[Note: This is Part 1 of a two-part series examining how we substitute our preferred version of Christmas for the actual Christmas God gave us.]

Looking back at the Christmas season just past, Steven Wedgeworth—Anglican rector and contributor to WORLD—reflected on an unsettling moment with his family’s new Advent calendar. As his children gathered for the daily December reading, the angel’s announcement to Mary came out like this: “Listen. You will become pregnant and have a baby boy.”

Listen. Not “Behold.” Pregnant. Not “with child.” The words were accurate, technically correct—but they sounded jarringly modern, stripped of the sacred weight that marks this moment in salvation history. What should have felt like stepping into the story felt instead like reading a text message.

Writing for WORLD Radio in mid-December, Wedgeworth used this moment to argue for preserving the King James Version in Christmas celebrations. His case was primarily aesthetic and nostalgic: the KJV is intelligible in its most famous parts, it’s “what you are used to hearing this time of year,” and it simply “sounds better.” His plea: “Please, for Christmas this year, stick with the King James.”^[1]

It’s a small thing, perhaps—which translation we use for Christmas readings. But it reveals something larger: a quiet cultural shift happening in Christian worship, particularly during the most traditional season of the church year. Churches that have spent generations reading “Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy” (Luke 2:10, KJV) now project “Don’t be afraid!” on screens in contemporary translations. Congregations accustomed to “And the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us” (John 1:14, KJV) hear instead that “The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us” (NIV).

The change is subtle but significant. And it’s not really about translation accuracy—modern versions are often more precise to the Greek. It’s about something deeper: what we believe worship requires, what we think tradition offers, and what our preferences reveal about our hearts. This is the kind of “below the waterline” examination that moves past surface behaviors to the deeper beliefs driving them.

The Appeal of the Ancient

There’s something undeniably powerful about the King James Version at Christmas. When Linus quotes Luke 2 in A Charlie Brown Christmas, he doesn’t use the NIV. Johnny Cash didn’t record Christmas albums in the ESV. Abraham Lincoln’s Second Inaugural Address echoed the KJV, not a contemporary paraphrase.

The language carries weight—not just historical significance but aesthetic and emotional resonance. “For unto us a child is born” sounds different than “A child is born to us,” even if they mean the same thing. The rhythm, the cadence, the very architecture of the sentences creates a sense of occasion, of gravity, of stepping into something larger than ourselves.

This isn’t mere nostalgia, though nostalgia plays a role. The KJV represents a kind of common text, a shared linguistic heritage that has shaped English-speaking Christianity for four centuries. When we read it—especially at Christmas—we’re joining our voices with generations who have gone before. We’re connecting to something that feels permanent in a culture of constant change.

But here’s the question worth asking: What are we really pursuing when we insist on traditional language for Christmas? Is it genuine reverence for the sacred, or is it comfort with the familiar? Are we honoring the Word made flesh, or are we protecting an aesthetic preference?

The Promise of the Modern

On the other side of this conversation sits a different conviction: that the gospel should be accessible, that clarity serves love, that removing barriers to understanding is more important than preserving linguistic traditions.

Modern translations promise comprehension. When the angel says “Listen” instead of “Behold,” contemporary readers understand immediately what’s happening. No one has to pause and wonder what “behold” means—they can focus on the message itself. When Mary is described as “pregnant” rather than “with child,” the biology is clearer even if the poetry is diminished.

This impulse comes from good motives. The gospel is too important to be obscured by archaic language. If using contemporary English helps one more person grasp the good news of Christ’s birth, isn’t that worth sacrificing some verbal elegance?

Churches that have made this shift often report that visitors find worship more accessible, that children understand better, that the Bible feels less like an ancient relic and more like living truth. These are real gains, not to be dismissed.

But here’s the parallel question: What are we really pursuing when we insist on contemporary language for Christmas? Is it genuine concern for accessibility, or is it discomfort with anything that feels too “religious”? Are we removing barriers to the gospel, or are we flattening the sense that worship should feel different from everyday life?

