May 14, 2012

Praise God, the One True King

Throughout history, subjects of a particular king would expect protection from said monarch even if their religious views did not agree with his. The Huguenot subjects of many a French king must have felt betrayed, enraged, and helpless when their king, the man who had the power to protect his Protestant subjects and bestow equal rights, failed to treat them with the same kindness as he treated everyone else. Like a parent who obviously favored one child and berated the other, French kings had a habit of showing favoritism to their Catholic subjects. Worse of all was Louis XIV.

When I was growing up, I believed he was a real “good guy.” After all, he was called the Sun King, he cultivated art, culture, and fashion in France and wider Europe, and at the height of his reign he was apparently the man to emulate. I knew he was involved with the French colonization of Louisiana. What I did not know was that in 1685, with the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, he effectively silenced French Protestants socially and often physically. He showed little if any care for his Huguenot subjects by forbidding them to meet for the practice of their religion, to baptize their children in their own faith, to have their own ministers, to work at the job of their choice, to send their children to Huguenot schools, and so forth.

The “Sun King” was said by some to be unaware to the widespread persecution of Huguenots enacted by the “dragonnades,” yet, being a king who took a great deal of pride in knowing what was happening throughout his kingdom, it is likely he had a hand in their cruelty. He watched as Huguenot men were thrown into galleys and forced to row, often to their deaths, and often simply because they were Protestant. Those who had known him as a mild man must have wondered, as does a child when his parent suddenly withholds affection, why these drastic changes had wrought such havoc. 

Louis XIV in 1685, the year when thousands of
Huguenots began to be persecuted after the revocation
of the edict of Nantes.

There was one very important fact that Louis XIV did not understand . . . he touted one faith for his kingdom in the hopes of national unity, but the minds and souls of men were something he could not control. No compulsion in the world could force a man not to believe the convictions he held in his heart. As a result, archaic practices such as burnings at the stake were reintroduced, much to the Huguenots’ horror. France’s Protestant subjects, those who survived, fled by the thousands. They now nursed a sense of betrayal too deep and too painful to touch upon. The very king whom they had faithfully served had turned his powerful hand against those he should have sworn to protect.

Yet there was a lesson in the horrors of the Edict of Fontainebleau. Earthly kings were fickle. Sometimes cruel. Bound by their own hearts, souls, and consciences. They were men, fallible and guided by whatever their religious convictions happened to be. The Huguenots could not trust Louis the Sun King, but there was one King Who would never fail them no matter how far their lives had fallen . . . the Lord of Hosts, the King of Kings, a gracious, protective, and merciful monarch, would always hold His faithful in the palm of His hand.

(c) 2012 Joyously Saved

May 13, 2012

Temple Protestant de L’Oratoire du Louvre: His Kingdom is Forever

In Paris there is a monument to faith, courage, and steadfastness. It skirts the Rue Saint-Honoré and the Rue de Rivoli, and to the unpracticed eye it might appear to be just another church, turreted and domed with a typical French slate-gray roof. Yet this church symbolizes the Huguenot community in French, the community that has been described as a “martyr church,” the group persecuted for over three centuries almost without pause. But despite burnings, hangings, sieges, massacres, and atrocities of all sorts, this fierce and prayerful community always rose from the ashes. To this day there is a Reformed Church in France, with a headquarters in Paris. It is called L’Église de Réformée de France. 

At the Temple Protestant de l’Oratoire du Louvre, a church that was gifted to French Protestants in 1811 by Napoleon, it might seem that the stones cry out. After all, Paris was one of the major sites of the St. Bartholomew’s Day massacre in 1572. Though few if any of the landmarks from that time have remained, doubtless the stench of guilt still hangs heavy just a few feet under the modern city. Yet the Oratoire du Louvre represents the spirit of regeneration and the refusal to fold under pressure. French Protestants waited centuries to have their churches restored. Most of their beautiful houses of worship had been obliterated by King Louis XIV in 1685 after the Edict of Fontainebleau (who, at least in regards to his Protestant subjects, was a far more volatile sort than the stories of “Sun King” splendor might have one believe).

In the past, the idea of a Protestant church in Paris, let alone one where the Huguenot dead could be remembered and duly mourned, might have seemed strange to the majority of the population. The statue of Admiral Gaspard de Coligny, placed in the 1880s, in a way includes all the French Protestants who lost their lives. Though he is the one featured, his death in the St. Bartholomew’s Day massacre almost seems to indicate that the memories of those who shared his fate are represented here as well. The sheer horror and injustice of the St. Bartholomew’s is like an open wound that can never be truly healed. At first here, in the quiet courtyard of the Oratoire du Louvre, those who gave their lives can be duly remembered.

