A hand-carved wooden cross sat on the dresser in Ben's hospital room. It had been his wife’s—she passed away three months earlier. He hadn’t touched it, but he looked at it often, sometimes whispering questions to it like a child testing the wind with a kite.
During one visit, he looked up at me and asked, “Why does the Bible seem to contradict itself? One passage tells me not to argue with a fool, and the next verse says I should. One says we’re saved by faith without works, another says we’re justified by works. Which is it? And why doesn't God just say one thing, plainly?”
I sat down beside him and held the question like it was made of glass—fragile but precious.
He was referring, unknowingly, to Proverbs 26:4–5: “Do not answer a fool according to his folly, or you yourself will be just like him. Answer a fool according to his folly, or he will be wise in his own eyes.” And the tension between Romans 4:5—“to the one who does not work but believes in him who justifies the ungodly, his faith is counted as righteousness”—and James 2:24—“You see that a person is justified by works and not by faith alone.”
Contradictions? At first glance, maybe. But maybe not.
Maybe they’re tension points—gaps we’re supposed to step into. Perhaps God isn't dropping answers for us as much as He's inviting us into His thinking. Into His heart.
Consider the proverbs about answering fools. Which is correct? Both. Sometimes silence is wisdom. Sometimes a reply is needed. The truth isn't in picking one side—it’s in learning discernment. And how do we learn discernment? By walking with God. By asking. Waiting. Trying. Listening. The verses aren't fighting each other; they’re forming a deeper lesson: you’ll need the Spirit to know the difference.
It’s less about contradiction and more about context. Not a flaw, but a feature.
The same is true with faith and works.
Paul, in Romans, is speaking to people who thought they could earn God’s favor—checking spiritual boxes to climb into heaven. He says no, it’s by faith alone. James is speaking to people who claimed faith but lived without love or action. He’s pointing out that real faith naturally spills out into real life. Like roots and fruit. You don’t pick one. You need both.
Ben nodded. He was the kind of quiet you only see in a man who’s known God a long time but isn’t afraid of new questions. A few minutes later, he looked at the little wooden cross again and whispered, “Maybe the tension in Scripture is how God keeps pulling me closer.”
I think he might’ve said it better than I could.
Because that’s exactly the point.
The Bible was never meant to be a color-by-number instruction manual. It’s a divine conversation—a library of Spirit-breathed stories, warnings, truths, songs, and letters. Some of them sit side by side like opposites, but that’s because life sits side by side with tension too.
It’s in that holy tension where questions are born—and where faith matures.
We want one-liners. God offers whole pages. We want the straight path. He maps the twisting road that builds our sight along the way.
Maybe you’ve felt it too—the urge to toss your Bible aside when verses don’t align like train tracks. But don’t. That discomfort? That tension? It’s your invitation to think, to ask, to wrestle—and to know God more deeply than before.
Because He’s not just trying to win an argument. He’s after your trust.
And trust grows best in quiet conversations with a living God who loves you enough to let you wrestle with His Word.
The Bible contradicts itself? Some days it may feel that way.
But look again.
It speaks like the world we live in. Complex. Unfinished. Desperate for grace.
And through every tension point, it whispers the same invitation: Come a little closer.
That’s the kind of God He is. And that’s the kind of faith He’s building in you.
A hand-carved wooden cross sat on the dresser in Ben's hospital room. It had been his wife’s—she passed away three months earlier. He hadn’t touched it, but he looked at it often, sometimes whispering questions to it like a child testing the wind with a kite.
During one visit, he looked up at me and asked, “Why does the Bible seem to contradict itself? One passage tells me not to argue with a fool, and the next verse says I should. One says we’re saved by faith without works, another says we’re justified by works. Which is it? And why doesn't God just say one thing, plainly?”
I sat down beside him and held the question like it was made of glass—fragile but precious.
He was referring, unknowingly, to Proverbs 26:4–5: “Do not answer a fool according to his folly, or you yourself will be just like him. Answer a fool according to his folly, or he will be wise in his own eyes.” And the tension between Romans 4:5—“to the one who does not work but believes in him who justifies the ungodly, his faith is counted as righteousness”—and James 2:24—“You see that a person is justified by works and not by faith alone.”
Contradictions? At first glance, maybe. But maybe not.
Maybe they’re tension points—gaps we’re supposed to step into. Perhaps God isn't dropping answers for us as much as He's inviting us into His thinking. Into His heart.
Consider the proverbs about answering fools. Which is correct? Both. Sometimes silence is wisdom. Sometimes a reply is needed. The truth isn't in picking one side—it’s in learning discernment. And how do we learn discernment? By walking with God. By asking. Waiting. Trying. Listening. The verses aren't fighting each other; they’re forming a deeper lesson: you’ll need the Spirit to know the difference.
It’s less about contradiction and more about context. Not a flaw, but a feature.
The same is true with faith and works.
Paul, in Romans, is speaking to people who thought they could earn God’s favor—checking spiritual boxes to climb into heaven. He says no, it’s by faith alone. James is speaking to people who claimed faith but lived without love or action. He’s pointing out that real faith naturally spills out into real life. Like roots and fruit. You don’t pick one. You need both.
Ben nodded. He was the kind of quiet you only see in a man who’s known God a long time but isn’t afraid of new questions. A few minutes later, he looked at the little wooden cross again and whispered, “Maybe the tension in Scripture is how God keeps pulling me closer.”
I think he might’ve said it better than I could.
Because that’s exactly the point.
The Bible was never meant to be a color-by-number instruction manual. It’s a divine conversation—a library of Spirit-breathed stories, warnings, truths, songs, and letters. Some of them sit side by side like opposites, but that’s because life sits side by side with tension too.
It’s in that holy tension where questions are born—and where faith matures.
We want one-liners. God offers whole pages. We want the straight path. He maps the twisting road that builds our sight along the way.
Maybe you’ve felt it too—the urge to toss your Bible aside when verses don’t align like train tracks. But don’t. That discomfort? That tension? It’s your invitation to think, to ask, to wrestle—and to know God more deeply than before.
Because He’s not just trying to win an argument. He’s after your trust.
And trust grows best in quiet conversations with a living God who loves you enough to let you wrestle with His Word.
The Bible contradicts itself? Some days it may feel that way.
But look again.
It speaks like the world we live in. Complex. Unfinished. Desperate for grace.
And through every tension point, it whispers the same invitation: Come a little closer.
That’s the kind of God He is. And that’s the kind of faith He’s building in you.
