When RZIM confirmed the reports that Ravi Zacharias was guilty of calculated, serial sexual abuse, I was gutted. I remember listening to Ravi’s program on the radio when I was in high school and hearing him hold a packed auditorium spellbound in college. I devoured as much of his content as I could. He seemed to me a modern-day C. S. Lewis, marrying reason and imagination, satisfying heart and mind, moving effortlessly between Malcolm Muggeridge and the Moody Blues.
Upon reflection, I realize that part of the pride I felt in hearing Ravi had to do with him looking like me. As a Filipino American who grew up in predominantly white spaces, Ravi, an India-born Canadian American, seemed to represent a best-case scenario of what I could become. Among other things, he gave me hope of being accepted by mainstream culture, a culture that could be conquered through education, erudition, and eloquence.