I've been chewing on something lately.

The more I think about it, the more I wonder if we've accidentally been talking past each other for a very long time.

Whenever Christians disagree about almost anything, it doesn't take long before someone says, "The Bible clearly teaches..." or "That's biblical." Once those words enter the conversation, everything changes. It isn't simply two people trying to understand Scripture differently anymore. It becomes a question of who's being faithful and who's trying to explain the Bible away.

I understand why that happens.

If something really is biblical, that matters. It should matter.

But I can't help wondering if we've started asking one little word to do more work than it was ever meant to do.

Because what do we actually mean when we say a theology is “biblical"?

If I tell you I have a biblical understanding of salvation, or marriage, or politics, I've certainly told you something.

I've told you I believe my conclusions are grounded in Scripture. But I haven't told you why I read one passage the way I do and another differently. I haven't told you why I think one command speaks directly to our lives while another seems rooted in a particular culture or historical moment. I haven't told you the questions I bring with me before I ever open the Bible.

I've told you where I landed.
I haven't told you how I got there.

Those are two very different conversations.

One of the things I hear all the time sounds something like this:
"We just believe what the Bible says."
"We take the Bible at face value."
"We don't interpret it. We just read it."

I know exactly what people mean when they say those things.
I used to say some of them myself.

The thing is...
I don't think any of us actually does that.

Nobody just reads the Bible.
We all read it through the lens of our own lives.

Our families shape us before we ever open the pages.
Our churches shape us.
Our experiences shape us.

The questions we've wrestled with shape us.
The hurts we've carried shape us.
Even the things we've never questioned shape us.

That's not a weakness. That's what it means to be human.

Every sermon is an interpretation.
Every Bible study is an interpretation.
Every denomination is an interpretation.
Every statement of faith is an interpretation.
Even deciding which passages help explain other passages is an interpretation.

The Bible doesn't interpret itself.
We do.
Always.

Whenever I say something like that, someone inevitably asks, "So are you saying truth is just whatever we make it?"

No.
Not even a little.

I'm saying something much less dramatic. I'm saying we ought to be honest. Recognizing that we interpret Scripture doesn't make the Bible less trustworthy. It makes us less arrogant.

In fact, I sometimes think pretending we aren't interpreting Scripture has done more damage than admitting we are. Once I'm convinced I'm simply reading "what the Bible says," it's awfully hard to imagine I might have misunderstood something.

History keeps gently tapping us on the shoulder and saying, "You might want to slow down."

Church history is filled with people who sincerely believed they had the Bible on their side.

People defended slavery with Scripture.
People defended segregation with Scripture.
People defended denying women positions of leadership with Scripture.
People defended apartheid with Scripture.

Those weren't people trying to ignore the Bible. Most believed they were defending it.

That doesn't tell me Scripture failed.
It tells me interpreters sometimes do.

And if generations of faithful Christians could sincerely misunderstand parts of the Bible, I have to at least leave open the possibility that I might misunderstand some things too.

That isn't a lack of faith.
It might actually be an expression of it.

I've watched enough theological debates over the years to notice they almost always end up in the same place.

Somebody starts counting verses.
"I've got this one."
"What about Romans?"
"Well, what about Leviticus?"

Back and forth it goes.

Somewhere along the way, the Bible stops sounding like a library full of people wrestling with God and starts sounding like a filing cabinet full of quotations. Whoever has the biggest stack of verses is assumed to have won.

I don't think that's what Scripture was ever meant to become.

The Bible is a library.
It's poetry and prophecy.
Stories and songs.
Lament and law.
Letters written to real people trying to figure out how to follow God in messy situations.

When we reduce all of that to competing proof texts, we don't make Scripture stronger.

We make it smaller.

One thing I can't seem to get away from is how often Jesus talks about fruit.

Not arguments.
Not certainty.
Not having all the answers.
Fruit.
Healthy trees.
Bad trees.
Good fruit.
Bad fruit.
"You will know them by their fruits."

I've always heard that passage applied to false prophets, and I think that's exactly where it belongs. But false prophets produce false teaching.

Which makes me wonder if Jesus wasn't only giving us a way to recognize unhealthy teachers. Maybe Jesus was also giving us a way to recognize unhealthy theology. Maybe that's why Jesus talks about fruit instead of arguments.

Fruit is harder to fake.
You can win an argument.
You can memorize verses.
You can build an airtight theological system.
But eventually every theology gets lived.
And once it's lived...
it bears fruit.

None of this makes me love Scripture less.
If anything, it makes me love it more.

It reminds me to approach it with curiosity instead of certainty. With humility instead of arrogance. With enough confidence to wrestle honestly, and enough humility to admit I might still have something to learn.

Maybe that's what faithful Bible reading has always looked like.
Not pretending we don't have a lens.
But rather, learning to be honest about the one we're looking through.

And maybe that's why Jesus pointed us toward fruit.
Because eventually every theology leaves the page.
It becomes sermons.
Policies.
Families.
Churches.
Votes.
Relationships.
Communities.

Eventually every theology gets lived.

And that's when we finally get to see what it actually produces.

Whenever you encounter a theological claim, ask:
What kind of people does it produce?
What kind of communities does it create?
Who benefits?
Who is harmed?
Does it bear the fruit of love, justice, mercy, and human flourishing?

A theology that consistently harms people deserves to be questioned.
A theology that consistently helps people deserves our attention.

The next time you hear someone say, "That's biblical," don't decide immediately whether you agree.

Instead, ask yourself another question.

What interpretation of Scripture led to that conclusion?

You may discover that calling something biblical isn't actually the end of the conversation.

It may be the beginning of a much better one.

Because if nobody just reads the Bible...
...and every theology eventually gets lived...
...then the next question becomes unavoidable.

Should harm count as evidence?