Helping ordinary people learn to study the Bible
I’ve shared before John Piper’s crucial definition of the Bible’s “meaning”: What the author intended to communicate with his words.
Now in another brief video, Piper builds on that definition by showing us how that definition gives us an objective means by which we can evaluate whether an interpretation is right or wrong.
I’ve spent a few weeks showing both why structure matters and how to observe it. My focus to this point has been on macro-structure—structure across entire books or large subdivisions—because that is the part I’ve seen most people neglect in their Bible study. And there is great value in doing this well.
In this post, however, I’ll narrow my focus to distinct episodes in a single genre: narrative. How do you observe the structure of a narrative scene? And how does that structure convey the author’s meaning?
For years, I spent so much time trying to be ingenious when observing structure that I missed something I learned in grade school. And I’ve recently come to see that thing I missed as the most important tool for observing the structure of a narrative.
That tool is the essential plot structure that nearly all narratives follow.
Do you remember learning, in school, terms such as setting, conflict, climax, and resolution? Those are the building blocks of narrative plot structure.
With these building blocks, we can quickly outline nearly any narrative episode. (Exception: Sometimes a single episode serves no other purpose than to elaborate the setting or to introduce the book or subdivision. If there is no conflict and reversal, we’ll need other to use other tools to observe the structure.) And there might be some gray area as to where exactly the setting ends and conflict begins, or which precise statement constitutes the exact climax. But if we get ourselves in the right ballpark, we will do well.
Let’s outline the narrative in Mark 2:1-12 of the healing of the paralytic.
Let me give another example from Exodus 13:17-14:31, the crossing of the Red Sea.
Sometimes the exact boundaries of the different plot components will be fuzzy. But the clearest points should be 1) when conflict is introduced, and 2) when that conflict climaxes in a reversal. If you can find those two things, the rest of the pieces fall into place.
We will typically find the narrator’s main point at the point of climax or resolution. The climax presents the reversal he seeks to portray. The resolution draws out the implications of that reversal. So we must look there for the main point.
Observing the narrative’s plot structure in this way helps us to avoid placing too much weight on unimportant details. For example, in Mark 2, we ought not make much (either interpretation or application) of the fact that Jesus saw the friends’ faith and thereby forgave the paralytic’s sins (Mark 2:5). That’s only part of the setting, or the set up for the actual main point: Jesus’ authority to pronounce forgiveness. For another example, in Exodus 14, our application will focus more on developing trust in God than in necessarily expecting to be rescued from hard circumstances.
And outlining a narrative’s plot structure enables us to answer the age-old question of whether a particular narrative is meant to be prescriptive or descriptive. Identify the conflict, climax, and resolution, and you’ll be close to the main point. Grasp that main point, and you can have confidence in what the author wants us to get from his narrative. Perhaps it may be a descriptive point; perhaps it may be more prescriptive.
And when you combine the micro-structure (plot arc) with the macro-structure of the larger division, you are approaching mastery of the text and a profound grasp of the narrator’s intentions.
For example, you might notice that the story of the paralytic is preceded by 4 healing episodes (Mark 1:21-28, 29-31, 32-39, 40-45) and that it is followed by 4 controversy episodes (Mark 2:13-17, 18-22, 23-28; 3:1-6). The paralytic story is itself both a healing and a controversy. The first two healings take place on a Sabbath, and the last two controversies take place on a Sabbath. The passage begins with Jesus having more authority than the scribes (Mark 1:22), and it ends with Pharisees and Herodians taking counsel to destroy him (Mark 3:6). There is therefore a clear chiastic (symmetric) arrangement here (A-B-C-D-E-D-C-B-A), with the paralytic story sitting at the prominent hinge point in the center.
So Jesus’ divine authority (perhaps even his specific authority to forgive sins) must be a major component of the message of the full section that goes from Mark 1:21 to Mark 3:9. Append Mark 1:16-20 as an introduction and Mark 3:7-12 as a conclusion, and you’ve got your hands on Mark’s first major literary division.
I’m grateful for a few Simeon Trust preaching workshops, which alerted me to the importance of these plot devices in outlining a narrative’s structure.
