There was a time when Sunday mornings held a certain rhythm—the quiet drive to church, the familiar hymns, the sense of belonging to something larger than myself. My wife and I were committed Christians then, yet we found ourselves in what felt like a permanent search for a spiritual home. We moved through congregations like guests at a banquet, sampling each offering but never fully settling. Something always felt slightly out of tune, a melody we couldn’t quite place.
When I stepped away from faith, the search didn’t end—it deepened. My wife began taking theology courses, and I, not wanting to lose our connection or the language of my upbringing, started reading commentaries and theological works myself. It became a strange kind of dialogue: her studying formally, me reading in the quiet hours, both of us trying to make sense of the text that had shaped so much of our lives.
What we encountered in many churches, though, was a kind of interpretive chaos. Sermons often felt like constructions built from verses pulled out of their original context, reassembled to serve a message rather than illuminate the text. It was like watching someone use beautiful pieces of stained glass to build a house without windows—colorful, perhaps, but missing the point entirely.
We spent four years looking for a pastor who approached scripture with what I’d call responsible exposition—someone who respected the historical setting, the literary structure, the original intent. Most didn’t. I remember one service vividly. The pastor opened with a question that hung in the air like a challenge: “Did you know that you have the keys to the kingdom, and can bind sickness and demons on earth as is done in heaven?”
I felt my eyes roll before I could stop myself. He went on to quote Matthew 16:19, framing it as a divine permission slip for spiritual warfare. We stayed, partly out of politeness, partly because the childcare was excellent. Our son was in another room, playing with toys and eating goldfish, having a better Sunday than we were.
That experience, and others like it, highlighted a core dilemma in contemporary Christian practice: when scripture is detached from its historical and literary context, it can be made to mean almost anything. And if it can mean anything, it risks meaning nothing at all. That’s where our search began—not just for a church, but for a way of reading that honored the text without simplifying it into slogan or spectacle.
The First Church Experience: Misinterpreting the Binding of Demons
The sanctuary felt familiar—stained glass, wooden pews, the faint scent of old hymnals mixed with fresh coffee. We’d visited countless churches like this one, always searching for something that felt both intellectually honest and spiritually nourishing. That particular Sunday, the pastor began with a dramatic pause before launching into his sermon.
“Did you know,” he asked, leaning into the microphone, “that you hold the keys to the kingdom? That you can bind sickness and demons on earth just as it’s done in heaven?”
I felt my eyes roll before I could stop myself. My wife gently nudged my arm, but the damage was done. We’d entered another realm of biblical interpretation where context seemed optional and sensationalism ruled.
The pastor continued, quoting Matthew 16:19 with theatrical emphasis: “‘I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven; whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven.'” His conclusion was straightforward—this scripture granted Christians supernatural authority to command demons and diseases at will.
We stayed through the service, largely because the childcare was exceptional. Our son played happily with new toys, snacking on goldfish crackers, having a significantly better morning than we were. Sometimes practical considerations outweigh theological disagreements.
After the final hymn, I joined the line to speak with the pastor. Most people ahead of me offered glowing compliments, some with the reverent tone usually reserved for celebrities. He stood elevated on the steps, receiving the admiration with practiced humility.
When my turn came, I chose my words carefully. “Thank you for your message today. Something you said about Matthew 16:19 caught my attention—I could be misunderstanding, but my reading suggests Jesus was using rabbinic language about interpreting Torah, not giving supernatural authority over demons.”
The pastor’s smile vanished. “When you’ve seen what I’ve seen,” he said with visible pride, “you understand this scripture’s true meaning. I’ve witnessed people in Africa slithering like snakes to the stage. We declared demons bound on earth as in heaven, and they fled.”
I nodded, maintaining respect while holding my ground. “I don’t doubt your experiences. But consider a thought experiment: if Jesus appeared right now and confirmed he meant this passage about teaching authority rather than demon-binding, how would you respond?”
His posture stiffened. “The Holy Spirit reveals scripture to me personally. What it means to me. That’s what makes God’s word alive. As a pastor, I present what the Spirit tells me.”
