It took me a while to realize that the way I was reading the Bible wasn’t the only way to read it. It was one approach among many, already shaped, guided, and constrained by assumptions I didn’t know I was carrying. As I explored in the last post, it was only later, after stepping back and tracing how those assumptions had formed, that I began to better understand them. In the circles I came from, apologetics served as a kind of gatekeeper for how I approached the Bible. Its job, as I understood it, was to explain why the Bible could be trusted, how the claims of Scripture held up under scrutiny, and why modern challenges – whether scientific, historical, or ethical – could be safely dismissed or resolved. I valued that project deeply, and in many cases still do. I found a kind of security in that world. It was tidy, confident, and clear. The text, I was told, fit together like a puzzle. It just needed the right tools to make the pieces snap into place. But over time, I began to realize that those “tools” were not neutral. They functioned as a lens that I’d been bringing to the Bible, subtly shaping not only what I could see but, more importantly, what I couldn’t. And once I began to recognize that, I found myself stepping back from it. I began examining the lens more closely, wondering what it might look like to approach the text without it, or at least to hold it more loosely, aware of its influence.

And the more I did so, the more I noticed something strange. It could have been more perception than reality, but at times it felt as though the lens itself caused me to focus more on protecting the text than on truly understanding it. As if it favored coherence over authenticity, or harmony over honesty. The way it often explained certain tensions in the text began to feel more like the arguments of a motivated defense attorney than a sincere investigator, someone looking more for any way to get their client off the hook than in genuinely exploring the charge itself. Answers were often available, but they didn’t always feel like the best explanations. Just the best ones that preserved a certain theological structure – the same structure that had already begun to shift beneath my feet.¹⛰ Side Trail: One example that began to stand out to me was the resurrection accounts. In Mark 16:1–8, the women flee the empty tomb in fear and say nothing to anyone. In John 20:1–18, Mary Magdalene speaks with Jesus and announces the news to the disciples. I had often been taught to combine these into a single seamless timeline. But the more I looked, the more that effort felt like forcing agreement rather than understanding each account on its own terms, as distinct voices shaping the same moment differently. If those explanations were shaped by a lens, however, then it seemed only fair to ask what other ways of approaching the Bible might reveal. Not out of rebellion, but from a growing desire to see clearly. Eventually, I ran across a different type of lens. A lens which, at least in the circles I came from, had a reputation that was almost as ominous as its name: critical scholarship.²⛰ Side Trail: In biblical studies, “critical scholarship” refers to a set of methods that examine how texts came to be. Scholars ask questions about sources (e.g., how Matthew and Luke may draw fromMark and other traditions), authorship, historical context, and literary shaping. Rather than assuming a single, unified perspective, it explores how different voices and communities contributed over time. The goal isn’t to dismiss the Bible, but to understand it more fully, from how it developed, what it meant in its original setting, and how its diverse parts relate to one another.

That word critical can sound harsh, like it’s out to tear down or criticize. That’s how I first heard it too. But in the context of biblical studies, critical doesn’t mean cynical or hostile. It means thoughtful, like in critical reading. It means careful attention to the text, its origins, its development, its historical and literary context, etc. It asks how these writings came to be, what sources lie beneath them, and how different voices and traditions shaped them. It’s the kind of reading that doesn’t just ask what the Bible says, but how and why it says it. And while it doesn’t begin with the assumption that everything fits neatly, it also doesn’t begin with the goal of tearing anything down. It begins with curiosity, a curiosity I’ve come to see as deeply faithful, even when it’s unsettling. But that’s skipping ahead a bit.

