By grappling with the history of the story of the adulteress, we are reminded to approach Scripture critically, aware of how it has been shaped and reshaped to suit power. In doing so, we ensure that its calls for justice, equity, and mercy are not silenced but remain central to our understanding of faith and humanity.

Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde’s heartfelt plea for mercy, delivered in front of President Trump during a National Cathedral sermon, stirred both outrage and admiration. “In the name of our God, I ask you to have mercy upon the people in our country who are scared now,” Budde said, addressing the president directly. Her appeal highlighted how often vulnerable communities are dehumanised through sweeping rhetoric and policies. Mercy, she suggested, is not a sign of weakness but a radical act of justice.

This idea of mercy as justice is central to one of the Bible’s most powerful stories: the woman caught in adultery (John 7:53–8:11). Jesus’ famous words, “Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her,” exemplify the kind of mercy Bishop Budde called for—a mercy that refuses to dehumanise, even in the face of societal condemnation. Yet this story, despite its deep resonance, is missing from many of the earliest biblical manuscripts and some modern translations. Many modern translations place the story in brackets or include it as a footnote. Its treatment raises questions about how Scripture has been shaped over time and why certain texts—particularly those that challenge power—have been sidelined.

The story takes place during the Feast of Tabernacles, in the final year of Jesus’ ministry, a period marked by growing tension between him and the religious authorities. The leaders bring a woman accused of adultery before Jesus, hoping to trap him in a legal and moral dilemma. Instead of endorsing her condemnation, Jesus exposes their hypocrisy and redirects the focus from punishment to self-reflection. This is no mere lesson in forgiveness; it is a direct critique of systems that exploit the vulnerable while masking their own corruption.

The story’s complex history invites comparisons to the Slave Bible, a heavily censored version of Scripture published in 1807 to control enslaved people. Passages like the Exodus, where Moses demands freedom for the Israelites, and Paul’s declaration in Galatians 3:28 that “there is neither slave nor free,” were deliberately omitted to suppress hope and resistance. The Slave Bible weaponised Scripture as a tool of oppression, stripping it of its capacity to challenge injustice.

The story of the adulteress reflects similar fears. Its critique of male authority figures and its prioritisation of mercy over legalism pose a direct challenge to entrenched systems of power, including patriarchal structures. It is difficult to ignore how often debates about its canonicity centre on whether it disrupts theological or social hierarchies rather than its transformative message. In some contexts, relegating this story to the margins conveniently sidesteps the critique it offers of those in positions of control—both in Jesus’ time and now. Both the Slave Bible and the exclusion of this story reveal how Scripture has been manipulated to silence its most liberating and transformative messages.

George Fox famously asked, “You will say, Christ saith this, and the apostles say this; but what canst thou say?” This challenge was not about rejecting Scripture but engaging with it deeply and personally. Stories like the adulteress demand such engagement, reminding us that the Bible is not a static text. Its history is one of debate, censorship, and reshaping.

Understanding the timeline and the controversy surrounding this story allows us to see how often mercy and justice are framed as dangerous or destabilising. Just as Bishop Budde’s plea for compassion drew sharp backlash, the story of the adulteress has been contested because it refuses to affirm the power of condemnation. It asks us to see ourselves—and others—with humanity and humility, even when doing so challenges the systems we uphold.

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