So what does the Oratoire du Louvre represent? Failure to lie down and die. Refusal to give up. The necessity of remembering the dead. This church stands as a focal point to remember and honor those French Protestants who went before, who suffered and died for a truth they could never deny. Even greater than the Oratoire du Louvre, the Reformed Church of France represents the spirit of faith and freedom, the spirit that can never die. Their motto is Flagrore Non Consumor. “Burning but not consumed.”

I cannot think of a better motto.

(c) 2012 Joyously Saved

May 12, 2012

Yesterday I received an e-newsletter from Bible Gateway called “Faithful Through the Ages.” This particular newsletter involved John Foxe, the author of Foxe’s Book of Martyrs. Did any other book besides the Bible have such an impact on our Protestant ancestors? For, they reasoned, if other faiths guarded the tales of their martyrs so carefully, if people catalogued the names and stories so those unfortunate souls might be remembered, why then should this newfound faith not do the same? More painful than martyrdom itself was being forgotten. 

There was no shortage of sad tales, for the early Protestants --- especially the French Huguenots --- were a church of martyrs. There has been talk since Foxe’s Book of Martyrs was first published that Foxe may have embellished stories or even outright created some of them for sensational purposes. Some assume that because this may have been the case, none of the book is true. Yet even if Foxe was indeed guilty of embellishment or so forth, that does not in any way say that the entire book is untrue. One needs only to research particular stories and back up facts.  Much can be proven. And few would venture to say that the 1500s and 1600s were not a breeding ground for religious violence. Burnings, hangings, and other horrible punishments simply for the “crime” of holding the Protestant faith were widespread and widely-known.

Copy of Foxe's Book of Martyrs published in 1563.

                                                       

Today’s readers of Foxe’s Book of Martyrs will likely run a gamut of emotions from anger to sadness to pride; anger that such atrocities occurred, sadness that individuals with lives to lead were ripped from the world without mercy, and pride that our ancestors had the strength, courage, and steadfastness to choose faith and God above the countless foibles of the earth. I doubt it will be an easy read, and it is certainly not a “fun” read, but as a Protestant from the “Reformation” faith of Lutheranism, I count it my duty to learn, to internalize, to understand why my ancestors suffered and why the faith was so precious to them. Because they died and because their descendants refused to recant, we are here practicing the “Reformation faiths” today.

Today I am going to start Foxe’s Book of Martyrs. It will be slow going (considering that it was written hundreds of years ago, and also that it is a *long* book) but even reading a page will, I am sure, already fill me with the pride and resolve of my spiritual forebears. It should be noted that while the first edition was printed in 1563, there have been many subsequent printings that include events that occurred throughout time periods as new as the 19^th century.

(c) 2012 Joyously Saved

May 11, 2012

The French Wars of Religion in Brief

It is fascinating to study countries’ histories and wonder why one country dealt with the burgeoning spirit of Protestantism in one way while another country, not so far away, had a completely different approach. For instance, England early became known as a Protestant country, yet despite the still-large number of Catholics there were no religious wars. Spain refused to allow Protestantism in any way, shape, or form, and so never found itself involved in religious wars. Yet France, with both Protestants and Catholics in large numbers, was the scene of violent religious confrontation that lasted for decades.

There were eight French Wars of Religion in all. The first, beginning in 1562, was unquestionably unavoidable, as the Huguenots had already borne various atrocities since the Protestant faith had spread into France. The church burning at Vassy in March 1562, where Huguenot faithful were burned alive during services by the Duke of Guise’s troops, was the spark that finally combusted into a blazing fire. The siege of Rouen and the Battle of Dreux were particularly harsh engagements. 

Huguenots enjoyed a wary peace until 1567, when the second war began. The subsequent Battle of Saint-Denis led to the Peace of Longjumeau in 1568, but by this time it seemed there was no end to hostilities in sight. This was proven in 1568 when a third war exploded. Huguenots and Catholics of France took no interest in Christian charity . . . their differences were irreconcilable. One of the Huguenots’ main concerns was defending La Rochelle, which by this time had become known as a Huguenot stronghold.

A scene from the siege of La Rochelle, 1572 / 1573

If French Protestants believed there could be nothing worse than war, they were sadly mistaken. On August 24, 1572, the Saint Bartholomew’s Day massacre, in which thousands of Protestants were killed, erupted in Paris and quickly spread. Protestants across Europe were horrified at the scope of destruction. There could be no false sense of security now. None believed that such an atrocity could have been committed; I cannot even imagine how frightening it must have been to live in a country that they knew was capable of such bloodshed. There was nowhere Huguenots might run . . . except back to war.

The fourth war, understandably, began in 1572. During this time was the first such siege of La Rochelle where the city was used as a Huguenot stronghold. The 1573 Edict of Boulogne was bittersweet . . . it was only a slight consolation after so many lives had been lost. This edict gave three military towns to the French Protestants to do with as they wished. One of these was the beloved La Rochelle. Huguenots made good use of this town in later years. In 1574 the fifth war broke out. This war was not particularly notable, but it did lead to the sixth war in 1576. 