Even as someone who no longer identified as Christian, I found this approach concerning. When scripture can mean anything anyone wants it to mean, it ultimately means nothing at all. If pastors claim direct divine interpretation without accountability, how can we distinguish truth from personal opinion?
This encounter highlighted the critical importance of historical-grammatical hermeneutics—understanding scripture through its original context, language, and intended meaning rather than through personal revelation or modern application alone. The rabbinic terms “binding” and “loosing” referred to authoritative teaching about what was permitted or forbidden under Jewish law, not supernatural combat with demonic forces.
That conversation, though uncomfortable, reinforced why we kept searching for a faith community that valued responsible biblical exegesis over dramatic interpretation. It wasn’t about being contentious; it was about seeking truth that could withstand scrutiny and actually help people rather than potentially harm them with misinterpretations that promised more than scripture delivered.
The Miraculous and the Mechanical
The next church felt less like a house of worship and more like a concert venue. Stage lights cut through artificial fog, lasers danced across the ceiling, and the pastor held a microphone worth more than my monthly grocery budget. The sensory overload was immediate—flashing lights, booming bass, the palpable energy of a crowd being emotionally primed. I found myself less focused on spiritual preparation and more concerned about whether the strobe effects might trigger a seizure.
When the music faded, the pastor emerged—sharp suit, perfect hair, the practiced smile of someone who knows how to work a room. He opened his Bible to Matthew 10:8 and read the words with theatrical precision: “Heal the sick, raise the dead, cleanse those who have leprosy, drive out demons. Freely you have received; freely give.”
He broke the verse into hammer blows of imperative force: “HEAL—the sick. RAISE—the dead. DRIVE—out demons.” His voice rose and fell with professional cadence. “Notice what Jesus didn’t say,” he continued, leaning into the microphone. “He never said PRAY for the sick. He never said PRAY for demons to leave. He said HEAL. He said DRIVE THEM OUT. If you read the Scriptures, you’ll find no unanswered prayers from Jesus. We’ve simply forgotten the power He gave us.”
The delivery was masterful. Around me, people nodded, some raised hands, others whispered amens. I felt goosebumps too—not from spiritual conviction, but from recognizing how easily rhythm and lighting can bypass critical thinking and speak directly to the nervous system. The atmosphere was charged with expectation, the kind that makes people believe anything is possible if only they have enough faith.
After the service, I joined the line to speak with him. I watched the same ritual unfold—effusive praise, vigorous handshakes, the brief celebrity encounter that seems part of modern church culture. When my turn came, I kept it brief.
“Thank you for your message,” I began. “I know there’s a line, so I’ll be quick. My father had tremendous faith—so much that he stopped taking his medication, believing Jesus would heal him. He died within the year. After that, I studied the passages healing ministries often use. Matthew 10:8 is one of them. But in context, Jesus is sending the disciples on a specific mission to Israel with specific temporary authority. It doesn’t read as a timeless command for all believers.”
The pastor listened patiently before responding. “But in Acts, the apostles gathered in the upper room, prayed, and the Spirit fell. They spoke languages they didn’t know, miracles followed. That same Spirit is in us today.”
“Paul calls the apostles the foundation of the church,” I replied. “Foundations aren’t repeated on every floor. If every believer were expected to reproduce those exact miracles, we’d see Christians raising the dead and emptying children’s hospitals. We don’t see that, do we?”
He shook his head slightly. “Great men of God understood their authority. Smith Wigglesworth raised the dead. He healed many because he trusted Jesus completely.”
“Did Wigglesworth ever get sick?” I asked. “Is he still alive?”
The pastor hesitated. “I don’t believe he ever got sick. He did eventually pass when it was his time—the Lord took him home.”
“Historical accounts show he struggled with chronic gallstones and kidney stones that caused significant pain throughout his life,” I said gently.
At that point, the conversation clearly needed to end. I offered one final thought before shaking his hand: “I think Christians get into trouble when we ignore context and history. My father’s death represents the real cost of applying verses without it. He was under a healing ministry that preached this exact message.”
