If the Bible Confuses You, Good. You’re Finally Reading It Right.

Confusion isn’t a sign of failure. It’s a sign of contact. If the Bible has ever left you unsettled, perplexed, or even offended—you’re not misreading it. You’re finally encountering it. Scripture is not a book to be mastered; it’s a mystery to be entered. It does not yield its treasures to casual glances or surface-level study. It confronts. It contradicts. It demands something deeper than mental assent—it calls for surrender.

We live in a world obsessed with clarity and control. The modern mind wants certainty, bullet points, and easy answers. But the Bible refuses to be tamed. It doesn’t conform to our expectations—it shatters them. It speaks in paradox, hides wisdom in mystery, and wraps truth in tension. The problem isn’t that the Bible contradicts itself. It’s that it contradicts us—our pride, our assumptions, our flesh.

Like Jesus Himself, the Word of God is not safe. It comforts the broken, yes—but it first breaks the proud. It builds up, but only after it tears down. It often makes no sense—until suddenly, it does.

The Kingdom of God is, by every earthly measure, upside down. It begins with a blessing to the poor in spirit and ends with the exaltation of those the world calls foolish. Jesus taught that the greatest would be the least, that children understood truth more than scholars, and that prostitutes and tax collectors would enter heaven ahead of the religious elite. In this Kingdom, the hungry are fed without money, the blind lead the sighted, and enemies are loved as family.

God’s Kingdom doesn’t run on logic—it runs on love. And love, real love, always confounds.

Jesus didn’t come to make life better; He came to make dead people live. But He also said, “If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross.” He spoke of seeds dying to bear fruit, of losing life to find it. This is not metaphor—it is the blueprint of resurrection. We don’t get to Easter without Good Friday. And we don’t experience new life until the old self is crucified. The Christian walk is not about self-actualization—it’s about self-sacrifice. Only by dying to ourselves can we truly begin to live.

God chooses the weak things of the world to shame the strong. Paul says he boasts in weakness, not despite it, but because of it. Why? Because when we are weak, we’re finally in a position to receive God’s strength. Strength comes through surrender. We are never more spiritually potent than when we fully admit our inability and lean into the sufficiency of Christ.

To be free in Christ is to be bound to Him. We were once slaves to sin, but now we are slaves to righteousness. You’re always serving something. The only real freedom is found in full submission to Jesus. The world says freedom is doing whatever you want. Scripture says freedom is doing what you were made for: to know and serve God.

Jesus said, “Give, and it will be given to you.” He praised the widow who gave her last coin, and He challenged the rich ruler to sell everything. In God’s economy, generosity multiplies. The one who sows sparingly will reap sparingly, but the one who sows bountifully will reap bountifully. Giving isn’t loss—it’s gain. But that gain may not look like worldly reward. Sometimes it’s peace. Sometimes it’s contentment. Always, it’s Christ.

“Count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials.” Joy? In suffering? Yet Peter says we are “refined by fire.” Paul says suffering produces endurance, and endurance character. Christ, the man of sorrows, calls us to follow Him into pain—not masochistically, but redemptively. Because only in suffering do we come face-to-face with our deep need for God. And only there does His comfort become real.

Jesus flipped the script on status. He washed feet. He elevated servants. He told parables where the last-minute workers were paid first, and the prodigal son got the party. If we’re honest, this offends our sense of fairness. But grace is not fair—it’s better. In the Kingdom of God, humility is honor. Status is reversed. Glory belongs to those who kneel.

The cross was a curse. Public execution. Humiliation. But through it, Jesus was glorified. Paul said he would boast in the cross, even though it represented total loss. Because in the eyes of heaven, shame is often the doorway to glory. Our worst moments, when surrendered to Christ, become altars of transformation. His glory is revealed in our story—not despite the shame, but through it.

God is omnipresent, yet we cry out for Him to come close. He is in us and with us, yet sometimes feels absent. This tension is part of the walk of faith. He hides so we will seek. He whispers so we’ll listen. He is both the consuming fire and the gentle whisper. The same God who split the Red Sea meets us in the quiet room with tear-soaked prayers.

How can God be fully just and fully merciful? We see it collide at the cross. Justice demands payment. Mercy offers pardon. Jesus took both upon Himself, satisfying the wrath of God and extending the grace of God. No human judge can be both completely just and completely merciful. But God can. That’s why the Gospel is good news.

The Kingdom is here—and not yet. Faith is the evidence of things not seen. We live by what we do not see, and yet we’re called to walk with assurance. This tension is our calling. To believe what we cannot see. To trust what we cannot trace. To build a life on invisible truth.

The cross looked like a loss. Jesus died. His followers scattered. But in that moment of apparent defeat, victory was won. Death was swallowed up. Sin was crushed. Hell was undone. In your life, what looks like loss may be the soil of resurrection. Don't despise the defeat. It may be where victory begins.

Jesus said He came not to bring peace, but a sword. His Word divides. Yet He also prayed for unity. How can both be true? The Gospel unites hearts in Christ, but it also separates light from darkness. Truth cuts. And yet, in the midst of division, the Spirit makes us one.

Father, Son, Spirit. One God. Three Persons. Not a math problem—an eternal mystery. And yet, this paradox reveals the relational heart of God. He is love, because He has always existed in loving relationship. We worship a God beyond comprehension. And that’s good news. If He were easy to explain, He wouldn’t be worthy of worship.

Confusion is not the enemy of faith—it may be its doorway. If the Bible confuses you, good. You're not misreading it. You're finally wrestling with it. The God who inspired Scripture is not interested in shallow followers or surface belief. He invites us into mystery, tension, and surrender. That’s where real faith lives.

So lean in. Wrestle hard. Ask bold questions. And above all—trust the One whose Word never fails, even when it defies your understanding.

You’re not crazy. You’re finally reading it right.