The King’s Speech

Why the KJV is Still the One for Me

If the Church was the cradle into which I was born, the words of Holy Scripture were my swaddling bands. The “Good Book” was read to me before I knew my own name. Its promises were prayed over me. Its psalms sung to me. And its precepts tucked tightly around my ears for warmth and protection. On Sundays, the preacher would teeter back and forth between Law and Gospel, pouring forth threatenings and benedictions in the same breath. I heard the peal of thunder atop dark Sinai, and the rock-rending cry from the Man on the Middle Cross. And I heard them all in the lordly voice of a patchwork translation, cobbled together by committee, in the days when kings spoke well of God and God spoke good English. 

Though the Authorized Version, or the “King James” as it is commonly known, receives a lot of guff from modern readers for its archaisms, few really doubt that when they hear it they’ve heard something majestic, elegant, otherworldly. In other words, “Thus saith the Lord.”

Modern versions are well-intentioned in their desire to unseat the King James from its privileged place. And as far as their aims go, by and large they reach them. Most of the popular translations get high marks for accuracy and readability. But when it comes to style, they are but mere pretenders to the throne.

Contrary to what many believe, style is substance. When we speak of style, we speak of the literary qualities that undergird, as well as adorn, the language of the text. Its prosody and poetry, rhythm and cadence, pitch and tone, vocabulary and voice. The voice of the Authorized Version is meant to be heard more than read. It announces authority out of its own mouth, addressing its audience as subjects rather than as lords. It summons submission by dignity and decorum, by sheer grandeur. 

Such loftiness is by design. Stretching the limits of the vernacular until it transcends itself, soaring beyond the normal reaches of the Anglo-Saxon imagination. It is the Damascene conversion of the colloquial, the transfiguration of the vulgar tongue. It marks the “new birth” of English: justified by lexical faithfulness, sanctified by grammatical consistency, glorified by poetical sensitivity. 

When I hear readings from one of the popular versions of our day, it sounds like the voice of a stranger. I understand the words for the most part, but the accent is all wrong. And the voice seems thin and strained. It is not the sound of many waters, nor of a rushing mighty wind. I do not hear a going in the tops of the mulberry trees or even a still small voice. Instead, I hear sounding brass and tinkling cymbals. The kind of rhythms thumped out on tin pots by white folks who always clap on one and three.

But whenever I hear the Authorized Version, it’s like good news from a far country. Calling me back, calling me home. When I hear it, I hear the voice of my Beloved, saying “Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.” When I hear it, I hear the voice of God. The heavens are opened, then fall the words upon my ears like fresh dew upon the mown grass, “This is my Beloved Son in whom I am well pleased; Hear ye Him.”