I didn’t begin by questioning the Bible; I began by defending it. Not defensively or angrily, but with the earnest confidence of someone who really wanted this whole thing to hold together. Faith mattered to me, and I wanted it to be strong enough to carry weight without wobbling every time someone asked a hard question. At the center of that faith were two convictions that felt immovable: that God is real, and that Jesus really is who Christians confess him to be. Those weren’t ideas I held loosely or revisited every few years; they were anchors – and they still are. But what I didn’t realize at the time was that those convictions didn’t arrive alone. They came with their own set of luggage too. A carry-on here, a checked bag there, and a few suspiciously heavy items I don’t remember packing. Most of all, alongside them traveled a set of expectations about Scripture: what kind of book it was, how it should behave, how God spoke through it, etc. I don’t remember choosing those assumptions. They simply showed up, already unpacked, acting like they just came with the place. I thought I was simply defending those two convictions, but in practice I was also defending a particular way of seeing the Bible, one that felt inseparable from faithfulness itself. In short, my faith was rooted less in Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, and more in Father, Son, and Holy Bible (cliché I know, but true).

In any case, given the way my faith took shape, an interest in apologetics followed almost automatically. If Christianity was true, then surely I should be able to explain why – preferably clearly, confidently, and with plenty of footnotes. So I read the books, listened to the debates, and practiced the answers to the objections no one had actually asked me yet. I rehearsed arguments in the car, refined responses mid-shower, and occasionally won imaginary debates against people who were blissfully unaware they were losing. Because apologetics doesn’t just give you answers; it trains instincts. It teaches you to anticipate problems and neutralize them efficiently. You learn how to spot a challenge before it fully forms and head it off before it gains momentum. Although my primary area of study was more philosophical in nature than strictly biblical, eventually, apologetics forces you out of the world of abstract ideas and into the text itself. You can’t hover above Scripture forever. Eventually, you have to open it and deal with what’s actually there. And when I did, I started noticing things – not explosions or faith-ending discoveries, just friction. Seams. Overlaps. Places where things didn’t line up quite as cleanly as I expected. Yet, instead of panicking, I felt prepared. This was what I’d trained for. Apologetics hadn’t just taught me what to think; it had taught me how to move quickly past discomfort, how to solve problems efficiently, and how to feel reassured once everything had been neatly addressed.

That confidence followed me across the entire Bible. When Genesis told similar stories twice, I learned how to explain it.¹⛰ Side Trail: For example, Abraham passes off his wife as his sister twice (Genesis 12:10–20; Genesis 20:1–18) and Isaac does the same (Genesis 26:6–11). I was taught to read these as separate historical incidents, each one reinforcing a moral lesson about fear, faith, and God’s protection. The repetition wasn’t seen as a clue about sources or storytelling tradition, but as confirmation that the events really happened. The category was already set: repetition meant reinforcement, not reconsideration. I didn’t yet know there were other ways to hear those echoes, or to ask why Genesis preserved them side by side. When laws repeated or shifted, I reached for context.²⛰ Side Trail: If Exodus allowed one thing and Deuteronomy framed it differently, the explanation seemed obvious: different situations, same God. Exodus permits taking a Hebrew slave for six years (Exodus 21:2–6), while Deuteronomy retells the law with added emphasis on generosity at release (Deuteronomy 15:12–15). Leviticus describes detailed purity regulations (Leviticus 11–15), while Deuteronomy often reshapes them in more practical terms (Deuteronomy 14). Context usually settled the matter. What I didn’t yet ask was why Scripture preserves these variations side by side. Why the law itself speaks in more than one register instead of a single, finalized code. When Kings and Chronicles remembered the same events differently, I had categories ready.³⛰ Side Trail: Kings felt like the raw historical account, willing to dwell on failure and consequence: David’s sin and its fallout, Solomon’s decline, the long slide toward exile (1 Kings 11; 2 Kings 17). Chronicles, by contrast, was explained as a later, pastoral retelling: focused on worship, repentance, and hope for a restored community (1 Chronicles 21; 2 Chronicles 7:14). Where Kings omitted temple details, Chronicles expanded them; where Kings emphasized judgment, Chronicles highlighted reform (2 Kings 18–20; 2 Chronicles 29–32). Those categories worked well enough. What I didn’t yet stop to consider was what it meant that Scripture preserves both memories – different tellings, shaped for different moments, each allowed to speak in its own voice. When Proverbs promised outcomes Ecclesiastes seemed to openly question, I framed them as complementary perspectives.⁴⛰ Side Trail: Proverbs spoke in confident assurances: wisdom leads to life, righteousness to stability, diligence to prosperity (Proverbs 3:1–10; 10:4; 12:21). Ecclesiastes, on the other hand, observed that life rarely works that neatly: “the race is not to the swift,” and the righteous can suffer while the wicked thrive (Ecclesiastes 7:15; 9:11). I was taught to see them as complementary: Proverbs describing how life should work, Ecclesiastes acknowledging how it often doesn’t. That explanation resolved the tension. What I didn’t yet ask was why Scripture preserved both voices without choosing one to correct the other. When prophets disagreed about judgment and restoration, I explained it as different moments within the same divine plan.⁵⛰ Side Trail: Amos thundered against injustice and impending judgment (Amos 5:14–17), while later prophets like Haggai and Zechariah urged a people already returning from exile to rebuild and hope (Haggai 1:7–8; Zechariah 8:1–8). Jeremiah’s laments sit alongside visions of a new covenant (Jeremiah 31:31–34), and Ezekiel’s warnings of destruction give way to scenes of dry bones coming to life (Ezekiel 37). I saw them as fitting together in a single story of fall and renewal. What I didn’t yet notice was how distinct each prophetic voice remained, each shaped by its own context and urgency, not merely filling a slot in a well-ordered plan. Even tensions between Paul and James felt manageable with the right interpretive moves.⁶⛰ Side Trail: Paul’s insistence that a person is justified by faith apart from works of the law (Romans 3:28; Galatians 2:16) was explained as addressing legalism, while James’s claim that a person is justified by works and not by faith alone (James 2:17, 24) was framed as correcting empty belief. Different problems, different audiences, same truth. That explanation worked, cleanly and efficiently. What I didn’t yet pause to consider was how sharply James presses back, or how intentionally each writer stakes out his own concern. The tension was solvable, but only by smoothing voices that Scripture itself allows to speak with force. None of this felt evasive. It felt competent. I wasn’t ignoring differences; I was accounting for them. And accounting for them felt like faithfulness. In fact, it felt like maturity. I could read widely, notice complexity, and still come away confident that everything ultimately fit together. If I didn’t have a solution for a given problem on hand, I at least knew of a book or scholar that could help me find one. The Bible felt large but contained, complex but under control. All the wrinkles could be ironed out, at least in principle. I didn’t think of this as imposing order on the text. I thought I was simply uncovering the order that was already there, just waiting for careful readers to see it.

