When the Biblical World Doesn’t Draw Me In
Some people seem to carry their culture like a second skin.
They know the folk tales. The holidays. The clothes.
They wear it without effort.
Others fall in love with a culture that isn’t theirs.
They learn the language.
They cook the food.
They rearrange their life around it.
An Asian obsessed with American cowboy culture.
An Italian drawn to Japanese kimonos.
A Native American fascinated by ancient Egypt.
I’ve felt that kind of pull toward cultures that aren’t my own.
So when I don’t feel it here, I notice.
Especially when it comes to the Bible.
. . .
When I read someone else’s writing, I hesitate to imagine too much.
I don’t want to project the wrong images.
I don’t want to invent details that betray the author’s reality.
How do you accurately imagine a time and place that’s completely foreign to you?
That question keeps showing up when I try to read the Bible.
So I tried watching The Chosen—a TV reenactment of the Bible.
And in one sense, it helps.
It gives faces. Streets. Weather. Tone.
It makes the text feel inhabitable.
But strangely, it also does the opposite.
The more vivid the world becomes, the more aware I am of how little I want to be there.
No offense meant to those with deep connections to ancient Roman-occupied Israel.
I just don’t feel a pull toward this land, its language, its rhythms.
Halfway through the first season, the writers linger on how heavy life is before Jesus arrives—poverty, fear, darkness pressing in from every side.
Instead of drawing me closer, it makes me want to close the book.
I find myself thinking:
If only this were my direct heritage.
If only this had been an adopted world earlier in my life.
If only I felt curiosity instead of distance.
I can connect to the human moments—the friendships, the small kindnesses, the tensions.
But the world itself doesn’t beckon me.
That makes me wonder something uncomfortable.
Is this why people drift toward other religions?
Not because they reject truth, but because they reach for familiarity?
For worlds that feel emotionally legible?
When people search for comfort, they rarely choose the unfamiliar.
And this life—the biblical world—feels profoundly unfamiliar to me.
All of this leaves God feeling distant.
Not hostile.
Just… not close.
I don’t know yet what that distance means.
I’m not sure it means anything at all.
It might simply mean this world doesn’t draw me in.
For now, that’s the only honest thing I know how to say.
What I’m Trying (You’re Welcome to Join Me)
- Naming distance without interpreting it.
I’m resisting the urge to explain how I should feel, and staying with how I actually do. - Letting unfamiliarity remain unfamiliar.
I’m not forcing resonance where there isn’t any yet. - Allowing honesty to come before belief.
I’m trying not to borrow religious language to describe something I haven’t experienced.
A Prayer
(Book of Common Prayer, 2019 ACNA — “For Quiet Confidence”)
O God of peace,
who has taught us that in returning and rest we shall be saved,
in quietness and confidence shall be our strength:
By the might of your Spirit lift us, we pray you,
to your presence,
where we may be still and know that you are God;
through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
Personal Prayer
God,
I don’t feel close to you right now.
I’m not angry.
I’m not rejecting you.
I just don’t feel drawn in.
I don’t know what to do with that.
I don’t know if it means anything.
If you are there...
Amen.
Comments ()