What is the difference between the following statements?
The first statement is obviously more precise. But I bet most would consider the second statement more inspirational. More memorable.
And why is this? Because structure conveys meaning. In this case, the structure of the sentence itself packs a persuasive punch. The sentence makes use of a “concentric pattern” or “chiasm” to drive its point:
Me … work … Bible
Bible … work … me
The symmetry of the phrases catches your attention. You can feel the hinge in the middle that unwinds until the tension finally lands with force on the final “me.” The very structure of the sentence conveys additional inspirational or persuasive meaning that goes beyond what the first, more precise, statement could ever communicate.
Biblical authors do this very thing, when they embed their primary emphases, their authorial intentions, within the very structure of the texts they compose.
Before we can talk about interpretation, we must first develop the skills to observe the structure. I wrote on this topic a few weeks ago, so I just want to underscore the need to do this well.
Get your chapter and verse divisions out of the way. Drop the extra headings that most Bibles put in. Get a reader’s version, use software such as Logos, or print a numberless manuscript from Bible Gateway. Get yourself looking at the naked text so you can actually observe the literary signposts the author drops in like paint blazes on a wilderness trail.
Identify the constituent units. Then take note of how those units are arranged. If your structural observation is poor, your interpretation won’t be any better.
But once you’ve discovered the units, and you’ve mapped their arrangement (typically parallel, symmetric, or linear—again see the previous post for explanation), you are ready to consider what this structure communicates about the author’s intended meaning.
But how do you do that? David Dorsey (chapter 4) explains 3 main ways that structure conveys meaning.
Sometimes historical narratives follow a linear pattern to simply communicate the progress of time. But at other times, they follow a cyclical pattern to communicate, through the structure itself, the spiraling up or spiraling down of the protagonists’ fate. For example, Judges gives us 7 cycles of Judges, following the pattern established in Judg 2:11-19, which clearly spiral downward into greater fallenness. But the book of 1-2 Samuel gives us 3 main overlapping narrative arcs: Samuel’s, Saul’s, and David’s. Those three arcs advance from one degree of glory to another, yet all three are ultimately tragic in their shape (narrating a rise, a peak, and then a fall).
Another example of the overall structure conveying meaning is the book of Lamentations. Hebrew poetry often works in parallel lines with parallel stresses (A-B-C/A-B-C). For example, “Serve (A) the LORD (B), with gladness (C)/Come (A) into his presence (B) with singing (C)” (Psalm 100:2). But scholars of ancient literature have pointed out that laments cut this pattern short. The second line loses one of the stresses, yielding a 3-2, or something like an A-B-C/B-C pattern. For example: “O my God (A), I cry by day (B), but you do not answer (C)/and by night (B), but I find no rest (C)” (Psalm 22:2).
Lamentations takes this pattern of laments and drops it into the book’s overall structure. Not only do we see a 3-2 pattern in almost every verse (for example: “She (A) weeps bitterly (B) in the night (C)/with tears (B) on her cheeks (C)” (Lam 1:2a). But we also see this pattern across the chapters.
Chapter 1: long acrostic with 66 lines
Chapter 2: long acrostic with 66 lines
Chapter 3: long acrostic with 66 lines
Chapter 4: shorter acrostic with 44 lines
Chapter 5: even shorter acrostic with 22 lines
The whole book takes on the 3-2 shape of lament that visually and audibly peters out by the end, leaving the sadness hanging heavily.
When you observe matching units in parallel or chiastic structures, you should investigate why and how they match. Do they present a comparison or contrast? Is a promise in the first section fulfilled in the second? Does one section better explain the other? Is some sort of reversal taking place?
The Gospel of Mark divides into two main divisions: 1:1-8:30 and 8:31-16:8. The first verse outlines the structure: “The beginning of the gospel of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.” The first half of the book concludes with Peter’s confession that Jesus is the Christ (Mark 8:29). The second half concludes with the centurion’s confession that Jesus is the Son of God (Mark 15:39). By comparing the closing sections of each half of the book, we see that Peter gets part of Jesus’ identity (chapter 8), but he doesn’t understand all of it (chapter 14-15). By the end, Peter is denying that he even knows this man (Mark 14:71), while a Gentile military officer grasps something remarkable about the nature of Jesus’ suffering. “When the centurion, who stood facing him, saw that in this way he breathed his last, he said…” (Mark 15:39).
