there may be good reason to remain engaged. If the other person is seriously considering the evidence but needs further clarification, patience is appropriate. If we have discovered an uncertainty in our own position, continued investigation may be necessary. But if the proposition has been stated clearly, the evidence has been examined, relevant objections have been answered, and the conversation continually escapes into new subjects or personal conflict, continued response may cease to serve the truth.

This does not require the apologist to announce that his opponent has no argument, nor does it justify declaring victory. There may be arguments the other person has not articulated well, evidence neither participant has considered, or weaknesses in our own reasoning that remain undiscovered. Intellectual humility should prevent triumphalism. It is enough to observe that the particular argument before us is no longer being examined. That conclusion does not require us to know why the other person has stopped examining it, and it certainly does not require humiliating him for doing so.

Indeed, humiliation is often contrary to the very purpose of apologetics. A person who is defensive today may reconsider privately tomorrow. Evidence that initially threatens a deeply held commitment may require time to process after the pressure of public disagreement has disappeared. If we ridicule the person, attack his intelligence, question his sincerity, or make his eventual reconsideration equivalent to public humiliation, we may create additional barriers between him and the very truth we claim to want him to recognize. There is greater strength in presenting an argument carefully, defending it when necessary, and then allowing the evidence to remain available without demanding an immediate surrender.

When Walking Away Serves the Truth

This may be the most difficult discipline of all because apologetics naturally trains us to answer. We study precisely so that we can respond to objections, identify fallacies, examine competing interpretations, and explain why we believe a proposition survives scrutiny. Consequently, walking away can feel like leaving work unfinished. If another objection remains on the screen, another comment appears beneath an article, or another accusation is directed toward us, silence can feel dangerously similar to concession.

But silence and concession are not the same thing. Neither is walking away equivalent to defeat. An argument does not become false because someone raises another objection after we stop responding, and evidence does not cease to exist because the apologist is no longer present to defend it. If truth depends upon our having the final word in every disagreement, then what we are defending is remarkably fragile.

The responsibility of the apologist is substantial, but it is not unlimited. He is responsible for handling Scripture honestly, representing contrary positions fairly, distinguishing what has been demonstrated from what has merely been asserted, correcting his own errors when they are exposed, and giving reasons for the conclusions he asks others to consider. He is not responsible for compelling another human being to accept those conclusions. There comes a point at which the hearer remains responsible for what he does with the evidence that has been placed before him.

Recognizing that boundary can prevent apologetics from becoming something it was never intended to be. The desire to defend truth can gradually become the desire to defeat an opponent; the desire to clarify can become the need to have the last word; perseverance can become attachment to the dispute itself. Once that happens, the apologist may be guilty of the very behavior he has recognized in the other person. He may no longer be defending the proposition because examination requires it, but because his own pride now requires the conversation to end with acknowledgment that he was right.

Walking away at the proper time interrupts that cycle. It does not require anger, contempt, or a dramatic final declaration. It may require nothing more than recognizing that the argument has been adequately stated, that meaningful objections have been addressed, and that further exchange is no longer advancing the examination. The door can remain open to future discussion if the proposition itself becomes the subject again. What ends is not necessarily the relationship or even the possibility of further dialogue; what ends is participation in an argument that has ceased to pursue resolution.

There is also a kind of confidence expressed in allowing evidence to stand without continually standing beside it. If an argument is sound, it remains available for examination tomorrow. If it is unsound, another thousand words from us will not make it sound. The truth of a proposition is independent of our ability to force recognition of it. Understanding this allows the apologist to remain both firm and peaceful: firm because resistance alone does not require surrendering what has survived examination, and peaceful because another person's refusal to accept the conclusion does not create an endless obligation to persuade.

The final discipline of apologetics, then, may not be learning how to answer every possible objection. It may be learning how to recognize what kind of conversation is actually taking place. Is the evidence still being examined? Are objections being resolved, or merely replaced? Are standards being applied consistently, or rewritten as the discussion progresses? Is the proposition still the subject, or has attention shifted to personalities, motives, credentials, and tone? Most importantly, are we asking these questions only about the other person, or are we willing to place ourselves beneath the same examination?

There is courage in standing upon a sound argument when resistance becomes intense, but there is equal courage in admitting when evidence has exposed a weakness in our own position. There is maturity in patiently answering sincere objections, but there is also maturity in recognizing when further answers merely perpetuate a dispute. Apologetics requires enough conviction to resist being moved by pressure and enough humility to be moved by truth.

When those principles govern the discussion, disagreement need not threaten us. We can examine vigorously without becoming combative, defend confidently without becoming arrogant, and reconsider honestly without imagining that correction is defeat. We can recognize when another person may be defending something more deeply rooted than the proposition before us without presuming to judge his heart. We can also recognize the same possibility within ourselves.

And when the argument finally disappears—when examination gives way to deflection, the subject continually moves, the standard continually changes, and the person rather than the proposition becomes the focus—we do not have to follow it wherever it goes. We can return once more to the question that began the examination, make certain that our own argument remains sound, and allow the evidence to stand.

Sometimes another answer is necessary. Sometimes further study is necessary. Sometimes we discover that correction is necessary. But there are also times when nothing more needs to be said. At that point, walking away does not mean that the apologist has abandoned the truth. It may mean that he has finally learned that the truth does not require him to chase an argument after the argument itself has disappeared.