Walking away, I felt the weight of that memory—not as an argument to win, but as a life lost to what I believe is a misinterpretation. The stage lights, the fog machines, the expensive equipment—all of it suddenly felt like machinery designed to sustain a particular interpretation rather than explore the text honestly.
This experience highlighted something crucial about biblical hermeneutics: when we remove passages from their historical and literary context, we don’t just get different interpretations—we get dangerous ones. Matthew 10:8 occurs within what scholars call the “limited commission,” where Jesus specifically sends the twelve apostles to the lost sheep of Israel with temporary miraculous authority to authenticate their message. The book of Acts shows the apostles exercising similar signs and wonders to establish the church’s foundation. But nowhere does Scripture suggest these miraculous gifts would characterize every believer throughout church history.
The tragedy isn’t just theological—it’s personal. When we transform specific historical commands into universal promises, we create expectations God never intended. People like my father hear these messages and make life-altering decisions based on what they believe is biblical authority. The aftermath—when healing doesn’t come, when prayers seem unanswered—often leads to crisis of faith, guilt, and sometimes preventable tragedy.
This isn’t about dismissing the possibility of miracles or God’s power to heal. It’s about recognizing that Scripture must be interpreted through its original context, language, and purpose. The historical-grammatical method of interpretation isn’t just academic—it’s a protective measure. It helps distinguish between what God promised to specific people in specific circumstances and what applies to believers universally.
That morning, surrounded by laser lights and fog machines, I realized how much environment shapes interpretation. The theatrical setting wasn’t neutral—it created emotional conditions predisposing people to accept dramatic interpretations. True biblical exegesis requires stripping away the production values and asking simpler, more fundamental questions: What did this mean to the original audience? How does the context shape the meaning? What type of literature is this?
My conversation with that pastor—like the one before—wasn’t about being contentious. It was about advocating for a more careful, humble approach to Scripture. One that recognizes our tendency to see what we want to see, to hear what we’ve been taught to hear, and to find in the Bible confirmation of our existing expectations rather than allowing it to challenge and reshape them.
The walk back to the car was quiet. My wife and I didn’t need to discuss what we’d heard—we both knew. Some churches offer production value; others offer careful scripture interpretation. Rarely, we were learning, did they offer both.
The Architecture of Understanding
Those conversations in church lobbies left me with more than just frustration. They revealed a fundamental gap in how we approach sacred texts—the difference between reading to confirm what we already believe, and reading to understand what was actually meant. This distinction forms the core of historical-grammatical hermeneutics, a method that isn’t about stripping scripture of its power, but about grounding that power in something more substantial than personal interpretation.
Historical-grammatical interpretation begins with a simple but radical premise: the Bible means what its authors meant it to mean. Not what we want it to mean, not what feels inspiring today, not what supports our existing theology. This approach treats scripture not as a magical book that transcends time and culture, but as a collection of documents written by real people to real audiences in specific historical contexts. The miracle isn’t that the text floats above history, but that it speaks through history.
Context becomes everything in this approach. When that first pastor quoted Matthew 16:19 about binding and loosing, he missed that Jesus was using technical rabbinic terminology. First-century Jewish teachers spoke of “binding” when they forbade something according to biblical law, and “loosing” when they permitted it. Jesus wasn’t handing out supernatural authority over demons; he was establishing Peter’s role in defining how Torah would be applied in the new covenant community. The text hasn’t changed, but our distance from its original context has created space for misinterpretation.
This is why examining the original languages matters. English translations inevitably flatten nuances. The Greek word translated “bind” in Matthew 16:19 is déō, which carries legal and religious connotations of prohibition. “Loose” is lyō, meaning to permit or set free. These weren’t mysterious spiritual terms but part of the established vocabulary of religious authority. When we approach such texts without this linguistic awareness, we’re like archaeologists mistaking a common pottery shard for a sacred relic.
Over time, I developed a three-step method for approaching any biblical text. First, investigate the background: Who wrote this? To whom? Why? When? What was happening historically? What genre is this—poetry, prophecy, letter, narrative? Second, examine the text itself: What do the words mean in their original language? How does the immediate context shape the meaning? How does this passage connect to what comes before and after? Third, consider application: How does this original meaning speak to our situation today? Notice that application comes last, not first.
