In a cultural moment where sacred texts are increasingly deployed as political cudgels, Sarah Bessey offers a startlingly simple yet radical proposition: the problem isn't the Bible, but the broken lens through which we read it. Rather than retreating from scripture or doubling down on dogmatic literalism, Bessey argues that the very divide fracturing communities stems from a failure to ask what we are looking for before we even open the book. This piece is notable not for its theological novelty, but for its urgent, pastoral insistence that how we interpret ancient words has immediate, tangible consequences for modern policy, neighborly love, and human flourishing.
The Weaponization of the Text
Bessey opens by acknowledging the deep cognitive dissonance many feel when the same text that compels them toward "healing liberation" is used by others to justify exclusion and harm. She anchors her argument in the wisdom of the late Rachel Held Evans, quoting her observation that the text is a mirror: "If you are looking for verses with which to support slavery, you will find them. If you are looking for verses with which to abolish slavery, you will find them." Bessey uses this to dismantle the myth of objective, bias-free reading. She posits that the most instructive question isn't "what does it say?" but rather "what am I looking for?"
This framing is powerful because it shifts the burden of proof from the text to the reader. It suggests that violence and oppression are not inherent to the scripture but are projected onto it by those seeking justification for their own agendas. Bessey writes, "A bad or incomplete, wicked or even just selfish reading of the Bible is profoundly dangerous." This lands with particular weight given the current climate where religious rhetoric often undergirds divisive policy choices. By reframing the issue as one of hermeneutics (the method of interpretation) rather than theology, she opens a door for people who have been wounded by religious rigidity to return to the text without feeling they must abandon their moral compass.
Critics might argue that this approach risks diluting the authority of scripture by making it entirely malleable to the reader's desires, potentially allowing anyone to justify any action. However, Bessey counters this by introducing a strict metric for evaluation: the fruit of the interpretation.
If you want to do violence in this world, you will always find the weapons. If you want to heal, you will always find the balm.
Four Lenses for Healing
The core of Bessey's commentary is her discussion of Zach W. Lambert's book, which proposes replacing four harmful lenses—Literalism, Apocalypse, Moralism, and Hierarchy—with four constructive ones: Jesus, Context, Fruitfulness, and Flourishing. Bessey highlights the shift from being "against" harmful interpretations to being "for" life-giving ones. She notes that Lambert argues we must stop pretending that one group has no biases while everyone else does. Instead, the goal is to adopt lenses that prioritize historical context and the character of Jesus as the ultimate revelation of God.
Bessey particularly emphasizes the "flourishing" lens, defining it as an interpretation that leads to the "fullness of life" for all people, especially the marginalized. She cites the civil rights activist Fannie Lou Hamer to illustrate the interconnectedness of this vision: "Nobody's free until everybody's free." This is where the argument moves from abstract theory to concrete ethics. Bessey writes, "Choosing to put on a flourishing lens when reading Scripture means choosing the interpretation that leads to the most flourishing for all people, especially the most vulnerable and those on the margins."
This section is the piece's strongest practical contribution. It provides a clear heuristic for readers navigating complex ethical dilemmas: if an interpretation of scripture leads to oppression, exclusion, or violence, it is likely a misreading. The argument holds up because it aligns with the historical trajectory of the Bible's own internal critiques of power and its consistent call for justice. It challenges the reader to evaluate their own community's practices against this standard of flourishing.
The Pastoral Imperative
Bessey closes by grounding these theological concepts in the reality of pastoral care. She recounts how Lambert, a pastor in Austin, developed these ideas not in an ivory tower, but through the wounds of his congregation. The argument here is that the Bible belongs to the community, not just the scholars. Bessey writes, "We can be incredible Bible scholars, have all the right interpretive lenses, and memorize Scripture until Jesus returns, but if we don't have people who love us and are loved by us, none of it matters."
Perhaps the most compassionate moment in the piece is Bessey's endorsement of Lambert's advice to those who have been traumatized by scripture: "I would advise anyone who can't read the Bible without being further traumatized not to push themselves to read it." This is a radical act of care in a religious landscape that often demands blind obedience. It acknowledges that for some, the text has become a source of harm, and healing may require stepping away from it entirely until a safer context can be found. Bessey suggests that the ultimate goal is not the consumption of text, but the experience of the "Fruit of the Spirit"—love, joy, peace, and kindness.
I am not willing to concede the Bible to those who wield it like a weapon.
Bottom Line
Sarah Bessey's commentary succeeds in reframing a polarizing debate into a call for ethical responsibility, arguing that the way we read scripture directly shapes the way we treat our neighbors. The piece's greatest strength is its refusal to abandon the text to its abusers, instead offering a robust, love-centered framework for reclaiming it. Its vulnerability lies in the difficulty of implementing this in a culture that often rewards certainty over nuance, but the argument remains a necessary corrective to the weaponization of faith in public life.