What I didn’t recognize at the time was a rule that was silently governing all of this. Namely, don’t sit with the tensions. Notice them, yes. Acknowledge them briefly. But then resolve and move on. Sitting too long with unresolved questions felt unnecessary – and, if I’m honest, a little irresponsible. That was the sort of thing skeptics did. They paused. They poked. They sat with problems. Faithful readers, on the other hand, connected dots and kept moving. Letting questions hang in the air felt like conceding ground I didn’t want to concede. So resolution became a virtue and coherence became the goal. I rarely named this rule explicitly, but it was always there. It explained why ambiguity made me restless and why clarity felt synonymous with faithfulness. I didn’t think of this as fear; I thought of it as diligence. But looking back, I can see how much energy went into making sure certain questions never slowed me down for too long. The objective wasn’t curiosity but control, even if I wouldn’t have used that word at the time.

I saw this instinct most clearly in small group settings. Someone would ask a sincere question: why one passage tells a story differently than another, for example, or why a command appears one way here and another way there. The question would hang in the air just long enough to feel uncomfortable. And then, almost reflexively, someone would jump in with an answer, a harmonization, or a clarification. A reassuring explanation that tied everything up neatly. Heads would nod, the tension would dissolve, and the conversation would move on. No one meant anything by it. In fact, it felt helpful, even pastoral. But I started noticing how rarely we stayed with the question itself or asked what it might open up. How rarely we allowed it to challenge our assumptions or lead somewhere unexpected. Once again, the purpose wasn’t exploration; it was resolution. I participated gladly just to get along and, if I’m honest, I still do. Open-ended questions can feel risky. Better to answer quickly, close the loop, and keep everyone on solid ground. Only later did I realize how often those questions might have been invitations to explore rather than problems to solve.