The parallel between Jonah’s prayer in chapter 2 and his prayer in chapter 4 leads us to question the sincerity of his repentance in the belly of the fish.
When you observe these repetitions, these matching units, you are well prepared to ask “Why” and better uncover the author’s intentions.
The final way structure conveys meaning is through positions of prominence.
This is neither mechanical nor foolproof, but often the most prominent part of a parallel structure is the end. And the most prominent part of a chiasm is the center.
Don’t apply that principle woodenly, but you should at least investigate the matter.
For example, Mark 6-8 follows a parallel structure, surrounded by an inclusio (bookends):
Intro: When Jesus sends out the twelve, Herod fears John the Baptist has risen from the dead. But others think he’s Elijah or one of the prophets (Mark 6:7-29).
A. Feeding a multitude (Mark 6:30-44)
B. Crossing the sea (Mark 6:45-56)
C. Disputing with the Pharisees (Mark 7:1-23)
D. Discussing bread with a follower (Mark 7:24-30)
E. Healing a malfunctioning sense—deafness (Mark 7:31-37)
A. Feeding a multitude (Mark 8:1-9)
B. Crossing the sea (Mark 8:10)
C. Disputing the Pharisees (Mark 8:11-13)
D. Discussing bread with followers (Mark 8:14-21)
E. Healing a malfunctioning sense—blindness (Mark 8:22-26)
Conclusion: When Jesus questions the twelve, they claim people think he’s John the Baptist or Elijah or one of the prophets. But Peter (who used to be deaf and blind—Mark 8:18) now sees clearly enough to know “You are the Christ” (Mark 8:29).
What is Mark’s point here in chapters 6 through 8? Jesus is healing his disciples’ own deafness and blindness so they can hear and see who he is.
And what is my point with this little exercise? If you find yourself fretting over why Jesus would call someone a dog (Mark 7:27), what the disciples failed to understand regarding the number of baskets of leftovers (Mark 8:19-21), or why it took Jesus two tries to heal the guy’s blindness (Mark 8:23-25), you need only take yourself to the position of prominence. In this case, the end of the parallel sequence gives us the author’s emphasis and intention: to help Jesus’ disciples perceive who he really is. When we get this, the rest will make more sense.
Observing structure is hard work. But it bears fruit thirty-, sixty-, and a hundred-fold when it comes time to interpret the author’s meaning.
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Perhaps you’ve heard that love is patient and kind (1 Cor 13:4). That it does not envy or boast. I’m willing to wager you’ve either seen these words on a plaque or heard them at a wedding, or both. And what mood do these words create when you hear them read? Comfort? Security? Compassion? Warmth? Mood really matters as something we ought to observe in a text. And if we take a passage like 1 Cor 13 out of context, we’re in danger of missing the mood. Which may cause us to miss the point.
Context matters. If we learn to read the Bible for what it is—and not as a collection of independently assembled proverbial sayings—we’ll discover that some of our most familiar passages don’t actually mean what we’ve always assumed.
Scripture as Art (2014), Creative Commons
While 1 Corinthians is not Paul’s harshest letter—that honor would fall to Galatians—it comes pretty close. He has nice things to say about the Corinthians at the start (1 Cor 1:4-9), but he quickly moves into one criticism after another.
When we read the letter as a letter, and not as one independent chapter after another, we see that Paul is building a case, scaling a mountain. And chapter 13 is the peak. We rightly laud this chapter, but often in the wrong way.
In the immediate context, Paul is addressing their questions “concerning spiritual gifts” (1 Cor 12:1). He just told them to “earnestly desire the higher gifts” (1 Cor 12:31). But there is a still more excellent way.
They can have the flashiest, most popular, and most coveted spiritual gifts. But if they don’t have love, they’re only making a cacophony (1 Cor 13:1-3).
