The Inclusive Bible: When ‘Son Of God’ Becomes Too Offensive For Church

The Inclusive Bible: When ‘Son Of God’ Becomes Too Offensive For Church

A new member walks to the front of St. Andrew's Presbyterian Church near Austin, Texas. Waiting for him is a gift from the congregation: a Bible.

But not just any Bible.

"And Martha's here to give Larry his Inclusive Bible," a woman announces in undercover footage recorded at the church. "It's the Bible that we use at this church."

She then explains what makes it different: "It's been rewritten so that there is only inclusive language."

The congregation applauds.

That scene might seem like another isolated example of progressive Christianity attempting to accommodate modern cultural sensibilities. But St. Andrew's is not just another church, and its longtime pastor, Rev. Jim Rigby, is not simply another progressive minister.

The church has played a formative role in the life and politics of James Talarico, the Democratic nominee for the U.S. Senate in Texas and who is currently leading in the polls. Talarico has attended St. Andrew's since childhood, Rigby baptized him, and the pastor delivered the invocation when Talarico was sworn into the Texas House. Talarico has said the congregation "really shaped my worldview," and described Rigby as an important influence on his understanding of Christianity.

That makes what is being taught at St. Andrew's worth examining.

And what is being handed to new members is especially revealing.

The Inclusive Bible describes itself as an egalitarian translation and a "re-imagining" of Scripture. Its translators did not merely replace generic masculine language where the underlying text permits it. They deliberately reconsidered biblical terminology they believed carried sexist, patriarchal or hierarchical implications.

That includes the language Christians use for God Himself.

"The Lord" presents a problem because the translators regard the expression as carrying "sexist and classist" associations. "Father" is frequently rendered with alternatives such as "Abba" or "Loving God."

Even some of Christianity's most recognizable descriptions of Jesus are considered difficult.

"Son of God" can become "Only Begotten," "God's Own" or "Eternally Begotten." "Son of Man" receives alternative treatments as well. "Lord" is replaced in various places with terms such as "Sovereign" and "Savior."

The issue isn't simply modern English.

It is who gets to decide which biblical concepts modern people should no longer have to encounter.

Rigby himself offered a remarkable glimpse into that approach when an undercover journalist asked him about the translation. The pastor said the church typically gives people The Inclusive Bible when they join.

"It's good on the gender stuff," Rigby said.

He then acknowledged limitations with the translation before adding that having a good translation allows people to "let go of the stupid stuff."

That phrase exposes the much deeper problem.

Who decides which parts are the "stupid stuff"?

For historic Christianity, Scripture is supposed to correct us. Increasingly, progressive Christianity appears determined to correct Scripture.

Once that relationship is reversed, there is virtually no stopping point.

Today "Father" is problematic because it is gendered. "Lord" is problematic because it suggests hierarchy. "Son of God" becomes difficult because it is masculine.

Tomorrow another biblical doctrine will collide with another cultural value.

Eventually Christianity can retain its vocabulary, buildings, clergy and ceremonies while the authority underneath all of them has quietly changed.

The ultimate authority is no longer what Scripture says. It is what modern culture permits Scripture to say.

And that brings us back to James Talarico.

Talarico has made Christianity unusually prominent in his political identity. He frequently discusses Jesus, Scripture and his faith while explaining his political philosophy. That makes the theological environment that formed him relevant--not because a politician is automatically responsible for every statement made by his pastor, but because Talarico himself has repeatedly emphasized how deeply St. Andrew's and Rigby influenced him.

"I was brought up in a very countercultural faith," Talarico has said.

He has also said that at St. Andrew's, "politics and religion and causing trouble" were intertwined while he was growing up.

Rigby's influence wasn't peripheral. When Talarico was considering whether to enter ministry or politics, he went to Rigby for advice. The pastor told him that politics would give him something ministry would not: power.

Now Talarico is seeking considerably more of it as a candidate for the United States Senate.

That does not mean voters should simply assign every theological position of Rigby or St. Andrew's to Talarico. But when a candidate makes his Christianity an important part of his public case and repeatedly identifies a particular pastor and congregation as formative influences, examining what that church actually teaches is legitimate.

And St. Andrew's theology extends well beyond Bible translation.

Rigby has said he avoids Christian prayers and creeds that could exclude non-Christians. The Texas Tribune reported earlier this year that he said he doesn't like theology and described Jesus as closer to a "loving atheist than an indifferent theologian."

Talarico's own public theological statements have sometimes reflected similarly unconventional ideas. He previously declared that "God is non-binary," although he later called the way he expressed the statement "cringey" and deliberately provocative while maintaining that God transcends gender.

None of this is occurring in a vacuum.

Across Western Christianity, arguments over sexuality, gender, marriage and biblical authority have followed a remarkably similar progression. First Scripture is reinterpreted. Then uncomfortable passages are contextualized away. Eventually even biblical terminology itself becomes something requiring correction.

The Inclusive Bible brings that progression into unusually sharp focus.

Christians have always produced new Bible translations. Languages change. Scholarship improves. Ancient manuscripts are studied. Translators wrestle with how best to communicate Hebrew and Greek accurately to modern readers.

But translation asks: What did the biblical authors say, and how can we communicate it faithfully?

Ideological revision asks a fundamentally different question:

What should they have said?

That is the dividing line.

Christianity cannot endlessly reconstruct Jesus in the image of whatever culture happens to dominate a particular generation. If "Son of God" becomes too gendered, "Lord" too hierarchical and "Father" too patriarchal, eventually the problem isn't the translation.

The problem is the Bible itself.

And when a church reaches that conclusion, rewriting the words is only the beginning.

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