That instinct mattered most when I reached the Gospels. Here, the stakes felt higher. This was Jesus, after all. I remember noticing how differently he sounded depending on which account I was reading – more reserved in one, more outspoken in another.⁷⛰ Side Trail: In Mark, he often speaks briefly, guards his identity, and moves quickly from scene to scene (Mark 1:34; 8:30). In Matthew, his teaching expands into long, carefully structured discourses like the Sermon on the Mount (Matthew 5–7). Luke presents a Jesus who tells stories and frames his mission around mercy and reversal (Luke 4:16–21; 15:1–32). John, by contrast, gives us extended speeches filled with symbolic language and bold claims about identity (John 6; 10; 14). I noticed the differences, but at the time, I assumed they had to be different windows onto the same voice, rather than distinct portraits shaped by different theological aims. I noticed it, nodded, and reassured myself that this was perfectly reasonable. Different audiences. Different moments. Same Jesus. The resurrection stories worked the same way.⁸⛰ Side Trail: Each Gospel tells the same core claim that the tomb was empty and Jesus was alive, but the details and tone shift noticeably. Mark ends abruptly with fear and silence (Mark 16:1–8). Matthew adds dramatic signs, guards, and a commissioning scene in Galilee (Matthew 28:1–20). Luke emphasizes recognition through Scripture and shared meals, keeping the appearances centered in Jerusalem (Luke 24:13–49). John offers intimate encounters: Mary in the garden, Thomas’s doubt, breakfast by the sea (John 20–21). I noticed the differences, but I assumed they had to be harmonized into a single sequence, rather than heard as distinct witnesses shaping the meaning of resurrection in their own voices. I laid them side by side, tracking who went to the tomb, what they saw, how they responded. One account ends abruptly. Another moves quickly toward clarity and proclamation. I saw the differences and folded them together almost automatically. Harmonizing here didn’t just feel helpful; it felt necessary. If these differences couldn’t be resolved, what did that mean for everything else? So I didn’t ask why the accounts felt so different. I asked how they could all fit together. The aim wasn’t observation; it was preservation. As long as the center held, everything else could be stitched together later.

Eventually, this way of reading became reflexive. A tension appeared. Could it be resolved? Yes. Then resolve it. Could the texts be made to agree? Of course. Then they should. I didn’t often pause to name the choice I was making, but the pattern was consistent. Resolution felt faithful. And for a long time, that reflex worked. I felt confident, capable, and grounded. But slowly, almost imperceptibly, something shifted. Not because of one shocking discovery or devastating argument, but because of repetition. The explanations began to feel less like natural discoveries and more like carefully engineered maintenance. Like tightening the same screws over and over, each solution required another subtle decision about what the text “had to mean.” I noticed how rarely I allowed myself to say, “That’s strange, I wonder what I can learn from this tension or contradiction.” Instead, I rushed to resolve it. Reading became protective rather than inquisitive. Yet, eventually I began to ask myself: “Why do I feel the need to smooth everything out, anyways?”

Once that question took hold, I began noticing something else: the Bible itself didn’t seem nearly as anxious about its tensions as I was. Its authors didn’t pause to coordinate accounts or smooth things out for the reader. They spoke from their places, to their moments, and trusted their words to stand. I began to notice how often biblical writers seemed comfortable leaving things unresolved, trusting readers to sit with tension rather than immediately neutralize it. For the first time, I hesitated before fixing things. What if the text wasn’t asking me to referee, but to listen? What if it wasn’t nervous about its differences because it didn’t need to be? That realization didn’t feel like doubt. It felt like Scripture gently pushing back against my habits, inviting a posture marked less by urgency and more by attention.

And that’s when it finally clicked. The issue wasn’t the reality of God or the centrality of Jesus – those anchors have never moved. And it wasn’t really the Bible either. The issue was how I was reading it. I had been approaching it with a set of assumptions so familiar they felt invisible: “The Bible is the inspired Word of God”; “Free from error in all it affirms”; “The ultimate authority for faith and practice”; “Scripture should interpret Scripture”; “Clear passages should explain unclear ones”; “Many books, but one Author.” I didn’t chant these like slogans, but they shaped everything. From what felt responsible, to what felt risky, and – most of all – to what felt faithful. I wasn’t just reading the Bible; I was reading it through something. A lens. Yet, and as I mentioned last time, this realization didn’t feel like losing faith. It felt like clarity. The lens wasn’t malicious. It had supported my faith for a long time, and I remain grateful for it. But recognizing it as a lens and not simply “the way the Bible presents itself” opened up a space I hadn’t known was there.

From there, the next step became unavoidable. If my reading had been shaped by assumptions I rarely examined, then truthfulness meant turning toward those assumptions themselves. Not to discard them dramatically, but to understand them honestly. Where did they come from? What were they trying to protect? Why had they once felt so necessary and compelling? This wasn’t a move away from God or Jesus, or even the Bible itself. It was a move toward trust. Trust that a faith worth holding can survive questions, self-examination, and a little less certainty around the edges. And the biggest question I kept returning to, time and time again, was this: why had I seen the Bible as a God-given book in the first place? To even ask that question at the time felt almost scandalous – not because it rejected faith, but because it questioned something I had been taught not to question. Yet, I couldn’t shake the sense that ignoring it would actually be less faithful than facing it. So face it I did. And it’s to that question that I want to turn my attention next time.

Until then, thanks again for reading and – as always – stay curious, seek truth, and love well.