I’ve heard it dozens of times — maybe you have too. Someone brings up faith or Scripture in conversation, and someone else quickly offers the disclaimer: “Well, I don’t take the Bible literally.”
By Dr. Tim Orr
I’ve heard it dozens of times — maybe you have too. Someone brings up faith or Scripture in conversation, and someone else quickly offers the disclaimer: “Well, I don’t take the Bible literally.” It’s usually said with a shrug, a nervous laugh, or a tone that suggests they’re keeping a safe distance from fundamentalism. And to be fair, I understand the instinct. No one wants to be lumped in with caricatures of blind belief or unthinking dogma. But over time, I’ve realized that this phrase, as common and casual as it sounds, often reveals something more profound, not just about how we read the Bible, but about whether we’re willing to let it speak to us at all. So let’s take a step back and ask a better question: What does it mean to take the Bible seriously?
So, where does that leave us? If the phrase “I don’t take the Bible literally” often leads to confusion, dismissal, or even spiritual drift, we need to ask: What’s the better way forward? I’d argue it’s not about being more literal or less literal — it’s about being more thoughtful. What we need is an approach that respects the Bible as the richly layered, deeply intentional collection of texts that it is. Not a flat book of rules or abstract metaphors, but a living word that speaks through poetry, story, law, and vision. Reading the Bible well doesn’t mean flattening its message into modern categories — it means entering its world with reverence, curiosity, and a humble approach.
Far too often, that little phrase becomes a shield we hold up when we don’t want to wrestle with complex texts. And I get it — parts of the Bible are complex. They challenge us, convict us, and sometimes leave us with more questions than answers. But brushing it off as “not literal” can be a subtle way of keeping Scripture at arm’s length. If we’re serious about faith, we need a better posture — one that says, “This book is worth my attention, even when it’s uncomfortable.” That kind of engagement isn’t just intellectually honest; it’s spiritually transformative.
The Bible didn’t drop from heaven in one literary form or style. It was written over centuries, across cultures, by dozens of authors — prophets, poets, priests, kings, and apostles — all guided by the Holy Spirit (2 Tim. 3:16). Some books are historical narratives (like Samuel or Acts), others are poetic (Psalms, Song of Songs), and some are apocalyptic, filled with symbols and visions (Revelation, Daniel). Each of these genres requires a distinct kind of reading. Just as we wouldn’t read Shakespeare like a science textbook, we shouldn’t treat Genesis 1 or the parables of Jesus as if they were bullet-point doctrine statements. Literary sensitivity isn’t a cop-out — it’s how we honor what the text is doing (Ryken, 2011).
Understanding genre helps us avoid extremes — both hyper-literalism and interpretive laziness. When we approach the Bible as a carefully woven tapestry rather than a single-threaded pamphlet, we begin to see its unity through diversity. We recognize that the law codes in Leviticus serve a distinct purpose from the wisdom in Proverbs or the lament in Lamentations. This recognition allows us to take the Bible more seriously, not less. It frees us to read it as literature that is rich, divine, and deeply human, not a rigid instruction manual, but a holy library that invites reverence, imagination, and thoughtful consideration.
When Jesus says, “I am the door,” nobody thinks He’s made of wood and hinges (John 10:9). But that metaphor reveals something essential about who He is — the entry point into life with God. Scripture often speaks in metaphor, but that doesn’t mean it deals in make-believe. The metaphors serve truth, not the other way around. The challenge is to recognize when the Bible employs figurative language and when it makes direct claims about history, morality, or salvation. And often, the Bible does both at once. It speaks in symbols, yes — but symbols that carry us into realities deeper and more solid than our everyday experience (Wright, 2005).
Some of the most profound truths in Scripture are revealed through metaphor precisely because symbols speak to our whole being, not just our intellect, but our imagination and emotions. Saying Jesus is “the Lamb of God” is not a zoological statement — it’s a theological declaration loaded with meaning about sacrifice, innocence, and redemption. We instinctively understand this in literature and even music, where imagery deepens emotional resonance. Why would we expect less from Scripture? Taking metaphor seriously is not childish — it’s mature reading that honors how God communicates complex truth to finite minds.