Because earlier in my journey, I had no doubt heard of critical scholarship, however it was usually only to dismiss it as misguided, secular, or unnecessarily skeptical.³⛰ Side Trail: Before I ever looked into it myself, I had already been taught to be wary of “critical scholarship.” It was usually described as something that questioned too much, raising doubts about things like who wrote the Pentateuch or why the Gospel accounts don’t always line up perfectly. The message I absorbed was simple: this approach could slowly weaken your trust in the Bible. So even when I became curious, I felt a quiet resistance. Not because I understood it, but because I had learned it was something to approach carefully, if at all. Yet, I had finally reached a stage in my journey where I wanted to see what it had to say and understand why people seemed so suspicious of it. Because the questions weren’t going away. I would trace parallel accounts in the Gospels and notice how the wording shifted, not randomly, but intentionally.⁴⛰ Side Trail: A striking example appears when comparing Mark 10:17–18 with Matthew 19:16–17. Most scholars think Matthew had access to Mark and used it as a source. In Mark, Jesus says, “Why do you call me good? No one is good except God alone,” which can sound like he’s distancing himself from divine goodness. But Matthew shifts it: “Why do you ask me about what is good? There is only one who is good.” The change removes that tension, aligning more clearly with Matthew’s emphasis on Jesus’ sinlessness and divine identity. I would study biblical laws and realize how they sometimes contradicted or corrected each other.⁵⛰ Side Trail: One example that stood out to me was how certain laws appear to shift over time. In Exodus 21:2–6, a Hebrew slave is to be released after six years of service. But in Leviticus 25:39–46, the emphasis changes so that Israelites are not to be treated as slaves at all, while foreigners may be held as permanent slaves. Both are part of the same legal tradition, yet they reflect different assumptions and priorities. The more I noticed this, the more it felt less like a single static system and more like laws being adapted and reworked over time. I would try to harmonize events across books and end up with timelines so strained they barely held together.⁶⛰ Side Trail: One place I felt this most was in the birth narratives. In Matthew 2:1–16, Jesus is born during the reign of Herod the Great, who dies around 4 BCE, and the family later flees to Egypt. But in Luke 2:1–7, Jesus’ birth is tied to a census under Quirinius, which historically took place around 6 CE, about a decade later. I had often tried to fit these into a single timeline, but the more I looked, the more that effort felt strained, as if the accounts were shaped more by theological aims than strict chronology. Apologetics gave me tools, yes, but tools often meant for patching over the cracks rather than asking what those cracks might actually reveal. And the more I tried to “fix” the text, the more I began to wonder, what if it wasn’t actually broken?

So I leaned in. Cautiously, at first. I began to read material that wasn’t on the “safe” shelf – studies that didn’t start with the assumption that everything must fit, but instead with the question of how these texts came to be.⁷⛰ Side Trail: When I finally leaned in, I didn’t start with fringe voices, but with widely respected scholars. Writers like N.T. Wright, James Dunn, Raymond Brown, and Dale Allison approach the Gospels with deep respect, while still asking how these texts were shaped over time. They explore sources, context, and theology without assuming everything must align perfectly. What surprised me most wasn’t skepticism, but care. Serious, thoughtful engagement with Scripture that made room for complexity rather than explaining it away. And to be honest, I expected to find cynicism or contempt. But what I found instead was care, sometimes even reverence. These scholars weren’t out to destroy the faith. Rather, many of them had deep respect for the biblical tradition, even as they traced its human fingerprints. They were asking the kinds of questions I had quietly asked for years: Why do different books tell different versions of the same story? Why do certain laws or psalms or proverbs contradict one another? Why do theological ideas shift – sometimes subtly, sometimes drastically – across different parts of the Bible?

And here’s what surprised me: it didn’t cripple or destroy my faith like it has apparently done to so many others – it transformed it. The more I listened, the more the text began to open up. Where I once saw contradiction, I started to see development.⁸⛰ Side Trail: One place this shift became clear to me was in how the afterlife is described. In Ecclesiastes 9:5, the dead are said to “know nothing,” reflecting an early view of death as a shadowy existence. But by the time of Daniel 12:2, we see a growing hope in resurrection: “many who sleep in the dust… shall awake.” Rather than forcing these into a single fixed view, it began to make more sense to see a development of thought over time, as Israel’s understanding of life, death, and God’s justice deepened. Where I once saw tension, I found dialogue.⁹⛰ Side Trail: One example that began to feel less like a problem and more like a conversation is how suffering is understood. In the Book of Proverbs, the assumption is clear: those who do wrong will face consequences. But in the Book of Job, Job suffers deeply despite being described as righteous. Instead of forcing these into a single rule, it began to feel like Scripture was holding multiple perspectives in tension, almost like a dialogue wrestling with the same question from different angles: does life always work the way we expect it to? And where I had once needed certainty, I began to feel the pull of something deeper: trust. Not in a system that explained everything, but in a tradition that invited me to wrestle. It felt less like defending a fortress and more like walking through a vast and ancient house, hearing voices from different rooms, each with its own accent and memory and song. I began to realize that much of what I’d called devotion to Scripture was really devotion to a particular way of reading it. I wasn’t just trusting the Bible, I was trusting a framework that told me what the Bible had to be. I came to realize that there’s a difference between letting the text speak for itself and reshaping it to fit a theology.¹⁰⛰ Side Trail: One example is when the Temple is cleared. In Mark 11:15–17, it happens during Jesus’ final week, intensifying the conflict that leads to his death. But in John 2:13–17, it’s placed at the very beginning of his ministry. I had often been taught to combine these into a single sequence or assume two separate events. But stepping back, it started to feel like each Gospel was positioning the moment differently to make a theological point, rather than a strictly historical report. Instead of trying to resolve the tension to fit a system, I began to let each account speak on its own terms. And that shift didn’t weaken my love for Scripture – it deepened it.

