Guilt swoops in as suddenly as a summer storm, an overwhelming fury of attacks and accusations hellbent on capsizing security and pushing us even further into a sea of increased doubt. I’ve fought against guilt my entire life; my constant companion, the little voice whispering and sometimes yelling, reminding me of my failures, my strongholds. Guilt, rather than devotion, was often the motivation for daily *attempted* Bible reading and prayer. But I found scripture confusing. And if I’m honest, boring.
In Awanas, I struggled to memorize even one-sentence verses, while everyone around me rattled off whole paragraphs and even chapters — Awanas was an evangelical Sunday evening program that focused on physical games (beginning every single Sunday with a hand-over-heart pledge to the Christian flag) and Bible memorization. We wore vests, earned patches and points (which were saved up and turned in for prizes at the “Awanas Store”) for every verse memorized. I didn’t have many patches, barely earned enough points for more than a stick of gum. And though I memorized a smattering of verses, my understanding of scripture was surface-level at best.
When I was a teenager, a popular evangelical joke circulated (or maybe it was a true story) about a professor who claims in class that the Bible is confusing. A student pipes up and says, “The Bible is a love letter to believers — you’ve been reading someone else’s mail.” Many told this story like it was a “gotcha” moment, a point scored for the believers against the nones. But I too found the Bible confusing — did this mean I was “reading someone else’s mail?” That the Bible wasn’t for me, that it couldn’t be understood or appreciated by a non-Christian or immature believer?
I’ve lived in the tension of ought and want. I ought to read the Bible. Good Christians read the Bible, crave it, liken it to sweet honey on lips. But I didn’t want to read it. I knew there was more to scripture than words on pages, cultural implications I was ignorant of, biased translations, words with far deeper meanings in their original ancient languages. But for a very long time, the Bible remained one-dimensional, a “love-letter” that didn’t feel loving, perceived rules I could never perfectly follow.
Kate Boyd, a writer and podcast host, shared on Instagram some important insight into how we view and perceive scripture. The Bible is not a love letter, an instruction manual, or a weapon to be wielded. Rather, it is an ancient text containing history, literature, and theology. She writes, “To read it ‘literally,’ as a manual or to bonk unbelievers or those who disagree with us over the head with it is to miss the thrill of how God invades history, uses humans to live and tell his story, and how we can know and worship him.”
Recently on The Bible Project, the hosts discussed the difficulty of understanding the Bible on its own. If you found yourself on a deserted island with a Hebrew Bible and a dictionary, you could eventually translate it. But lacking significant cultural and literary understanding, you would only get so far. We need outside resources, scholarly insight, wise counsel. We need the space to wrestle with the text, the freedom to cast aside the guilt that binds us.
In “Spiritual Formation: Following the Movements of the Spirit,” Henri Nouwen wisely writes, “The Bible is primarily a book not of information but of formation, not merely a book to be analyzed, scrutinized, and discussed but a sacred book to nurture us, to unify our hearts and minds, and to serve as a constant source of contemplation”
Not to knock the Awanas and VBSs — we are all in need of different things for the different seasons of growth and maturity. But simple memorization did not awaken a love of scripture in me. If anything it compounded the guilt.
I’ve gone years without much interest in cracking open a Bible. But I’ve continued reading wise thinkers, theologians, pastors, and writers. I’ve listened to podcasts, spent time in conversations. And I slowly began looking at the Bible differently, sans guilt and shame. I approached the text with a renewed curiosity, a willingness to embrace the mystery and get caught up in the story of it all.
In “How the Bible Actually Works,” Peter Enns explains, “The Bible shows us that obedience to God is not about cutting and pasting the Bible over our lives, but seeking the path of wisdom — holding the sacred book in one hand and ourselves, our communities of faith, and our world in the other in order to discern how the God of old is present here and now.”
Even in the good intentions of children’s parachurch ministries, we tend to try to “cut and paste” Biblical lessons and themes over one another. A Twitter friend (Crystal-Lee Howley) tweeted yesterday: “I stopped reading the Bible as a handbook but as a memoir, a story of the triune God interacting with their beloved creation, all pointing to the restoration set into motion by God incarnate, Christ Jesus, his resurrection, and the hope of all that is and is not yet.”
Maybe sometimes we have to step away, tear down what’s been built up in human error. Hagar named God, The-God-Who-Sees-Me, and I’m learning this God also sees us with our burdens of guilt, in our seasons of struggle, and slowly beckons us back to him.
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What resources have helped you in reading scripture, in going beyond the surface-level verses and digging down deep? If you’re struggling, know you’re not alone. (I talk more frequently on the tension of doubt and faith on my Instagram page: @sarahbsouthern — please feel free to e-mail or reach out if you’d like to talk more)