Having been raised within a fairly strict Christian denomination, I learned the firmly held doctrines of that particular faith. I also learned something about the teachings of several other Christian denominations–particularly the doctrines they held that we did not–and, perhaps more importantly, why they were considered wrong. That upbringing shaped me in ways I did not fully appreciate until much later.
It gave me a religious identity early in life. It taught me how to distinguish "our" beliefs from "theirs." It shaped my understanding of God–what He approved of, what He rejected, how He worked in the world, and what He expected of His people. Those convictions were drawn from a particular interpretation of Scripture together with other writings regarded as authoritative within that tradition.
Looking back, I can also see that growing up within such a
theological environment made it unlikely that I would seriously explore other
Christian traditions. Why would I? If I had already been convinced that they
were fundamentally mistaken, there seemed little reason to spend time
understanding what they actually believed.
Eventually, however, I reached a point where I could no
longer reconcile some of my convictions with the system in which I had been
raised. There were certainly doctrines on which one might disagree while
remaining comfortably within that faith. But there were other teachings that
formed part of a tightly connected whole. To reject them was, in effect, to
reject the entire framework. That is where I found myself.
So I left.
For the next twenty-five to thirty years I had very little
involvement with organized Christianity. My life followed other paths, and for
a long time I had little interest in returning to church.
When that interest eventually returned, it did not happen
quickly or easily. Before I could even think about joining another Christian
community, I first had to wrestle with questions I had never seriously asked
before. At one point I even questioned whether God existed at all. The question
that occupied my mind was not simply, "Is there a God?" but,
"Did God create us, or have we created God in our own image?"
As I began seeking Christian fellowship, I visited several
other groups and began to discover something interesting. My youthful
experience could have been replicated (almost exactly) in any one of those
other denominations! The doctrines differed, sometimes dramatically, but each
tradition presented a picture of God shaped by its own theological framework.
Every denomination sincerely confessed faith in the same God, yet the portrait
of His character, His purposes, His methods, and even His expectations often
differed so significantly that they could appear almost unrecognizable from one
another.
That realization led me to ask a question I suspect many
thoughtful Christians eventually face.
If every tradition sincerely believes it has understood the
Bible correctly, where does someone fit who finds himself increasingly
persuaded by Scripture itself, yet no longer fits comfortably within the
theological boundaries of any single tradition?
This essay is my attempt to explore that question. Although
the journey described here is my own, I have come to believe it is far from
unique. Many Christians eventually discover that their deepest loyalty is not
to a denomination, but to the continuing task of allowing Scripture itself to
shape their understanding of God. That journey can be unsettling. It can also
become one of the most rewarding experiences of faith.
The question, then, gradually changed for me. It was no longer simply, "Which denomination is right?" It ultimately became, "How should the Bible itself be read?"
At first glance those two questions may appear nearly identical, but they lead in very different directions. The first invites us to compare doctrinal systems and determine which one most closely reflects our own convictions. The second asks us to step back from those systems and consider whether Scripture itself is telling a larger story than any one theological tradition has fully captured.
This realization did not diminish my respect for the Christian traditions that have shaped believers throughout history. Every major branch of Christianity has preserved important biblical truths and has contributed significantly to the church's understanding of God. Yet each tradition also approaches Scripture through a particular theological lens, emphasizing certain themes while naturally giving less attention to others. That is not a criticism unique to one denomination. It is simply part of being human. We all read the Bible from somewhere – and when we differ, we naturally tend to believe our own understanding is the correct one.
The question, therefore, is not whether we possess a theological framework. We all do. The more important question is whether that framework allows Scripture to speak on its own terms, or whether it quietly encourages us to fit Scripture into conclusions we have already inherited.
Over time I found myself increasingly drawn, not toward a new denominational system, but toward the Bible's own unfolding story. Rather than beginning with isolated doctrines or individual proof texts, I wanted to begin where Scripture begins. I wanted to ask how the biblical writers themselves understood the story they were telling and how each part contributes to the whole.
That approach gradually reshaped many of my assumptions. Instead of seeing the Bible primarily as a collection of doctrines to be organized into a theological system, I began to see it as one continuous narrative stretching from creation to new creation. The Kingdom of God emerged not as one doctrine among many but as the central theme that gives coherence to the entire story. The covenants were no longer disconnected agreements but successive stages in God's unfolding purpose. Israel and the church were no longer two unrelated peoples following separate divine programs but chapters within one redemptive story reaching its fulfillment in Jesus Christ.
The more I followed that narrative, the more other questions began to find their place. The New Testament's teaching about judgment increasingly appeared within its first-century historical setting while still speaking powerfully to the church today. The Christian hope became centred less on the escape of an immortal soul from the material world and more on the resurrection of the body and the renewal of creation. The church itself came to be understood not simply as a gathering of individuals who share similar beliefs but as the new humanity God is creating in Christ–a covenant people called to bear His image and proclaim His Kingdom.
None of these conclusions were reached because I set out to reject one theological tradition in favour of another. They arose from a growing conviction that the Bible should first be allowed to tell its own story. My desire has never been to become less committed to Scripture but more committed to it–reading it historically, respecting its literary and covenantal context, listening carefully to the voices of those who first received its message, and allowing its own narrative to shape the questions I ask as well as the answers I find.
That journey has not led me to conclude that every Christian tradition is equally right or that doctrine no longer matters. Quite the opposite. Doctrine matters profoundly. But doctrine, like every other part of Christian theology, is best understood when it arises from the Bible's own storyline rather than being imposed upon it. My concern has gradually become less about finding the denomination that most closely matches my conclusions and more about learning to read Scripture in the way its own authors intended it to be read.