What I found, again and again, was that this approach didn’t trivialize the Bible so much as it dignified it. It treated it not as a fragile artifact to be shielded from scrutiny, but as a living testimony that could withstand the weight of real questions. It recognized that the Bible wasn’t written in a vacuum, but through communities, over time, in languages shaped by culture, conflict, and hope.¹¹⛰ Side Trail: Some of the most striking examples show just how layered this tradition is. In 1 Samuel 15:3, Saul is commanded to destroy the Amalekites completely – men, women, and children. Yet in Jonah 3:10–4:2, God shows mercy to Nineveh, Israel’s enemy, to Jonah’s frustration. Or consider kingship: 1 Samuel 8:6–7 portrays Israel’s request for a king as a rejection of God, while 2 Samuel 7:12–16 presents kingship as part of God’s plan. Rather than smoothing these out, many scholars see them as voices in conversation, reflecting a faith shaped through real history, disagreement, and growth. And instead of asking me to have faith despite that history, it invited me to have faith through it. Slowly, the shields I had carried to protect my faith began to turn into lanterns – not things to hide behind, but to carry into the shadows with curiosity, humility, and the courage to keep walking in the questions.

Some parts of the Bible echo each other.¹²⛰ Side Trail: One of the things I began to notice is how often later passages echo earlier ones. Genesis 2:2–3 describes God resting on the seventh day, and Exodus 20:8–11 echoes that pattern in the command to keep the Sabbath. Psalms 23:1 calls the Lord a shepherd, and John 10:11 echoes that image with Jesus as the “good shepherd.” Even Isaiah 40:3 is echoed in Mark 1:2–3, linking John the Baptist to earlier prophetic hope. Others push back.¹³⛰ Side Trail: Other times, later texts seem to challenge earlier assumptions. Proverbs 22:6 suggests that raising a child rightly will lead to a stable outcome, but Ecclesiastes 8:14 observes that life doesn’t always work that way: the righteous can suffer while the wicked prosper. Similarly, Deuteronomy 24:16 says individuals are responsible for their own sin, yet Exodus 20:5 speaks of consequences extending across generations. Rather than resolving these, the Bible often seems to hold them in tension. Some preserve old memories¹⁴⛰ Side Trail: Some passages seem to carry forward very early traditions, even as later voices reinterpret them. For example, Exodus 15:1–18 contains what many scholars consider one of the oldest poems in the Bible, celebrating Israel’s deliverance at the sea in vivid, almost mythic language. Centuries later, Psalms 77:16–20 echoes that same event, preserving the memory while reshaping it for a new context of worship. These moments feel less like new creations and more like ancient memories being carried forward and retold across generations.; others reinterpret them for new moments.¹⁵⛰ Side Trail: Other passages take older traditions and reshape them for a new time. For example, Hosea 11:1 originally refers to Israel’s past: “Out of Egypt I called my son.” But in Matthew 2:14–15, that same line is applied to Jesus returning from Egypt. What was once a reflection on Israel’s story becomes, in Matthew’s telling, a way of interpreting Jesus’ life. It’s not just repetition but reinterpretation, where earlier Scripture is reread and given fresh meaning in light of new events. Much of this I hope to expound upon throughout the course of this journey. But for now, these weren’t problems to be solved so much as they were invitations to explore. What I began to see was that the very strategies apologetics had used to defend the Bible – pointing out literary patterns, exploring historical backgrounds, etc. – were actually stepping stones into a more layered, more honest kind of reading. The difference wasn’t in the tools; it was in the posture.¹⁶⛰ Side Trail: One example that helped me see this was how prophecy is used. Apologetics often highlights connections like Isaiah 7:14 and Matthew 1:22–23 to show fulfillment. But looking closer, Isaiah’s original context speaks to a crisis in his own time, not a distant prediction. Matthew isn’t just pointing to a one-to-one prediction; he’s rereading that passage in light of Jesus. The same tools – in this case literary patterns and historical context – can either be used to prove alignment or to explore how meaning develops, depending on the posture you bring. Instead of asking how to make the text prove itself, I began to ask what the text was trying to do. And that shift changed everything. It moved me from a defensive stance to an inquisitive one, from assuming the Bible was always giving definitive answers to realizing that it often invites us into deeper and better questions.