The Catholic League, much feared by Protestant Europe, fought at every turn the concessions that had been given to the Huguenots by the Edict of Beaulieu. It was around this time that neighboring countries began to cast their lots with one side or the other, England giving aid to the Protestant Huguenots however it could, Spain helping the Catholic League. King Henri III reneged and took away many of the Huguenots’ rights due to political and religious pressure.

In 1579 the seventh war began. This was less of a “war” and more of an “each side with pitchforks prepared to duel to the death whenever the opportunity might arise.” The tension was tangible. France had been a tinderbox and soon would be again. Henri de Navarre, the Huguenots’ champion, was technically slated to rule France, but Catholic opposition firmly forbade the idea of a Calvinist king. 

The “War of the Three Henrys,” which spanned from 1585 to 1598, was undoubtedly the most costly and probably the bloodiest engagement. This time there were no lukewarm treaties, no kings attempting to play both sides against each other or cosset either. The fighting raged on without end. In 1587 the Battle of Coutras was fought. In 1589, Henri III was killed by a monk, unexpectedly opening the way for Henri IV to step up and lift the Protestant banners high. The Battle of Ivry in 1590 is one of the most well-known of the Wars of Religion. 

A probably aggrandized view of Henri de Navarre at the Battle of Ivry, 1590

Now, if one reads extensively on Henri de Navarre, one cannot help but admire him despite some of the more questionable things he doubtlessly engaged in (especially if one is a proud Protestant who roots for “their side” whenever possible!) but I was actually very disappointed that he converted to Catholicism in 1594. This grand Huguenot champion decided to renounce his faith so he might win the kingdom. If it was a sincere, heartfelt conversion that would be a different matter, but it is very clear that it was for political expedience. 

How did the Wars of Religion finally end? The Edict of Nantes was passed in 1598 (see my post of April 17th). By this time, France was drenched in blood and weary of war. The divisions had opened so widely that the chasm could never be filled again, and Huguenots and Catholics cast wary eyes upon each other. The fighting was finally finished. Yet one cannot help but wonder at what cost. 

Considering the many wars, sieges, massacres, homegrown squabbles, and state-run executions that transpired during the first few centuries of Protestantism, it is amazing that any of our ancestors survived at all. Even more amazing is that our faith survived . . . or perhaps not so amazing, as God has always been in control. It was only by the grace of God that the faith continually rose from the ashes. We must never forget what a proud legacy we bear.

(c) 2012 Joyously Saved

May 10, 2012

While looking at vacation photos of St. Augustine, Florida, I noticed some in particular that gave me chills. They featured Matanzas Bay ("bay of slaughters," so named after the French Protestant Huguenots who were killed in September and October 1565 just fourteen miles down the coast) which eventually runs out to the Matanzas River where the massacre occurred. Legend has it that the Matanzas Bay will sometimes turn red in an eternal reminiscence of that horrific event. While I do not particularly believe in such things, it was indeed chilling to see how the sun taints those tranquil waters sinister red.

Whether or not the legends of blood-red waters are true,
such sunrise-stained moments are harrowing reminders.

So what can such a scene teach us? Those of us who respect and remember the dead can do our part by keeping their memory alive. If this legendary occurrence has any basis in truth, it may very well be so we never forget one of the most tragic events in the history of America. 

To read more about the Huguenots of Matanzas, read my post of February 26th.


(c) 2012 Joyously Saved

May 09, 2012

Raise the Five Solas High

I remember once reading a Jewish person’s thoughts on the Jewish culture as a whole and how, when a Jew did something extraordinary, all Jewish people who heard of his accomplishment took a certain pride in it as if they themselves had won the glory. It was a tribal thing. An inherited thing. A close-knit phenomenon. I believe that Protestants of the “Reformation faiths” ought to feel the same way. We must never forget the martyr-blood in our veins. It is sanctified by God Himself through the men and women who had the ability to hold high His truth and confess His Word even at the cost of everything they held dear.

Why the glow of satisfaction? When I read of the struggles my early Protestant ancestors, whether Lutheran, Huguenot, or Anabaptist, underwent, and I hear of their faith, strength, and courage, I feel a glow of pride that I might be part of their spiritual legacy.  These were “my” people. I claimed them with great joy. That is why I have always been fascinated by the French Protestants in Florida, though their colony was so ill-fated. Those were my people. Five Solas people. (When I recently visited St. Augustine, Florida, I had an uncontrollable urge to shout Vive la France! But I refrained. Maybe next time . . .!)

