How I Study the Bible When I Don’t Trust My Assumptions
Learning to Let Scripture Speak Before I Decide What It Says
I didn’t start studying the Bible because I was curious.
I started because uncertainty made me nervous. Scripture felt too important to handle loosely, and I didn’t want to be the person in the room who didn’t know what to say. So I learned answers. Not provisional ones. Answers that sounded settled.
They worked. They gave me confidence and kept me from embarrassment. They let me participate without hesitation.
What they didn’t do was leave room for the text to push back.
Over time, I noticed a pattern. I knew the verses before I read them. I knew where the passage was supposed to land. Reading became confirmation, not discovery.
That’s when I realized the problem wasn’t the Bible.
It was how familiar I thought I already was with it.
I wasn’t studying for understanding as much as reassurance. The answers I relied on stabilized me, not the passage.
This isn’t a claim to a perfect method or a promise of landing right every time. It’s an account of how I study now that I don’t trust my instincts, my tradition’s shortcuts, or my ability to read a text without carrying assumptions into it.
Why I Changed How I Study
I didn’t wake up one day and decide to reinvent my approach.
I got cornered.
An early jolt came from Misreading Scripture with Western Eyes. It didn’t accuse me of bad faith. It did something more unsettling. It showed me how ordinary my blind spots were.
My misreading wasn’t rooted in indifference. It came from how modern, Western, and individualistic I was, and how unaware I was of the way that shaped both my questions and the answers I gravitated toward.
Around the same time, Michael Heiser clarified something I had been circling. He argued that interpretation has to begin in the text’s earliest world, ancient Israel in the ancient Near East, and then follow how that world and its ideas develop through later historical settings, including the Second Temple period, rather than jumping straight to modern categories.
That reframing dismantled a lot of confidence I didn’t realize I was carrying.
If the biblical authors lived in a world shaped by covenant loyalty, honor and shame, divine council language, and cosmic geography, then reading the text as if it spoke first to my situation meant I was skipping over the world it actually came from.
That wasn’t careful reading.
Another realization slowed me down even more, one Dan McClellan often states plainly. A text does not carry meaning in isolation. On the page, it is ink and symbols that require interpretation.
That does not mean meaning is invented by the reader. It means meaning is accessed through language, historical setting, and authorial intent. Words communicate within systems, cultures, and moments in time.
Meaning emerges when a reader engages the text responsibly within those constraints. It is discovered through context, not created by preference. There is no neutral reading, but there are better and worse readings, depending on how well they account for what the text actually is and where it comes from.
A simple example of this shows up in Jude 1:22.
The KJV reads, “And of some have compassion, making a difference.” That line is often quoted, and rightly so. The issue isn’t the translation itself. It’s the way modern English now hears the phrase.
In 1611, “making a difference” meant making a distinction or exercising discernment. That sense fit the Greek verb behind the phrase, which deals with distinguishing between people who are wavering. The translators chose wording that communicated clearly to their readers.
What changed wasn’t the translation.
It was the language.
Today, “make a difference” usually means influence or impact, and that shift quietly pulls the verse off course. Jude isn’t talking about leaving a mark. He’s talking about showing mercy with discernment.
Modern translations often update wording so modern readers don’t mishear older English. Reading older English faithfully means letting it speak in its own time, not loading it with ours.
This recognizes that no reading is neutral, only more or less responsible.
The question stopped being, can I be perfectly objective.
It became, can I be honest about the lenses I’m using and willing to test them.
A Necessary Clarification About Lenses
This is where people often mishear me, so I’ll be clear.
I’m not opposed to lenses, but I also don’t think they should be the starting point.
Every reader brings assumptions to the text. Pretending otherwise usually just means a tradition has gone unnamed.
I read Scripture through a lens, but I no longer let it lead. My convictions remain, but I try not to allow them to decide the passage before it has been heard.
Instead of beginning there and pressing every text through a predetermined framework, I try, as much as a human can, to hold that lens back long enough to let the passage speak on its own terms.
Not because the lens is wrong.
But because when it speaks too early, it can drown out what the text is actually saying.
Complete neutrality isn’t possible. We’re embodied readers. We come from somewhere. We believe things.
But attempting to hold those assumptions back still matters. It exposes what I didn’t realize I was bringing with me. It opens up readings that are genuinely plausible, even if I don’t land there. It reminds me that disagreement doesn’t automatically signal error.
Having a lens isn’t the problem.
Letting it decide everything in advance is.
Only after listening do I bring the lens back into the conversation, not as a preset filter, but as part of an honest synthesis.
How I Actually Study
Before I do any of this, I stop and pray.
Not as a formality and not to ask for answers on demand, but to re-orient myself. I ask for clarity, humility, and restraint. I ask to notice what I’m bringing into the text before I start naming it. I ask the Spirit to interrupt me where I’m moving too fast or protecting something I don’t want questioned.
I don’t treat the Holy Spirit as a shortcut around study. I treat Him as the one who governs it. Careful reading without dependence becomes arrogance. Dependence without careful reading becomes projection. Prayer keeps me from confusing either one for faithfulness.
1. I Surface My Assumptions
The first thing I do is name what I already think the passage says.
Sometimes it’s something I’ve heard preached for years. Sometimes it’s a conclusion that feels so obvious I forget it’s an interpretation at all. Sometimes it’s what I hope the passage will say because that would make things easier.
I write those assumptions down. Not to argue with them yet, but to make them visible. If I don’t, they quietly guide every decision I make as I read.
This step doesn’t tell me what the passage means.
It tells me what I think it means.
Unexamined assumptions don’t disappear. They just stay hidden and unchallenged.
2. I Locate the Passage in Its World
Next, I slow down and place the passage within its original world.
At this stage, I’m asking what the text can and cannot mean in its own world, not what it contributes later in the book.