Then Paul describes this more excellent way, the way of love. And what he says about love directly and explicitly corresponds to what these people are not.
In other words, it’s as though Paul is saying, “Love is everything you are not.”
Love will get them farther than the “best” spiritual gifts ever will (1 Cor 13:8-10). Then comes the kicker: Paul, too, was once a child. But he eventually had to grow up (1 Cor 13:11). That’s what it means to love; it requires us to grow up and become mature, which is something these infants (1 Cor 3:1), these children (1 Cor 4:14), have yet to do.
The next chapter tells them that spiritual gifts are not bad (especially prophecy). But they must desire them only in proportion to how much they are willing to “pursue love” (1 Cor 14:1). Chapter 14 is filled with instructions about how to exercise gifts in a way that is kind and loving to others.
Then Paul caps off the letter with a call to endure in faith (cf. “love believes all things…endures all things”) in light of the greatest expression of God’s love in the resurrection of Jesus Christ, a foretaste of our own resurrection (1 Cor 15). The thinly veiled insults of chapter 13 are not meant to crush them but drive them to draw grace from the deep well of salvation, revealed in the resurrection of Christ. Then they can become like their Lord, expressing their love and unity with the suffering brethren in Judea by contributing to their needs (1 Cor 16:1-4). Love never ends; it never fails—when it is derived from the right place.
1 Corinthians 13 may be one of Paul’s most eloquent chapters. Perhaps only Romans 8 or Philippians 2 can rival it. But the mood is absolutely not a warm and fuzzy one. Its character is one of sustained rebuke, not one of pleasant encouragement. To miss this mood may be to miss the point.
I’m not saying that we shouldn’t put it on plaques or read it at weddings (in fact, I’m preaching it at a wedding in a few months). But to get the message right, we must be sure to capture the tone of warning, rebuke, and satire. May it resound, as Paul intended, as our mandate to grow up and act no more like selfish little children.
I drew inspiration for this post from a talk on “Context” given by David Helm. Click to see more examples of why context matters.
In his article “How to (Mis)Interpret Prophecy,” Michael Heiser illustrates one weakness with over-generalizing our interpretive principles. He mentions the principle: “When the plain sense makes sense, seek no other sense.” And then he examines the use of Amos 9 in Acts 15 to show one place where the principle needs more nuance.
He concludes:
Comparing these passages illustrates important lessons: Interpreting biblical prophecy cannot be distilled to a simple maxim, and not everything can be taken literally. The New Testament shows us otherwise.
His concise analysis is worth your time. Check it out!
Perhaps, when you went through a tough spell, a friend or mentor reminded you that all things work together for good for those who love God. Perhaps you’ve reminded others of the same thing in their tough spells. And such comfort may be in line with what the Apostle Paul hoped to achieve in Romans 8:28. But do you understand why? Do you understand what is the “good” for which all things work together? This verse is not a promise to remove or alleviate suffering. Nor does it require us to take a noble or pious perspective about suffering, as though, if you love God, all things that happen to you must be seen as “good” things.
Because context matters. If we learn to read the Bible for what it is—and not as a collection of independently assembled proverbial sayings—we’ll discover that some of our most familiar passages say something slightly different from what we’ve always assumed.
Let me first address one wrongful use of Romans 8:28. I’ve sometimes heard people refer to this verse to suggest that all things are good for those who love God, as though we should be happy or pleased with the suffering we endure. As though suffering is a good thing.
But the verse doesn’t say “all things are good for those who love God.” It says, “all things work together for good for those who love God.” Simple observation should clear out our thinly veiled reincarnations of stoicism or asceticism. Your suffering is not good. It will not last forever. One day, every tear will be wiped from your eyes, if you love God and have been called according to his purpose. Your suffering is bad, a product of living in a fallen world.
But God still uses it to work together for good. But how?
To understand Paul’s argument in this part of Romans 8, we need to see that he’s talking about not only suffering but also glory. Rom 8:18 tries to compare the present suffering with the coming glory—and finds such a comparison be not worth our time. Rom 8:30 ends with the sure result of God’s calling: not only justification but glorification. These two references to glory (Rom 8:18, 30) create an inclusio that marks off a unit of thought for us. Let’s trace it accordingly.
