Is It Okay to Question the Bible? Faith, Doubt, and Honest Wrestling with Scripture

This article has been taken from content of the same information at Whiskey and the Writings. For that video, click here.

Let’s just be real: even asking this question is going to rub some people the wrong way. The moment I hit “record” on this episode of Whiskey and the Writings, I knew there’d be comments flying my way. “Joe doesn’t trust the Bible!” “You’re going to cause people to lose their faith!” I’ve heard it all before. But the truth is, most of those folks don’t actually listen to the whole conversation. They react to the title, or the thumbnail, or the first 30 seconds, and they miss the heart of what I’m trying to say. And that’s fine. This isn’t for them. This isn’t for people who already have their theology locked down, who don’t want dialogue, who don’t want to engage thoughtfully with difference. This channel—this conversation—is for the person who’s asking honest questions and isn’t satisfied with the pre-packaged answers handed down from generations of religious tradition.

So yes, the answer right out of the gate is: it’s okay to question the Bible. It’s okay to question your faith. It’s even okay to question Jesus. And if that freaks you out, that’s okay. You don’t have to keep reading. But if you’ve been pushed aside by religious communities because you ask too many questions, if you’ve been made to feel like there’s no place for your wrestling—this is for you. I want to walk alongside that doubt. Because I’ve been there too.

Let me show you what I mean—not just from my own experience, but from the Bible itself.

David’s Lament: “How Long, Lord?”

Psalm 13 hits hard. It’s short, just six verses, but the rawness of David’s words in that moment is something I deeply resonate with. Remember, David had been anointed by Samuel to be the next king of Israel, but there was still a king on the throne—Saul. And Saul wasn’t going quietly. He wanted David dead. So here’s David, running for his life, hiding in caves, trying to survive, while holding on to the idea that God had chosen him. That kind of disconnect—between what you believe and what you’re experiencing—can crack a person wide open.

And David does just that. He pours it out: “How long, Lord, will you ignore me? How long will you pay no attention to me? How long must I suffer like this?” You can feel the pain in every line. He’s not censoring himself. He’s not cleaning up his prayer so it sounds spiritual. He’s desperate. “Revive me, or I’ll die,” he says. And then, somehow—maybe by sheer grit or muscle memory—he lands on this: “But I trust in your faithfulness. I’ll rejoice in your deliverance.” He isn’t there yet. He hasn’t seen the breakthrough. But he speaks to the hope that maybe, just maybe, God will show up.

That’s not blind faith. That’s bruised faith. That’s the kind of faith that limps, that struggles, that clings to hope while still questioning everything.

John the Baptist: “Are You the One?”

Then there’s John the Baptist. Cousin of Jesus. The guy who baptized him in the Jordan. The guy who heard the voice from heaven and saw the Spirit descend like a dove. And still—after all that—John ends up in prison. Alone. Isolated. Forgotten. And in that cell, he sends his disciples to Jesus with a simple but heavy question: “Are you the one? Or should we look for someone else?”

That’s not small doubt. That’s a prophet, a man of deep conviction, now wondering if he got it wrong. And Jesus doesn’t dismiss him. He doesn’t scold him. In fact, he turns to the crowd and says, “Among those born of women, no one is greater than John.” So don’t tell me doubt disqualifies you. Jesus sees John’s honesty and still calls him great.

“I Believe. Help My Unbelief.”

There’s also this father in Mark 9 whose son has been suffering seizures since childhood. The pain, the helplessness, the years of trying everything—maybe doctors, healers, temples, other religions, we don’t know. But now, he stands in front of Jesus and pleads, “If you’re able to do anything, have compassion and help us.”

Jesus challenges him: “If I’m able?” And the father, raw and exposed, says, “I believe—help my unbelief.” That phrase has lived in my bones for years. It’s the honest tension so many of us feel. I believe. I really do. But I’m hanging on by a thread. Help me where I can’t hold on.

This father didn’t have it all together. He didn’t have perfect faith. And still, Jesus heals his son. So again, don’t let anyone tell you your faith has to be flawless for God to move. It just has to be honest.

The Bereans: Thoughtful Faith

In Acts 17, we meet the Bereans—this Jewish community that Paul and Silas visited on their missionary journey. And what sets them apart is their posture. They were “more open-minded” than others Paul had encountered. They didn’t just accept Paul’s teaching blindly. They received it eagerly—but they also examined the scriptures daily to see if what he said was true.

That’s what I want for Whiskey and the Writings. Not followers who just nod along, but people who go and check for themselves. Read. Question. Wrestle. That’s the Berean way. And that’s the kind of community I want to help build.

Doubt is a Christian Tradition

Some folks act like questioning the Bible is a slippery slope to heresy. But let’s not forget—our entire Protestant tradition was born out of questioning. The Reformation didn’t happen because everyone just accepted what they were told. Martin Luther challenged the status quo. He said no to papal authority, no to tradition being equal with Scripture. He said Scripture alone—sola scriptura. That was a protest, a question. And it changed history.

Even the early church councils were full of debate. The Council of Nicaea? That wasn’t about choosing the books of the Bible—that’s a myth. It was about wrestling with who Jesus really is. Is he of the same substance as the Father? Is he divine? These weren’t easy answers. And even after the council made a declaration, that decision wasn’t embraced immediately. It took decades for the church to land on what we now consider core theology.

We act like our theology was dropped from the sky, fully formed. It wasn’t. It came through blood, sweat, tears—and questions.

Creed. Doctrine. Conviction.

Here’s how I frame it, and maybe this will help you too. Think of your beliefs like a target with three rings. At the center is creed—the stuff you’re willing to die for. Who Jesus is. His death, resurrection, the inbreaking of God’s kingdom. These are the non-negotiables of the faith. They’re foundational.

The next ring is doctrine—the things we debate. How baptism works. Communion. End times theology. These matter, but we don’t kill each other over them. Or at least, we shouldn’t.

And then there’s the outer ring: conviction. These are personal. Like drinking whiskey while talking theology. For some people, that’s off-limits. For others, it’s not a big deal. We don’t debate convictions; we dialogue about them. We hold them with humility and curiosity.

The problem comes when we take something from the outer rings and shove it into the center, demanding that everyone agree. That’s where communities fracture and people get pushed out. And that’s not the way of Jesus.

I’m Just Saying…

Listen, questioning the Bible doesn’t mean rejecting it. Wrestling with Jesus doesn’t mean abandoning him. Honest doubt isn’t the enemy of faith—it’s the pathway to a deeper one. The people in the Bible—David, John the Baptist, the grieving father, the Bereans—they were real. They struggled. They questioned. And they’re still held up as examples of faith.

So if you find yourself saying, “I believe… help my unbelief,” you’re in good company. And you’re not alone.