That, ultimately, is where I have found my place. It is not
outside the historic Christian faith, nor in opposition to it, but within the
continuing task that has always belonged to the church: returning again and
again to the Scriptures, allowing them to correct us, challenge us, deepen us,
and continually enlarge our understanding of the God who is revealed there.
The
Convictions That Slowly Emerged
As I look back over that journey, I can now see that none of the conclusions I eventually reached arose because I deliberately set out to reject one theological system in favour of another. They emerged slowly, often unexpectedly, as I found myself returning again and again to the biblical text with a different question in mind. Rather than asking, "Which theological system best explains the Bible?" I increasingly found myself asking, "What story is the Bible itself telling?"
That subtle change of perspective proved far more significant than I could have imagined. The more I read Scripture from beginning to end, the less I saw it as a collection of isolated doctrines and the more I came to see it as one unified story. Genesis and Revelation were no longer distant bookends connected only by scattered prophecies or theological themes. They became the beginning and end of one continuous narrative in which God's purpose unfolds progressively through covenant, kingdom, promise, fulfilment, and new creation.
As that larger story came into focus, the Kingdom of God gradually emerged as the organising centre of Scripture. The Kingdom was no longer merely one topic among many. It became the thread that connected creation, covenant, Israel, the ministry of Jesus, the church, and the hope of new creation into one coherent story.
Instead of asking primarily how individuals escape this world, I found myself asking how God is restoring His creation and fulfilling His original purpose for humanity. The Kingdom proclaimed by Jesus no longer appeared as a parenthesis in history or merely a future political reality. It became the continuation and fulfilment of the story that began in Eden and reaches its consummation in the New Creation.
That same perspective also reshaped the way I understood Israel, the church, and the covenants. Increasingly, I found it difficult to think in terms of two separate peoples pursuing two separate divine purposes. Instead, I came to see Scripture presenting one unfolding covenant story that finds its fulfilment in Jesus Christ. He is not merely another figure within Israel's history; He is Israel's faithful Messiah, the true Son of Abraham, the true Son of David, the true Servant, and ultimately the One in whom God's promises reach their intended goal. The church, therefore, is not an interruption of that story but the new humanity being gathered together in Him from every nation.
Reading Scripture as a unified historical narrative also affected the way I understood many prophetic passages. I became increasingly persuaded that the biblical writers expected many of God's covenant judgements to unfold within the historical setting to which they were originally addressed. Far from diminishing the authority of Scripture, reading those passages in their historical context deepened my appreciation for the remarkable faithfulness of God to His covenant promises and warnings. At the same time, those historical fulfilments continue to instruct and warn the church in every generation.
Perhaps no area illustrates this process more clearly than my understanding of the Christian hope itself. Unlike many Christians, I had not been raised believing in the immortality of the soul. During my years away from the church, however, I found myself willing to reconsider almost every belief I had inherited, including this one. For a time, I became genuinely open to the possibility that the traditional understanding might prove to be correct. Yet the more closely I followed the biblical story from beginning to end, the more I found its emphasis resting elsewhere. Rather than directing my attention toward the survival of an immaterial soul, Scripture consistently pointed me toward the resurrection of the dead and the renewal of creation itself. The final chapters of Revelation do not portray humanity escaping the earth, but God dwelling with His redeemed people in a renewed heaven and earth. That vision seemed to bring the entire biblical story full circle, restoring what had been lost in Eden rather than abandoning creation altogether.
I gradually came to realise that the Christian hope is not
fundamentally about leaving creation but about its restoration–not about
escaping death through the immortality of the soul, but about overcoming death
through the resurrection of the body.
Alongside these theological convictions came another, perhaps even more important, realisation. My confidence in Scripture did not diminish as I questioned some of the conclusions I had inherited. If anything, it became stronger. I found myself increasingly convinced that the authority of Scripture is best honoured when it is read within its own historical, literary, and covenantal setting rather than being asked to answer questions that arise primarily from later theological systems. The more I sought to understand what the biblical writers intended to communicate to their own audiences, the more coherent and compelling the Scriptures themselves became.
None of this has led me to believe that Christian doctrine is unimportant or that the church's theological traditions have little to teach us. Quite the contrary. I remain deeply grateful for the wisdom preserved within the broader Christian tradition. Yet I have become convinced that every tradition–including my own–must continually be willing to return to Scripture, allowing its own story to refine, correct, and sometimes even reshape the theological frameworks we have inherited.
Ultimately, then, the convictions that slowly emerged were not primarily about joining a different denomination or defending a new theological system. They were about learning to read the Bible on its own terms, allowing its grand narrative—from creation to new creation—to provide the framework within which every doctrine finds its proper place. If there is one lesson my own journey has taught me, it is that our deepest loyalty must never be to a theological system, however helpful it may be, but to the God who has revealed Himself in the pages of Scripture and to the unfolding story through which He has made Himself known.
Perhaps that is where someone like me finally fits—not in the certainty that I have found the perfect theological system, but in the continuing privilege of seeking to understand more faithfully the story God has given us in Scripture. That commitment may at times lead us to remain where we are, working patiently within the fellowship God has given us. At other times, it may lead us to seek fellowship elsewhere as our convictions continue to grow and mature. Either way, our first allegiance is not to a denomination but to Jesus Christ, and our continuing responsibility is to walk humbly with His people while allowing Scripture itself to remain the final authority over both our beliefs and our lives.
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