What Our Preferences Reveal

The Christmas translation debate—like most debates about worship style—is fundamentally a matter of the heart. As we explore in our framework for reading Scripture, the questions worth asking aren’t just about what we do but why we do it—the deep waters of the heart that drive our visible choices. Our preferences reveal what we believe about worship, tradition, accessibility, and the sacred.

For some, insisting on the KJV at Christmas functions as a kind of functional savior. The familiar language becomes the guardian of orthodoxy, the marker of “real” Christianity, the thing that separates serious believers from casual ones. When we encounter unfamiliar translations, we feel unsettled—not because the content is wrong but because the form is different. Our hearts whisper that we’ve lost something essential, that Christianity is being diluted, that the center isn’t holding.

This is idolatry of tradition. It makes the way we’ve always done it more important than what we’re actually doing. It mistakes aesthetic preference for theological fidelity. It forgets that the KJV itself was once a controversial modern translation, bitterly opposed by those who preferred the Geneva Bible.

But the opposite error is equally dangerous. For others, contemporary language becomes the marker of relevance, accessibility, and cultural engagement. We’re uncomfortable with anything that smacks of “religion”—anything formal, ancient, or set apart. We want worship to feel natural, comfortable, just like talking to a friend. Our hearts whisper that if Christianity feels too different from everyday life, people will be turned off, that we’ll seem irrelevant, that we’ll lose our cultural influence.

This is idolatry of relevance. It makes cultural acceptability more important than the reality that worship should feel different from ordinary life because we’re approaching the living God. It mistakes familiarity for accessibility. It forgets that there’s a difference between removing barriers to understanding and removing the sense of the sacred altogether.

The Deeper Question

What if the Christmas translation debate isn’t really about translation at all?

What if it’s about something we all struggle with: the tension between preservation and change, between honoring the past and engaging the present, between maintaining continuity and pursuing mission?

The KJV preserves a linguistic tradition that connects us to centuries of English-speaking Christians. That’s genuinely valuable—not because the KJV is the “best” translation (it isn’t, by modern standards of textual criticism) but because shared texts create shared identity. When we read the same words our great-grandparents read, we’re reminded that we’re part of something bigger than ourselves.

But preservation alone isn’t faithfulness. The church isn’t a museum. We’re called to make disciples of all nations, and that requires speaking in words people actually understand. Modern translations represent faithful scholarship, linguistic precision, and a commitment to clarity. They help the Bible speak directly to contemporary readers without the barrier of archaic vocabulary.

The gospel itself holds this tension. Jesus came in a specific time and place, speaking Aramaic to first-century Jews. But the gospel transcends its original context—it’s for every tongue, tribe, and nation. We need both rootedness and reach, both historical depth and contemporary relevance.

Christ Our Common Language

Here’s what the gospel actually offers in this debate: Christ himself is our common language.

Our unity isn’t found in which translation we prefer. It’s found in the reality those translations point to—the Word made flesh, God with us, the one who dwelt among us full of grace and truth (however you translate John 1:14). The precise words matter less than the person they reveal.

This doesn’t mean translation choices don’t matter. They do. Words matter because they carry meaning, and getting the meaning right matters profoundly. But it does mean that our ultimate allegiance isn’t to a translation tradition—it’s to the Logos, the divine Word who existed before any English translation and will remain when our language has evolved beyond recognition.

When we make our translation preference a matter of gospel fidelity, we’ve substituted the container for the content. The KJV can help us worship Christ. So can the ESV, NIV, NASB, or any other faithful translation. What matters is that we’re actually worshiping Christ, not defending our aesthetic preferences or our cultural positioning.

A Different Way Forward

What if, instead of fighting over which translation to use at Christmas, we asked different questions?

Are we cultivating hearts that can distinguish between genuine reverence and aesthetic preference? There’s nothing wrong with loving the beauty of the KJV. But we need to be honest about whether we’re defending biblical truth or defending our comfort zone.