This method isn’t about making the Bible less relevant—it’s about making its relevance more authentic. When that second pastor preached on Matthew 10:8 as a command for all believers to perform miracles, he skipped the crucial background work. Jesus was sending the twelve apostles on a specific mission to Jewish towns with specific instructions that included extraordinary signs to authenticate their message. The book of Acts shows even the apostles didn’t always heal people (Paul leaves Trophimus sick in 2 Timothy 4:20), and nowhere does the New Testament suggest every Christian would possess these miraculous abilities.
What makes historical-grammatical interpretation so valuable is that it creates accountability. Anyone can claim “the Spirit told me” this verse means something, but when we ask historical questions—”What would first-century Jews have understood by this phrase?” “How does this fit with the author’s overall argument?” “What did the original words mean?”—we have criteria beyond personal feeling. This doesn’t eliminate the role of the Spirit, but it recognizes that the Spirit typically works through our minds rather than bypassing them.
This approach also respects the Bible’s humanity as well as its divinity. The Word became flesh and dw among us—the divine communicated through the particularity of human language, culture, and history. To honor scripture means to honor both its divine origin and its human embodiment, which requires the careful work of understanding those human contexts.
I’ve found that when people dismiss this method as “too academic” or “quenching the Spirit,” they’re often protecting interpretations that couldn’t survive historical scrutiny. But truth shouldn’t fear investigation. If the Bible is indeed God’s word, it can handle being read in light of its original context. In fact, it demands it.
The beauty of this approach is that it’s available to anyone willing to do the work. You don’t need a seminary degree—just good study Bibles, a few basic reference tools, and the humility to recognize that sometimes our favorite interpretations might not align with what the biblical authors actually intended. It’s a journey that never really ends, but each step deeper into understanding feels like coming home to truth rather than escaping from it.
Navigating Church Spaces with Discernment
Church visits can feel like walking through a minefield when you’re attuned to problematic interpretations of scripture. Over time, I’ve developed what might be called a ‘heresy radar’ – a set of internal warning signals that alert me when something doesn’t align with responsible biblical hermeneutics.
Recognizing the Red Flags
The first sign often comes in the packaging. When a pastor spends more time describing the lighting system than explaining the historical context of a passage, that’s warning sign number one. The second emerges in the language itself – absolute certainty without humility, claims of exclusive revelation, or promises that sound more like spiritual power-ups than faithful discipleship.
I’ve noticed that problematic interpretations often share common characteristics: they remove verses from their literary context, ignore the original audience and purpose, and apply ancient texts to modern situations without considering the theological throughline. The pastor who claimed we could bind demons at will took a passage about apostolic authority and turned it into a supernatural weapon. The one with the laser show took Jesus’ specific instructions to his disciples and made them universal commands for all believers.
The Art of Questioning
Approaching religious authority figures requires both courage and tact. I’ve learned to frame questions not as challenges but as sincere inquiries. Instead of “You’re wrong about this,” I might say, “I’ve been studying this passage and noticed something interesting in the historical context – could you help me understand how that fits with your interpretation?”
This approach acknowledges their role as teacher while maintaining intellectual integrity. It creates space for dialogue rather than debate. When the healing pastor mentioned Smith Wigglesworth, I could have dismissed his claims outright. Instead, I asked about Wigglesworth’s own illnesses – not to trap him, but to invite deeper reflection on why even “great men of God” experienced suffering and death.
Practical Conversation Strategies
I keep mental notes of productive questioning techniques:
- Start with genuine appreciation for something specific in the sermon
- Use “I” statements rather than accusations (“I understand this differently” rather than “You’re misinterpreting”)
- Reference respected biblical scholars or historical context to ground the discussion
- Ask open-ended questions that invite reflection rather than yes/no answers
- Know when to continue the conversation and when to gracefully exit
The goal isn’t to win arguments but to plant seeds of critical thinking. Sometimes the most powerful question is simply: “How would first-century Jewish listeners have understood this teaching?”
