“I tried,” she said, her Bible open but her eyes heavy. “I read the words, but they didn’t feel alive. They just…confused me.”
Maybe you’ve felt that too—the ache of opening Scripture in search of clarity, only to be left wounded by your own misunderstanding. Perhaps you’ve asked: Should I be taking this literally? Is this symbolic? What does it even mean to “eat His flesh and drink His blood”? Jesus said it. But surely He didn’t mean it the way it sounds?
In John 6:63, Jesus gently places a lamp in the fog. “The Spirit gives life; the flesh counts for nothing. The words I have spoken to you—they are full of the Spirit and life.”
Not just information. Not just history. His words are filled—with Spirit. With life.
That crowd in John 6 had gathered hungry. Not just soul-hungry—stomach hungry. They remembered the bread He multiplied the day before. So when Jesus began to talk about eating His flesh and drinking His blood (John 6:53), the chatter turned to confusion, then offense. Many walked away. They wanted dinner, not a metaphor. But hidden in Jesus’ words was a truth more nourishing than any loaf or fish.
Paul would later explain something similar to the Galatians. Speaking of Abraham’s sons—Isaac and Ishmael—he wrote, “These things are being taken figuratively: The women represent two covenants…” (Galatians 4:24). Can you feel the weight of that? A real story. Real people. And yet, layered with meaning, speaking of something larger than themselves.
God hides treasure deep within His Word—and always for our discovery, not our confusion.
We find hints of this puzzle-like beauty in Proverbs 25:2: “It is the glory of God to conceal a matter; to search out a matter is the glory of kings.” God has woven wonder into the words. Literal and symbolic. Physical and spiritual. Earthly and heavenly. It is all there, waiting for us to slow down and search Him out.
But how do we know when to read literally—and when there’s something deeper at play?
Here’s the gentle answer: Ask the Spirit who gave the Word.
The same breath that stirred the prophets, the same voice that taught in parables, the same mind behind metaphors and genealogies—He is still near, still whispering insight into the hearts of those who seek. The difference isn’t only grammar or genre. It’s posture. Are we reading this like a textbook? Or like a love letter, where the truth is layered in poetry?
Literal matters. Jesus literally walked on water. The tomb was literally empty. But spiritual truth breathes through every literal thing. The water on which He walked pointed to the chaos He tamed. The stone rolled away revealed far more than an empty cave—it unsealed eternity.
Sometimes God means exactly what He says—and sometimes, He means more than we first understand.
One summer evening, I watched my daughter pick up a seashell, hold it up to her ear, and whisper, “I hear something.” She grinned. I didn’t tell her it was only faint echoes and broken wind. I told her to enjoy the music. Sometimes a seashell is just calcium and curves. Sometimes, it’s a concert. The message is not always in the facts—it’s in the hearing.
Jesus’ words are like that. We can quote, parse, and research them, but until the Spirit breathes on us, they stay quiet. When He does, even hard words come alive.
You might feel stuck between the literal and the symbolic, unsure if you’re “doing it right.” Scripture doesn’t ask us to choose—it invites us to listen deeply. What bread was Jesus offering? Real bread? Or a deeper hunger only He could satisfy?
Read with your heart, not just your head.
If a verse makes you uncomfortable—linger there. If a story feels bigger than the scene on the page—lean in. Like Moses turning aside to see the burning bush, turn your attention toward the flicker of God’s voice. Ask the Spirit to make plain what seems hidden.
Because His words are Spirit and life. And you weren’t made to read alone.
There’s a throne room where all the mysteries make sense. But until then, we listen with wonder. We read with reverence. We ask—not just “What does this mean?”—but “What is He saying to me here?”
And maybe, just maybe, we’ll hear the music in the seashell.
“I tried,” she said, her Bible open but her eyes heavy. “I read the words, but they didn’t feel alive. They just…confused me.”
Maybe you’ve felt that too—the ache of opening Scripture in search of clarity, only to be left wounded by your own misunderstanding. Perhaps you’ve asked: Should I be taking this literally? Is this symbolic? What does it even mean to “eat His flesh and drink His blood”? Jesus said it. But surely He didn’t mean it the way it sounds?
In John 6:63, Jesus gently places a lamp in the fog. “The Spirit gives life; the flesh counts for nothing. The words I have spoken to you—they are full of the Spirit and life.”
Not just information. Not just history. His words are filled—with Spirit. With life.
That crowd in John 6 had gathered hungry. Not just soul-hungry—stomach hungry. They remembered the bread He multiplied the day before. So when Jesus began to talk about eating His flesh and drinking His blood (John 6:53), the chatter turned to confusion, then offense. Many walked away. They wanted dinner, not a metaphor. But hidden in Jesus’ words was a truth more nourishing than any loaf or fish.
Paul would later explain something similar to the Galatians. Speaking of Abraham’s sons—Isaac and Ishmael—he wrote, “These things are being taken figuratively: The women represent two covenants…” (Galatians 4:24). Can you feel the weight of that? A real story. Real people. And yet, layered with meaning, speaking of something larger than themselves.
God hides treasure deep within His Word—and always for our discovery, not our confusion.
We find hints of this puzzle-like beauty in Proverbs 25:2: “It is the glory of God to conceal a matter; to search out a matter is the glory of kings.” God has woven wonder into the words. Literal and symbolic. Physical and spiritual. Earthly and heavenly. It is all there, waiting for us to slow down and search Him out.
But how do we know when to read literally—and when there’s something deeper at play?
Here’s the gentle answer: Ask the Spirit who gave the Word.
The same breath that stirred the prophets, the same voice that taught in parables, the same mind behind metaphors and genealogies—He is still near, still whispering insight into the hearts of those who seek. The difference isn’t only grammar or genre. It’s posture. Are we reading this like a textbook? Or like a love letter, where the truth is layered in poetry?
Literal matters. Jesus literally walked on water. The tomb was literally empty. But spiritual truth breathes through every literal thing. The water on which He walked pointed to the chaos He tamed. The stone rolled away revealed far more than an empty cave—it unsealed eternity.
Sometimes God means exactly what He says—and sometimes, He means more than we first understand.
One summer evening, I watched my daughter pick up a seashell, hold it up to her ear, and whisper, “I hear something.” She grinned. I didn’t tell her it was only faint echoes and broken wind. I told her to enjoy the music. Sometimes a seashell is just calcium and curves. Sometimes, it’s a concert. The message is not always in the facts—it’s in the hearing.
Jesus’ words are like that. We can quote, parse, and research them, but until the Spirit breathes on us, they stay quiet. When He does, even hard words come alive.
You might feel stuck between the literal and the symbolic, unsure if you’re “doing it right.” Scripture doesn’t ask us to choose—it invites us to listen deeply. What bread was Jesus offering? Real bread? Or a deeper hunger only He could satisfy?
Read with your heart, not just your head.
If a verse makes you uncomfortable—linger there. If a story feels bigger than the scene on the page—lean in. Like Moses turning aside to see the burning bush, turn your attention toward the flicker of God’s voice. Ask the Spirit to make plain what seems hidden.
Because His words are Spirit and life. And you weren’t made to read alone.
There’s a throne room where all the mysteries make sense. But until then, we listen with wonder. We read with reverence. We ask—not just “What does this mean?”—but “What is He saying to me here?”
And maybe, just maybe, we’ll hear the music in the seashell.