Of course, there were moments of discomfort. There still are. Not every insight sits easily. There are texts that haunt me. Commands I can’t justify, judgments that feel too harsh, silences that feel too long.¹⁷⛰ Side Trail: Some texts never stopped being difficult. Commands like Deuteronomy 20:16–17, which call for the destruction of entire populations, or prayers like Psalms 137:9, which bless violence against enemies, don’t sit easily no matter how I approach them. Even stories like Job 1:13–19, where suffering unfolds without clear explanation, can feel unresolved. These aren’t just abstract tensions, they’re emotional ones, the kind that resist easy answers and continue to press on how I understand both Scripture and God. And there are scholarly theories that remain contested, tentative, or incomplete.¹⁸⛰ Side Trail: Not every scholarly idea comes with clear consensus. For example, many scholars think Matthew and Luke used Mark as a source, along with another collection of sayings often called “Q.” But that hypothetical source has never been found, and not all scholars agree it existed. Similarly, debates continue over who wrote books like Isaiah or how different traditions were combined. The more I read, the more I realized scholarship isn’t about certainty. It’s an ongoing, evolving conversation. There was a cost to setting the old lens down. It meant admitting that some answers I had once repeated confidently now felt thinner than I wanted them to. It meant feeling awkward in environments where certainty still functioned like a badge of maturity. It meant not always knowing how to explain where I was without sounding slippery, suspicious, or spiritually compromised. There were moments where I missed the clean edges and fast answers. And I still do. There were moments where curiosity felt expensive. It still does. This isn’t a clean or tidy process. But neither is faith. Yet what I’ve found is that when I stop demanding certainty or orthodoxy on every page, I begin to hear a different kind of voice. One that echoes not in answers, but in presence.

Ultimately, it helped me to see what I’ve alluded to before: the Bible not as a static deposit of divine words, but a dynamic witness to an unfolding encounter with God – sometimes clear, sometimes confused, sometimes soaring, sometimes stumbling, but always deeply human and deeply sacred. What’s more, and perhaps most stunning to me, is that this way of reading actually deepens my sense of Scripture’s unity. Not in its theology, but in something much deeper. Not because it smooths out all the differences, but because it reveals a through-line of hope and transformation that runs despite the tensions. From Genesis to Revelation, across diverse genres and voices and centuries, there is a persistent cry. A yearning for justice, for mercy, for healing, for God’s presence to dwell again with us. That yearning is expressed in different ways – sometimes with swords, sometimes with songs – but the ache is there, and speaks still.¹⁹⛰ Side Trail: Across very different texts, I began to notice a shared longing. In Genesis 3:8, God walks with humanity in the garden, a closeness that is then lost. In Psalms 13:1, the cry becomes, “How long, O Lord?” In Isaiah 9:7, hope emerges for justice and peace. In the Gospels, Matthew 5:3–10 speaks of the kingdom breaking in for the poor and grieving. And in Paul, Romans 8:22–23 describes creation itself groaning for renewal, an ache that stretches all the way to Revelation 21:3.

I still read the Bible devotionally, still pray its words, still marvel at its beauty. But I do so with more layers, more honesty, more tension, and more wonder. I’ve let go of the need to make everything fit, and I’ve gained a deeper appreciation for the way it speaks through its complexity. I no longer see questioning as a lack of faith. I see it as a way faith matures. I hold it more loosely, but also more lovingly. I let it speak with all its voices, listen for the questions beneath the surface, and follow the threads even when they don’t lead where I expect. And somehow, in all that, I’ve come to trust it more. Not because it always gives me answers, but because it draws me deeper, back into the mystery, back into the hope that maybe God really is still speaking through these ancient, ordinary, and extraordinary words.

Yet, getting to that point required something I had been intentionally resisting for a long time. In particular, it meant stepping past the warnings I had been given about where this kind of curiosity could lead, warnings that had shaped my instincts more than I realized. In the next post, I want to go back and name those warnings more clearly, explore why they carried so much weight for me, and reflect on what it actually felt like to move beyond them.

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