Knowing When to Stay and When to Walk
This might be the most difficult discernment of all. I stay when there’s genuine engagement, when the pastor demonstrates humility and willingness to consider alternative interpretations. I’ve walked out when confronted with dogmatic certainty that leaves no room for discussion, or when teachings clearly endanger people’s physical or emotional wellbeing.
My father’s death taught me that some interpretations aren’t just academically questionable – they’re dangerous. When a teaching could lead someone to abandon medical treatment or financially exploit vulnerable people, silence isn’t an option. Sometimes the most faithful response is to gather your family and leave.
Building Your Own Study Practice
Ultimately, the best defense against problematic interpretations is developing your own biblical literacy. I’ve found these resources invaluable:
- A good study Bible with historical notes (the NIV Study Bible or ESV Study Bible are excellent starting points)
- Basic resources on biblical genres and historical context (How to Read the Bible for All Its Worth by Fee and Stuart is classic)
- Online resources like BibleProject for accessible overviews of biblical books
- Commentaries from respected scholars across theological traditions
The goal isn’t to become a biblical scholar overnight, but to develop enough understanding to recognize when something doesn’t quite fit. You don’t need to read Hebrew or Greek to notice when a verse is being ripped from its context or when a promise to specific people is being applied universally.
Creating Space for Healthy Doubt
What I’m describing isn’t about becoming cynical or hyper-critical. It’s about creating space for the kind of faithful questioning that actually deepens understanding. The pastors who impacted me most weren’t those with perfect answers, but those who could say “I don’t know” or “That’s a complicated text” or “Let’s look at that together.”
This approach has transformed how I engage with religious spaces. I no longer sit passively, absorbing whatever is presented. I come with questions, with curiosity, with a willingness to learn but also to discern. And when something doesn’t sit right, I’ve learned to trust that discomfort rather than dismiss it.
There’s freedom in realizing you don’t have to accept everything you hear from a platform. The same critical thinking we apply to other areas of life belongs in religious spaces too. It’s not disrespectful to ask questions – it’s an acknowledgment that these texts matter enough to treat them with careful attention and intellectual honesty.
When Interpretation Harms
The cost of misreading scripture isn’t measured in theological debates but in human lives. My father’s story isn’t unique—it’s one thread in a tapestry of pain woven by well-meaning but misguided interpretations. He believed with absolute certainty that faith would heal him, that Matthew 10:8 was a personal promise rather than a specific commissioning of the disciples. When he died still believing, the trauma rippled through our family, leaving us to untangle faith from fallacy.
This pattern repeats in communities where biblical interpretation becomes disconnected from historical context and human reality. I’ve met parents who blamed themselves for their child’s illness because their “binding prayers” didn’t work. I’ve sat with couples bankrupted by ministries promising financial miracles in exchange for “seed faith” donations. The common thread isn’t lack of faith but lack of faithful interpretation—the kind that respects both the text and the people living with its consequences.
Healing from this type of religious trauma requires something more nuanced than simply abandoning faith or doubling down on certainty. It begins with acknowledging the harm without dismissing the genuine desire for connection that drew people to these interpretations in the first place. My own journey involved relearning how to read scripture not as a magic book of promises but as a complex collection of texts written across centuries, each with its own context and purpose.
The repair work often looks like learning to hold multiple truths at once: that someone can be both sincerely wrong and genuinely caring, that text can be both inspired and require careful interpretation, that community can both hurt and heal. This isn’t about finding perfect answers but about developing the discernment to live with questions without needing to force premature closure.
Finding healthy faith communities after experiencing interpretive abuse feels like learning to trust again after a betrayal. The search requires new criteria—not just stirring music or charismatic preaching, but evidence of theological humility. Does the leadership acknowledge uncertainty? Do they welcome questions? Are they transparent about their interpretive methods? These become the new markers of safety.
What surprised me wasn’t the discovery that such communities exist, but how different they feel from the certainty-driven churches I’d previously known. In these spaces, people speak in terms of “we see through a glass darkly” rather than “thus saith the Lord.” They acknowledge the humanity of the biblical authors alongside the divine inspiration. They recognize that every interpretation involves human limitation and requires accountability.