Who is speaking.
Who is being addressed.
What situation called these words into existence.
That world includes covenantal context. Biblical texts assume particular covenant arrangements, obligations, and expectations. Those assumptions shape what the words can and cannot mean. Ignoring them doesn’t simplify interpretation. It makes it anachronistic.
I’m not gathering background for trivia. I’m trying to understand what kind of problem the text is responding to and what kind of response it expects from its first hearers.
A rebuke does different work than a comfort.
A warning functions differently than instruction.
A story told in crisis carries a different weight than one told in stability.
If I skip this step, the text may still sound meaningful, but it won’t be speaking in its own voice.
3. I Read the Passage Straight Through
Once the historical and covenantal setting is clear, I read the passage from beginning to end without trying to connect it to anything else.
No cross-references.
No theological systems.
No importing conclusions from elsewhere.
Not because those things are wrong, but because bringing them in too early often answers questions the passage hasn’t asked yet.
Here I’m watching for emphasis, repetition, pacing, and what the author assumes the reader already understands without explanation. Those features signal what the author thought mattered most.
Discomfort often shows up here. When it does, I don’t correct it yet.
If I rush past that friction, I may still feel helped, but I’ll miss how the passage is actually functioning.
4. I Ask What the Passage Is Doing
Then I read the passage again with a different question in mind.
What is this text trying to accomplish.
What misunderstanding is it addressing.
What belief, posture, or behavior is it trying to shape.
This is where interpretation usually begins to move. My initial assumptions rarely fit as neatly as they did at the start. Sometimes they survive. Sometimes they don’t.
Either way, I pay attention to where and how meaning shifts.
If I skip this step, Scripture turns into a collection of statements instead of purposeful communication.
5. I Place the Passage Within the Book and the Larger Story
Only after the passage has spoken within its immediate context do I widen the frame.
Here the question isn’t what the passage can mean in its world, but what it contributes to the book’s unfolding argument.
Where does this sit within the book as a whole.
Is it part of a developing argument.
Is it introducing something new or responding to something earlier.
I’m careful not to flatten tensions here. Scripture doesn’t always resolve its questions immediately. Some passages are meant to unsettle long before they explain.
This step isn’t about forcing harmony.
It’s about understanding contribution.
Without it, a single passage can end up carrying weight it was never meant to bear.
6. I Slow Down Where the Text Resists Me
As I reread, certain words or phrases refuse to stay quiet.
Something feels sharper than expected.
Something doesn’t align with what I was taught.
Something carries more weight than I can explain.
Those moments tell me where to slow down.
This is where close attention to language, usage, and immediate context belongs. Not to force a definition, but to understand why this word or phrase is doing so much work here.
Resistance is rarely a sign the text is wrong.
More often, it’s a sign I’m moving too fast.
7. I Consult Commentaries Late
Only after I’ve worked through the passage on its own terms do I open commentaries.
By then, I’m not looking for answers. I’m checking my vision.
Did I miss something obvious.
Is there historical context I overlooked.
Did I dismiss an interpretive option too quickly.
Commentaries come late on purpose. I don’t want to inherit conclusions before I’ve actually listened.
If I start here, I stop studying and start borrowing.
8. I Read the Passage Again
Finally, I read the passage one more time from beginning to end.
Same text.
Different reader.
Sometimes clarity increases. Sometimes humility does. Sometimes the only outcome is a better question than the one I started with.
If nothing moves at all, I assume I rushed, protected something, or never really let the text speak.
Over time, I’ve noticed something else happen. As certainty shrinks, wonder grows. That has become a better guide than confidence ever was.
A Short Example: Luke 24:27
Luke 24:27 provides a concrete example of how Scripture invites interpretation as a coherent whole rather than a collection of isolated proof texts.
“Then beginning with Moses and all the prophets, he interpreted to them the things written about himself in all the scriptures.” — Luke 24:27 NET
After the resurrection, Jesus explains the Scriptures to two disciples whose expectations about the Messiah have collapsed. Luke describes Jesus as interpreting Moses and the Prophets together, not by citing individual verses, but by showing how the story unfolds across the canon.
That detail matters.
Jesus does not begin by correcting their conclusions with proof texts. He begins by reframing how Scripture works. The explanation moves through the narrative and covenantal shape of Israel’s Scriptures, allowing individual passages to be understood within that larger framework.
This models several steps of the process at once. Jesus starts by addressing the disciples’ assumptions, then situates the texts in their proper story, and only then draws conclusions about the Messiah. The meaning emerges from sequence, context, and coherence, not from assembling verses to defend a position.
Luke’s emphasis is not on efficiency or citation. It is on interpretation that respects how Scripture was written to function. The point isn’t that cross-references are wrong, but that they are secondary to understanding the story they belong to.
Why This Method Exists
This approach isn’t designed to guarantee correct conclusions.
It exists to slow interpretation down before certainty takes over.
Scripture is easy to turn into a tool for reinforcement. Verses get quoted faster than they’re weighed. Conclusions get settled before the text has finished speaking. Over time, theology can become a filter that decides what the text is allowed to say.
This method is meant to resist that drift.
It insists that Scripture be heard before it’s organized, understood before it’s defended, and allowed to challenge the reader instead of simply confirming them.
Reading this way isn’t a sign of distrust.
It’s a commitment to take the text seriously enough to let it speak on its own terms.
An Invitation
If this helps, use it.
If it irritates you, don’t rush past that.
If it breaks something, pause and examine what broke.
You don’t need to adopt this method.
You do need to read with care.
If you want a place to start, try this question:
What am I assuming the Bible says that the Bible never actually said?
Not knowing isn’t failure.
It’s the cost of paying attention.
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Disclaimer: This post was sharpened with the help of AI tools for clarity and flow.
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