There is an old church in Paris known as the Oratoire du Louvre. It became a Protestant church in 1811 and in 1889 became home to an impressive statue of Admiral Gaspard de Coligny, who funded Jean Ribault and René de Laudonnière’s doomed New World settlements and later perished during the St. Bartholomew’s Day massacre. Again hearing of the sacrifices my spiritual forebears made filled me with that same “tribal” pride and warmth. 

I often read stories of martyrdom, unshakable, steadfast faith, and courage. My Protestant heart and soul feel wrapped up in these stories that are just as much my own as they could possibly be. These people were amazing. I can think of few greater honors than to be a part of a religious movement that refused to be silenced, and a spiritual descendant of those who pressed on even when the simplest rights were revoked.

The Reformed Church of France has withstood every kind of prejudice and intolerance that came her way. Founded in 1559, she has fought the fight and kept the faith and survived until the present day. The motto of the Reformed Church sums up the survival of the early “Reformation faiths” quite well: “burning, but not consumed.” When I see such statues, read such stories, and ponder that my ancestors and spiritual forebears went through fire and blood and still kept the faith, nothing could make me more excited to believe as I do. What better legacy than to hold their doctrines high like a banner in my heart?

(c) 2012 Joyously Saved

May 08, 2012

Comparing Faiths: 16th Century Style

What was the bloodshed about? What did Catholics, Protestants, and Anabaptists find so difficult to reconcile? Where did the heart of the arguments really lie? I have been interested in these questions for years. I have always loved religious comparisons, have always been interested in the 16th century, and come from a strong Protestant tradition, so I decided to try to figure it all out. 

I do not claim to be an authority on this subject and I may be mistaken on a few theological points, but this is my own personal opinion on the differences between the faiths in this time period. I also will admit that many of these arguments are still ongoing and I do not hope to decipher current issues . . . I am only writing from the springboard of the Reformation era. Of course, I am also writing from a Protestant perspective, so I apologize if my judgment is clouded a bit :-)

Between Catholics and Protestants, there were, I think, four major issues: Sacraments, iconography, authority, and Communion. Catholics had been following seven sacraments since the formation of the Church: Baptism, Confirmation, Holy Orders, the Eucharist, Reconciliation, Matrimony, and the Anointing of the Sick. They used both Scripture and other religious writings to base these sacraments upon. The writings of the Church Fathers were also considered indispensable. 

Yet Protestants insisted on using only the sacraments that were found in Scripture: Baptism and the Eucharist. Sola Scriptura, Scripture alone, was their cry. Anabaptists insisted that baptism needed only be given to an adult who understood the sanctity of the sacrament. This splinter group lived an austere life that seemed to take the Protestant Reformation’s “reforms” even further, and both Catholics and Protestants saw them as a threat both politically and religiously.

Iconography and religious statuary was another area in which Catholics and Protestants clashed. Catholics used religious statuary, stained glass windows, and other visual aids that many Protestants, especially those of the Calvinist persuasion, found offensive. Protestant dissenters used Exodus 20:4 to explain their dislike of these things: “You shall not make for yourself an image in the form of anything in heaven above or on the earth beneath or in the waters below.” On this note, die-hard iconoclasts would often desecrate religious statuary used to decorate churches and cathedrals.

Catholics accepted the ultimate authority of the pope; Protestants did not. Lutherans and Calvinists, especially, preached that only Christ had the right to be the supreme head over Christendom and no mortal man could fulfill this position. This vitriol might have also stemmed from the fact that the pope held almost unswayable power in much of Europe and could deal with “dissenters” as he liked . . . a fact which, in that time, filled many Protestant hearts with fear. 

If there was a “Grand Dame” of troubles between Catholics and Protestants of this era, it was Communion. The Catholic Church championed transubstantiation, the doctrine of bread and wine consecrated during the Mass transforming into Christ’s body and blood, while the Lutherans believed in consubstantiation, the idea that Christ is present “in and among” the bread and wine. 

Calvinists saw both expressions as a violation of Scripture and insisted that Communion was to be done only symbolically. They reminded followers that Christ had often referred to Himself by way of inanimate objects (as a door through which followers could enter, or as a vine) and that, as He was not literally giving His blood and breaking His body when He spoke such words, it was meant symbolically.

These divisions made it impossible for the new denominations of the 16^th century to make peace with the Catholic Church, and each side vehemently defended their own positions. Protestants quickly discovered that new ideas were dealt with quite harshly. They began to feel an unbearable compulsion to return to the folds of the Church and abandon their newfound doctrines. This they refused to do.

There was to be no reconciling in the era of the 16^th century or far beyond. Clinging so tenaciously to the truth of the Gospel meant remaining in Europe and being put to death or fleeing to a promising new land just as they had fled to the newfound doctrines pulled from the pages of Scripture.

(c) 2012 Joyously Saved