Are we willing to sacrifice our preferences for the good of others? Paul’s principle in Romans 14-15 applies here: don’t let your freedom become a stumbling block. If insisting on traditional language genuinely confuses newcomers or creates barriers, love requires flexibility. But if contemporary language strips away a sense of the sacred that helps people encounter God, love requires reconsidering.

What are we teaching by our choices? When we elevate our translation preference to a matter of essential doctrine, we’re teaching that Christianity is fundamentally about getting the cultural markers right. When we dismiss all tradition as irrelevant, we’re teaching that Christianity has no roots, no history, no connection to those who came before.

The gospel frees us from both errors. We don’t have to make tradition an idol, and we don’t have to make relevance our functional savior. We can hold both—honoring what’s been handed down while remaining mission-focused, preserving what’s valuable while staying accessible.

The Christmas That Remains

The Christmas story hasn’t changed. Mary’s yes to God’s plan, the angel’s announcement to frightened shepherds, the journey to Bethlehem, the Word made flesh—these realities remain constant whether we read them in Elizabethan English or contemporary idiom.

What has changed is us. Our language has evolved. Our cultural contexts differ. Our assumptions about accessibility and tradition diverge. But Christ remains the same—yesterday, today, and forever (Heb. 13:8). And that’s precisely the point.

When we gather at Christmas, whether we hear “Fear not” or “Don’t be afraid,” the message is identical: God has come near. When we read “For unto us a child is born” or “A child is born to us,” the reality is unchanged: the eternal Word took on flesh and dwelt among us.

Our preferences about how we encounter that truth matter less than the fact that we actually encounter it. The question isn’t which translation sounds more Christmas-like. The question is whether our hearts are open to the staggering reality that those translations communicate: the King of glory came as a baby, the Creator entered creation, God became Emmanuel.

That’s the heart of Christmas. And no translation—ancient or modern—can diminish its power.

But this isn’t the only way we substitute our preferred version of Christmas for God’s actual gift. We don’t just do it with Bible translations. We do it with Christmas itself—pursuing nostalgic feelings and comfortable traditions instead of encountering the Christ who came to disrupt our comfortable lives with grace.

Next week in Part 2: “When Christmas Feels Different” examines how cultural nostalgia and the pursuit of “Christmas magic” can displace the actual incarnation.

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For Reflection:

• What translation traditions shaped your own formation? How do those early experiences influence your current preferences?
• When you encounter unfamiliar translation language in worship, what’s your immediate emotional response—and what might that reveal about what you believe worship should provide?
• How can you distinguish between defending biblical truth and defending aesthetic preference in your own heart?
• In what ways might your translation preference function as a barrier to others experiencing the gospel at Christmas?
• What would it look like to hold both accessibility and depth, both contemporary relevance and historical continuity, in appropriate tension in your church context?

Prayer Points:

• For Humility in Our Preferences: Pray that God would expose the idols of our hearts—whether we’ve made tradition our functional savior or relevance our ultimate goal. Ask for grace to distinguish between genuine reverence for God’s Word and mere defense of comfort zones, and for humility to recognize that our translation preferences reveal more about us than about God.
• For Churches Navigating This Tension: Pray for wisdom for pastors and worship leaders making these decisions, that they would discern what serves their congregations well without dividing over secondary matters. Ask that where churches have elevated translation preferences to primary importance, God would bring clarity and peace.
• For Unity Around Christ: Pray that believers would keep their eyes fixed on Christ rather than on their preferred containers, recognizing that He is our common language and the Word who unites us across every translation tradition. Ask for grace to extend charity to brothers and sisters who make different choices, and to be slow to judge motives we cannot see.
• For True Worship: Pray that the Spirit would penetrate hearts with the reality of who God is when believers gather for worship—whatever translation they use. Ask that familiar words, whether ancient or modern, would not become barriers to genuine encounter with the living God, and that worship would be less about our preferences and more about His presence.

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^[1]Steven Wedgeworth, “Keep Christmas King James,” WORLD Radio, December 16, 2025, https://wng.org/podcasts/steven-wedgeworth-keep-christmas-king-james-1765829445.