The main idea (Rom 8:18): Our present suffering is not worth comparing with the coming glory. (Note: This unit unpacks Paul’s conclusion from the previous section (Rom 8:17): that we who are children of God are also his heirs, if indeed we suffer with him in order to be glorified with him.)
Julia Manzerova (2010), Creative Commons
How does Paul prove these things aren’t worth comparing? First, he addresses the present suffering we can see.
Second, he addresses the hope we have for glory we can’t see.
In the rest of the chapter, Paul gives 5 questions we should ask (“What then shall we say to these things?”) to help us appropriate the unseen, coming glory in the midst of our visible, present suffering:
Romans 8:28 does not say that suffering is a good thing. Nor does it promise to alleviate suffering here and now. Rather, the verse gives us a sense of purpose in our suffering: It shows us that God is making us to suffer like Jesus now so we can be glorified in resurrection like him on the last day. Jesus’ life sets a pattern for those who love him. This is God’s good purpose, which he is working out while we, along with the creation, wait patiently for the redemption of our bodies and the revealing of us as heirs of God.
Context matters.
Randy Alcorn recently made a profound point: that people can claim to “believe every word of the Bible” even while they proclaim things directly contradictory to the Bible’s teaching. This dynamic is truly remarkable, as one doesn’t have to outright reject the Bible any more in order to do away with its uncomfortable truths.
Alcorn writes:
As people respond to my books, ask questions, and state opinions through emails and social media, I’m struck with how many say they believe the Bible, but their interpretations are so out of line with credible biblical meanings that their profession of confidence in Scripture becomes meaningless, and even dangerous. Not only is this happening more frequently today, it’s also being accepted as normal.
Historically, theological liberals denied Scripture, and everyone knew where they stood. But today many so-called evangelicals affirm their belief in Scripture, while attributing meanings to biblical texts that in fact deny what Scripture really says. Hence they “believe every word of the Bible” while actually embracing (and teaching) beliefs that utterly contradict it.
He concludes:
So we need to teach people not just to read the Bible but also how to interpret it, so they don’t end up being Bible-believing heretics or Jesus-followers who follow a Jesus different than the real Jesus of the Bible and history.
I find myself wishing people would know they are denying Scripture, and not feel free to use Scripture to deny Scripture. If you’re aware that you disbelieve and reject the Bible, there is hope because you can come under conviction to submit to God by denying your preferences and accepting what Scripture actually says. But if you imagine you believe the Bible all along, when in fact your interpretations contradict it, pride can blind you from knowing the truth and therefore the truth cannot set you free.
The full post is worth a moment of your time. Check it out!
If you’ve been persuaded not to skip the Bible’s genealogies, you might still wonder what to do with them. And Scott Slayton has just the help you need. In his article “How Do I Deal with the Genealogies?” he offers three suggestions:
Questions 2 and 3 are useful in helping us to reflect on the theological benefit of any genealogy, but I find question 1 most helpful when working through a book. Remember that the genealogy is not a waste of words. It’s not as though the author had nothing useful to say, and so he decided to throw in a list of names. No, the author is making a case for something; he’s trying to move his audience to action. And the genealogy helps advance his agenda. We must observe the genealogy carefully to uncover what that agenda is.
Though Slayton addresses his article to pastors, his suggestions are just as fitting for any teacher or student of the Scripture.
In his second video on what “meaning” means, John Piper gives another reason why “meaning” is what the author intended to communicate through a text. This video takes the famous Golden Rule of Jesus and applies it to the act of reading. Do unto authors what you would have other readers do unto you as an author.
In a recent Look at the Book video, John Piper clarifies what we mean when we talk about the Bible’s “meaning.” According to Piper:
The meaning of a text is what the author intended to communicate with his words.
The key idea is that meaning comes from the author, not the reader. In particular, the meaning of a text is NOT:
These beliefs arise from thinking that meaning comes from the reader, not the author.
Piper explains what he means, and then he gives examples of how the Bible assumes this definition of “meaning.” It is very important that we understand this as we come to study any passage of Scripture.
