Photo by Vitaly Gariev on Unsplash
I still remember leaving my first class on Biblical Hermeneutics, a required course at the evangelical university I attended, feeling a mix of complex emotions. On the one hand, I was thrilled to have the chance to learn how to understand this big book full of words I had faithfully memorized, but couldn’t tell you what they meant beyond parroting back what I had been told. On the other hand, I was also sad, even angry, that after spending my whole life as part of a church, I was finally being given these tools; these tools I knew others would have benefited from having, but attending a college course to do so was out of the question, inaccessible. I witnessed my mother and grandmother, week after week, fill out their Bible study workbooks to make sense of these sacred words as one way to get closer to their God. Yet I also noticed that those workbooks often significantly limited not only the questions one could ask about these texts, but also the range of answers one could (or should) write in those blank boxes. These studies made sure to keep everything on theme, rather, “on brand,” domesticating the Bible to fit inside predetermined theological and ideological boxes. While I left that class feeling like I had been lied to by that withholding, I also left in awe of the world that had just opened up to me. I have been chasing the freedom those doors opened for me since, hoping to do the same for others through education. With my mom and grandma in mind, access has always been the goal.
In 2015, I had just finished my Master of Divinity, and Twitter (the only thing I will happily deadname) was in its prime. My local community and the evangelical church I was employed at were all discussing the reasons why we still needed to vote for one particular candidate of one particular party. These rationales did not sit right with me, as I thought the Church was supposed to be against things like racism, xenophobia, and sexism; I still lacked words for the pit in my stomach. Thankfully, being active on social media meant I could hear from more diverse voices than I had in my immediate circles. Through this virtual space, I was able to make sense of why I felt the way I did, thanks to the generosity of creators on the platform, many of them academics, providing resources about the histories undergirding this regressive movement. As destabilizing and challenging as it was to become more informed, I was not left stranded. Not only could I commiserate with others online, but I was also making connections that broadened my local networks. After spending more than two decades in white evangelical spaces, I was finding out that the world was much bigger and not as terrifying as I had been taught; I found out I had choices. It was as if my classroom experience five years prior repeated itself, only with all of the accessibility built in.
Inspired by Dan McClellan, I began sharing as much as I could on social media in 2022. At the time, I had just finished my PhD in Old Testament, but I had also lost my adjunct gig at the place where I first began to love the Bible, due to an institutional purge of all the “woke” professors. Making content like this felt complicated for me, because it seemed that those who took their work not just public but to these “problematic” platforms, and especially if they made it even somewhat entertaining, were not taken seriously by fellow academics; I wanted to be employable. I told myself it was only temporary, and that as soon as I could teach in a “legitimate” classroom again, I could leave this new virtual classroom I had been inviting anyone to join. What I didn’t realize then but know now is that, just as I needed the voices of folks like Jemar Tisby in 2015, I was providing information and perspective others needed to hear but weren’t getting in their immediate circles.
I don’t know what your why is for the work you do. But from experience, to borrow Maya Angelou’s words, I did the best I could until I knew better, and when I knew better, I could do better. Access to knowledge has literally changed my life (consider why information and education are something fascists must control). While this seems odd to say in 2026, there are still so many people, due to factors like physical location and even class, who, in part because of lack of access, are not even hearing from voices that would offer them anything different from what they know. Again, I think of my grandmother, who had very few options when it came to the churches she could attend because of where she lived. I wonder if my mother would have done differently if she had more voices in her life beyond those church leaders who told her she needed to stay with her cheating spouse and that it was likely her fault anyway. I think of the countless queer folks who message me asking if it is okay, if it is not a sin that they are gay, because the church they attend says otherwise. I could choose to be a “real” academic who doesn’t trouble myself with the horrors of social media, keeping what I know in the ivory tower behind a paywall. I can tell myself other biblical scholars do it, so I don’t need to; although the ratio between quality content on the Bible and tragically misguided content on these texts is wildly disproportionate. Indeed, it is not for everybody. Given the many issues these platforms also have, the easy answer would be to disengage entirely. And yet, I am who I am today in no small part because of the few who decided to share their work and parts of themselves, a gift.
Even in the cacophony, your voice matters. Who knows who might hear yours and find a whole new path waiting for them.
