reading the bible like it has a place on the map
- Brooke Goff
- Jan 9
- 5 min read
I recently watched a documentary that reminded me why I love studying Scripture the way I do. Not faster. Not more efficient. Slower, wider, and with a deep respect for the world the Bible came from. It stirred that familiar sense of wonder I feel when the text stops being abstract and starts feeling rooted in a real place.
Some of that instinct probably comes from my former life as a middle school social studies teacher. I spent about five years teaching geography to sixth graders, which meant I spent five years kindly, repeatedly, and sometimes desperately asking students to please look at the map. Maps weren’t just for decoration. They explained things and helped everything else make sense.
After thinking that way for so long, it’s hard not to bring it with me when I read Scripture.
the bible was not written in america
This might seem obvious, but it changes everything. Scripture didn’t come from modern Western ideas, individualism, or our cultural habits. It was written in the ancient Near East and shaped by land, borders, climate, empire, exile, family systems, and covenant.
The original audience didn’t need anyone to explain the culture to them. They already knew what it was like to live under threat, depend on the land to survive, and understand things like inheritance, honor, shame, and family lines. We don’t.
And that gap matters.
When we read Scripture as if it was written just for us, instead of faithfully for us, we risk making the stories less meaningful.
Context doesn’t make faith harder; it makes it clearer. It reminds us that God spoke through real people, in real places, facing real challenges.
the irony of ancient civ
There’s an irony I can’t stop thinking about.
I took classes on ancient civilizations in college for my education degree, and to be honest, I hated them.
I memorized timelines I didn’t care about and skimmed maps that felt disconnected from anything meaningful. I did what I needed to pass, but my heart wasn’t in it.
If Scripture had been part of those conversations, if those timelines had included faces, families, covenants, and stories, I’m sure I would have paid attention.
Fast forward to now.
Now, at forty-one, I choose to spend time with timelines, maps, and historical resources for fun. There are no grades or exams—just curiosity and delight. Somewhere along the way, what I once resisted became something I treasure.
I realized I didn’t actually hate ancient history. I just hadn’t learned to see it as something sacred yet.
when history becomes holy
Scripture helped me appreciate the subject I spent years teaching children. It gave geography more meaning and made the order of events matter. Places stopped being just names and started to feel like sites of promise, betrayal, exile, encounter, and faithfulness.
That’s why timelines matter so much to me now. They aren’t just academic tools—they’re spiritual companions. Resources like the Adams Synchronological Chart or the beautifully illustrated Rose Book timelines don’t replace Scripture. Instead, they help me slow down as I read.
They keep me from seeing stories as separate and invite me to trace God’s work across generations.
Watching events unfold together—kingdoms rising and falling, families forming and breaking apart—while God stays steady through it all changes how I read. It helps me notice the bigger story instead of just the pieces.
why family lines matter
Teaching geography also taught me something important: facts don’t stick as well as stories do.
That same principle applies to Scripture.
When we read biblical figures as if they stand alone, we miss how people are really formed. People are shaped in families. Patterns repeat. Old wounds echo. Both faith and failure are passed down and faced over time.
This has been especially true as I’ve spent time with our newest collection: the family of israel.
These stories aren’t neat or cleaned up. They show favoritism, grief, silence, courage, regret, and redemption. When you see them together—not as separate devotionals, but as one family story—Scripture feels honest in a way that invites trust.
God doesn’t hurry these stories, and we shouldn’t either.
curiosity as a faithful posture
Over the holidays—Christmas Eve, to be exact—our Poppy sat down with me in the living room. Poppy is one of the kindest people you could meet and one of my favorite humans on earth. That night, he sat beside me and started asking all sorts of questions about the details of Christ’s birth.
These weren’t simple questions. He wanted to know where Mary went after the angel visited her, why the trip to Elizabeth mattered, and whether Joseph knew she was pregnant when she left. He wasn’t trying to prove anything or show off what he knew. There was no pretense—just real curiosity, humility, and wonder.
What stood out to me most was how holy that moment felt. Here was someone choosing to ask questions instead of clinging to certainty, to listen instead of assume, and to learn instead of pretend to know. I remember thinking, I want to stay that open.
Curiosity can be a quiet act of worship. It means resisting the urge to rush to apply things and first asking, “What did this mean then?” before asking what it means now.
Curiosity takes humility. It means admitting we don’t understand everything right away—and that’s okay. It lets Scripture shape us rather than us shaping it.
That’s one of the things I appreciate most about our newest collection, the family of Israel. These stories don’t skip over the hard parts or try to make things simple. They keep Scripture grounded in land, lineage, and real experience.
As a teacher, I learned that curiosity helps people learn much more than obligation ever could.
As a follower of Jesus, I’m learning that the same thing is true with Scripture.
The stories didn’t change; I did. Context taught me how to listen.
If you want to study Scripture more deeply, try pairing your reading with tools that help you slow down, like maps, timelines, and resources such as the family of Israel collection.
Let the stories unfold in their full, original context.
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