She used to skip that part. The Old Testament. The prophets with their strange names, the laws that felt confusing, tabernacles and sacrifices that seemed so far off from her kitchen table devotionals. Sarah, a young teacher and busy mom, kept her Bible study “relevant," she thought—just New Testament encouragement and practical verses for hard days. But something about it began to feel hollow, like reading the last chapter of a story without knowing how it began.
One night, after the kids were asleep, she opened her Bible out of habit, not hunger. The page fell open to Romans 15:4: “For everything that was written in the past was written to teach us, so that through the endurance taught in the Scriptures and the encouragement they provide, we might have hope.”
She paused. Everything? Even the genealogies? Even the burnt offerings?
That verse made a promise she hadn’t expected: hope. Written in the past… but for today?
She flipped a few more pages and landed in 2 Corinthians 3. Verse 6 caught her eye: “He has made us competent as ministers of a new covenant—not of the letter but of the Spirit; for the letter kills, but the Spirit gives life.”
The Spirit gives life. She whispered it out loud. Maybe the problem wasn't the Old Testament after all. Maybe it was the way she was reading it.
That’s where the four lenses come in—ancient, beautiful ways of seeing Scripture that most of us have forgotten. Long before color-coded devotionals and verse-of-the-day texts, early Christians read every passage through four dimensions: the literal, the allegorical, the moral, and the anagogical.
It’s like looking at a stained-glass window. Different angles, same light. The literal asks, “What happened historically?” The allegorical whispers, “Where is Christ in this?” The moral asks, “What does this teach me about right living?” And the anagogical reaches beyond the now and says, “What eternal truth is this pointing me toward?”
Take the Exodus, for example. Literally, it’s the story of enslaved people walking into freedom. Allegorically, it’s Christ leading us out of the bondage of sin. Morally, it invites us to consider our own obedience and trust. Anagogically, it points to the greater freedom in heaven—the final Promised Land.
This isn’t just theology. It’s therapy for the soul.
When life falls apart—when a diagnosis comes, when your best friend doesn’t call, when prayers echo back in silence—you need more than a surface-level verse. You need a whole story, a whole word, that meets you where you are and leads you somewhere higher.
Maybe you’ve felt that too. That ache for a faith with depth and color, one that holds both logic and longing, one that doesn't flatten mystery into mere instruction.
I remember reading Psalm 23 through all four lenses once, and weeping. Literally, David was a shepherd writing to calm his soul. Allegorically, it was Jesus walking beside me in hospital hallways. Morally, it reminded me to rest, to trust, to follow. Anagogically, it told me that one day, goodness and mercy aren't just guests—they’ll be my forever home.
We are not just studying dusty scrolls—we’re listening for the breath of God that still speaks. "The letter kills, but the Spirit gives life..." That life rises when we bring all of ourselves to His Word—not just our eyes, but our imagination, our questions, our longings.
So next time you read, don't rush. Don’t skim. Don’t domesticate the mystery. Look for Jesus. Listen for conviction. Linger in eternity. One passage, four layers, infinite grace.
This isn’t a method to master. It’s a meal to savor.
Who knew that a dusty book on your nightstand was actually a door?
And He is still the one who unlocks it.
She used to skip that part. The Old Testament. The prophets with their strange names, the laws that felt confusing, tabernacles and sacrifices that seemed so far off from her kitchen table devotionals. Sarah, a young teacher and busy mom, kept her Bible study “relevant," she thought—just New Testament encouragement and practical verses for hard days. But something about it began to feel hollow, like reading the last chapter of a story without knowing how it began.
One night, after the kids were asleep, she opened her Bible out of habit, not hunger. The page fell open to Romans 15:4: “For everything that was written in the past was written to teach us, so that through the endurance taught in the Scriptures and the encouragement they provide, we might have hope.”
She paused. Everything? Even the genealogies? Even the burnt offerings?
That verse made a promise she hadn’t expected: hope. Written in the past… but for today?
She flipped a few more pages and landed in 2 Corinthians 3. Verse 6 caught her eye: “He has made us competent as ministers of a new covenant—not of the letter but of the Spirit; for the letter kills, but the Spirit gives life.”
The Spirit gives life. She whispered it out loud. Maybe the problem wasn't the Old Testament after all. Maybe it was the way she was reading it.
That’s where the four lenses come in—ancient, beautiful ways of seeing Scripture that most of us have forgotten. Long before color-coded devotionals and verse-of-the-day texts, early Christians read every passage through four dimensions: the literal, the allegorical, the moral, and the anagogical.
It’s like looking at a stained-glass window. Different angles, same light. The literal asks, “What happened historically?” The allegorical whispers, “Where is Christ in this?” The moral asks, “What does this teach me about right living?” And the anagogical reaches beyond the now and says, “What eternal truth is this pointing me toward?”
Take the Exodus, for example. Literally, it’s the story of enslaved people walking into freedom. Allegorically, it’s Christ leading us out of the bondage of sin. Morally, it invites us to consider our own obedience and trust. Anagogically, it points to the greater freedom in heaven—the final Promised Land.
This isn’t just theology. It’s therapy for the soul.
When life falls apart—when a diagnosis comes, when your best friend doesn’t call, when prayers echo back in silence—you need more than a surface-level verse. You need a whole story, a whole word, that meets you where you are and leads you somewhere higher.
Maybe you’ve felt that too. That ache for a faith with depth and color, one that holds both logic and longing, one that doesn't flatten mystery into mere instruction.
I remember reading Psalm 23 through all four lenses once, and weeping. Literally, David was a shepherd writing to calm his soul. Allegorically, it was Jesus walking beside me in hospital hallways. Morally, it reminded me to rest, to trust, to follow. Anagogically, it told me that one day, goodness and mercy aren't just guests—they’ll be my forever home.
We are not just studying dusty scrolls—we’re listening for the breath of God that still speaks. "The letter kills, but the Spirit gives life..." That life rises when we bring all of ourselves to His Word—not just our eyes, but our imagination, our questions, our longings.
So next time you read, don't rush. Don’t skim. Don’t domesticate the mystery. Look for Jesus. Listen for conviction. Linger in eternity. One passage, four layers, infinite grace.
This isn’t a method to master. It’s a meal to savor.
Who knew that a dusty book on your nightstand was actually a door?
And He is still the one who unlocks it.