Building these communities requires courage from both leaders and participants. It means creating spaces where people can say “I don’t know” without losing credibility, where biblical scholarship is accessible rather than intimidating, where doubt is recognized as part of faith rather than its opposite. The most healing moment for me came when a pastor once responded to my challenging question with “That’s an important perspective I hadn’t considered. Let’s study that together.”
For those navigating this terrain alone, finding support often begins with recognizing you’re not crazy for wanting scripture to make sense contextually. Online communities of thoughtful believers and skeptics alike have become unexpected sanctuaries—places where people share resources on historical criticism, discuss translation nuances, and process their experiences without pressure to arrive at predetermined conclusions.
The journey toward interpretive health isn’t about arriving at perfect understanding but about developing better questions. It’s learning to distinguish between mystery and contradiction, between faith and presumption, between authority and authoritarianism. This path doesn’t promise easy answers, but it offers something more valuable: the integrity of not having to pretend you have answers you don’t possess.
What gives me hope isn’t the discovery of flawless communities or perfect interpretations, but the growing number of people willing to do the hard work of reading scripture responsibly. They’re the pastors who acknowledge when a text is difficult, the study groups that explore historical context, the individuals who prioritize compassion over certainty. They’re building something that feels less like a fortress of absolute truth and more like a wilderness tent—mobile, humble, and open to the wind of new understanding.
Your presence in this conversation matters more than you might realize. Every person who questions simplistic interpretations, who seeks context, who values integrity over certainty—you’re part of creating healthier ways of engaging with sacred texts. Your journey, with all its questions and uncertainties, contributes to a larger story of faith evolving toward greater wisdom and compassion.
Finding Solid Ground
After years of wandering through churches that felt more like performance halls than places of genuine inquiry, we finally found a teacher who approached scripture with the care it deserves. This pastor didn’t treat the Bible as a magic book full of promises to be claimed, but as a complex collection of texts that required historical understanding, linguistic precision, and contextual awareness. His sermons felt less like entertainment and more like graduate seminars—and that was exactly what we needed.
What made this teacher different wasn’t just his methodology, though the historical-grammatical approach he employed provided a solid foundation. It was his willingness to say “I don’t know” when faced with difficult passages. He acknowledged the tensions within scripture rather than smoothing them over with simplistic explanations. He understood that faith could withstand questioning—that indeed, genuine faith required it.
Even now, when guest speakers come through and begin twisting texts to fit their predetermined messages, we sometimes stand up and walk out. Other times we stay and ask questions during the Q&A. To some, this might seem disrespectful or extreme. But after witnessing the real harm that comes from misapplied scripture—after watching my father die because someone told him to abandon medicine in favor of faith healing—staying silent feels like complicity.
This journey hasn’t been about rejecting faith altogether, but about seeking a version of it that can withstand scrutiny. It’s about recognizing that if something is true, it shouldn’t fear investigation. The same principle applies to biblical interpretation: if a particular reading of scripture can’t survive historical examination or logical consistency, perhaps it’s not the text that’s flawed, but our understanding of it.
The willingness to question, to sit with uncertainty, to acknowledge when we might be wrong—these aren’t threats to faith but essential components of it. They prevent us from building our spiritual lives on foundations of sand, on interpretations that collapse under the slightest pressure. They force us to distinguish between what scripture actually says and what we want it to say.
I’m deeply grateful that you’ve taken the time to read these reflections—this ongoing conversation between doubt and belief, between tradition and inquiry. If anything here resonated with you, if you’ve found yourself nodding along or wrestling with similar questions, I invite you to join this conversation. Follow along, subscribe if you’re inclined, share your own experiences in the comments. These discussions matter because how we read these ancient texts shapes how we live our modern lives.
I put everything into these articles not because I have all the answers, but because the questions are important enough to warrant our best thinking. You deserve nothing less than honest engagement with these matters—the kind that acknowledges complexity rather than avoiding it. Together, perhaps we can build a community where questioning isn’t seen as rebellion but as reverence, where the search for understanding continues long after the sermon ends.
