As a 16-year-old, I read two books that changed the way I looked at life, faith, and God. Ecclesiastes and Song of Solomon.

I had been a good church kid, paying attention in Sunday school, memorizing verses in Vacation Bible School, even competing on a Bible quiz team with Youth for Christ. My Conservative Baptist church had done a great job teaching me the Bible—except for these two works of wisdom literature. I remember reading those books and wondering, “How did this stuff get in the Bible?”

Song of Solomon (aka Song of Songs) was downright sexy. It seemed to exalt the sexual passions that I had spent the last few years repressing. Ecclesiastes had an attitude to it. “The Preacher” sounded like one of the older kids who lost their faith in college and came back saying, “It’s all meaningless, man. It’s like a vapor.”

Somehow, even in my sheltered adolescence, I knew there was truth here. After all, these books were in the Bible. Their sensuality and cynicism opened up some locked doors in my soul. My faith wasn’t demolished, but enlarged. There were major aspects of my humanity that I could bring out of the shadows and offer to the Lord.

The summer before my senior year in high school, I worked a few hours a week for my church, moving chairs around to set up for different programs. I often found myself alone in the church sanctuary late on Sunday nights, waiting for my ride home. We had a communion table up front with a big Bible resting on it and, in a bit of passive-aggressive rebellion, I would often turn the pages to either Song of Solomon or Ecclesiastes. It was sort of a plea to the church, I guess, to recognize the value of these dangerous books.

Of course, when I returned the next Sunday, the Bible would always be flipped back to Psalm 23.

In a meeting recently with half-a-dozen other Christians, I was surprised to hear similar stories from nearly all of them. Asked about our early experiences with the Bible, we spoke of storybooks and family devotions. Then, again and again, people related a similar “coming of age” experience with certain parts of Scripture. “Do my parents know this is in here?” “How could God let that into the Bible?” Some mentioned the same books I did, but others referred to difficult sections of Job, or some Psalms, or the sins of biblical heroes. “How could David do all that and still be, you know, David?”

In each case, faith was challenged, but not lost. You might say it was honed. Our faith was not in the holiness of David, but of God. We could question the prudishness of church people without abandoning the church. In fact, when we realized that Scripture was asking the tough questions along with us, we felt a lot better about Scripture.

It seems that some churches try hard to keep people from this “coming of age.” Difficult passages of Scripture are avoided or else subjected to a rigorous interpretation that squeezes any danger right out of them. The foibles—well, no, the sins—of major biblical characters are overlooked or too easily excused.

Am I suggesting that we add the stories of Jephthah’s daughter or David’s adultery/murder or the rape of Tamar to our children’s storybooks? No. But at a certain point we’re not children anymore. As leaders, we should stop shielding our grown-ups from the tough stuff of Scripture and let them grow into an adult faith.

This might start with our teenagers.

We worry about sending them off to colleges that will burst the biblical bubble we have kept them in. We’re very surprised, then, and heartbroken when they come back and accuse us of hiding the truth from them. And maybe they’re right.

Can we teach them how to deal with the uncertainties of the Bible? Can we acquaint them with the stories that don’t fit into our systems? Can we introduce them to a God whose ways are truly beyond our ways, whose mind is unknowable, whose peace passes understanding? Then maybe, when their childhood constructs get shattered, they’ll be able to grow into a more complex relationship with a real God who keeps them guessing.

I owe a lot to Solomon. The seemingly scandalous writings attributed to him cleared a path for me to come to God in all the messiness of my humanity. Yes, they challenged my childhood assumptions, but ultimately they strengthened my connection with God’s Word.