The real danger isn’t reading the Bible too literally; it’s reading it too casually. When we dismiss hard teachings by saying they’re “not literal,” we often stop short of real engagement. Are we backing away because the text is unclear, or because it’s uncomfortable? That’s an honest question we each need to ask. There’s a difference between wrestling with Scripture and rewriting it to suit our preferences. As Tim Keller (2013) pointed out, “If your god never disagrees with you, you might just be worshiping an idealized version of yourself”. If we’re serious about faith, we have to be serious about letting the Bible read us, not just the other way around.
Avoiding complex texts might feel safe, but it leaves us with a shallow, selective version of Christianity that never honestly confronts us. Scripture isn’t meant to be domesticated. It challenges us precisely because it calls us into a kingdom not built on our instincts but on God’s righteousness. When we filter out everything that offends our modern sensibilities, we don’t end up with a kinder, gentler gospel — we end up with no gospel at all. The parts we resist may be the very truths we most need to hear.
This becomes especially crucial when discussing the resurrection of Jesus. Paul didn’t leave any room for metaphor here: “If Christ has not been raised, your faith is futile” (1 Cor. 15:17, NIV). The resurrection is the hinge of Christian belief. If Jesus didn’t rise in history, in a physical, bodily sense, then Christianity collapses — not just metaphorically, but theologically and spiritually. Some modern readers want to reframe the resurrection as a symbol of renewal or spiritual awakening. But Paul’s entire point is that Christianity is anchored in real events, not just inspiring ideas (Wright, 2003). The gospel isn’t a timeless moral fable — it’s a claim about something that happened, and everything stands or falls on that claim.
To reduce the resurrection to metaphor is to sever Christianity from its power. A symbolic resurrection can’t forgive sin, conquer death, or transform hearts. It might inspire us, but it cannot save us. That’s why early Christians were willing to die for their belief, not in a poetic ideal, but in a risen Savior they had seen, touched, and eaten with. The credibility of the New Testament witness depends on these claims being grounded in history, not literary flourish. And if we downplay that, we empty the cross and tomb of their meaning.
That’s why how we read the Bible matters so much. If Scripture becomes a buffet — keep the parts that inspire, toss the parts that offend — then we’re no longer under its authority. We’re treating God’s Word like a suggestion box. It may seem sophisticated to say, “I believe in the Bible’s spirit, not its letter,” but in the end, that approach leaves us with a gospel that has been edited into something safer, smaller, and less transformative. The Bible claims to be “living and active… sharper than any double-edged sword” (Heb. 4:12). That kind of power doesn’t come from vague slogans. It comes from a Word that confronts, convicts, and yes, sometimes cuts — but only to heal.
Proper authority is not about control — it’s about trust. We trust Scripture not because every part is immediately easy to understand, but because we believe it’s been breathed out by a God who knows us better than we know ourselves. Authority means the text takes precedence over our preferences. It’s what allows Scripture to surprise us, interrupt us, even change us. Without that kind of authority, we’re left with a Bible that looks a lot like us — and a god who never speaks outside our echo chamber.
So here’s the shift I want to suggest: instead of saying, “I don’t take the Bible literally,” let’s say, “I take the Bible seriously.” Seriously enough to study its genres. Seriously enough to let it challenge me. Seriously enough to believe that God speaks through it, not always in plain speech, but always with purpose. And seriously enough to think that the same Spirit who inspired the Word can illuminate it for readers today. Not to flatten its mysteries or tame its demands, but to awaken our hearts to the One who still speaks.
Taking the Bible seriously doesn’t mean we have every answer or interpret every passage perfectly. It means we’re willing to enter into a lifelong conversation with the text, bringing our questions, our doubts, and our hopes with us. It means we’re open to being corrected, refined, and renewed by something bigger than ourselves. The goal isn’t to win arguments or impress others — it’s to know the living God. Such encounters demand more than slogans. It requires reverence, study, honesty, and, above all, humility.
Keller, T. (2013). The reason for God: Belief in an age of skepticism. Penguin Books.
Ryken, L. (2011). How to Read the Bible as Literature. Zondervan.
Wright, N. T. (2003). The Resurrection of the Son of God. Fortress Press.
Wright, N. T. (2005). Simply Christian: Why Christianity Makes Sense. HarperOne.