May 21, 2012

God's Word, Readable

In principio creavit Deus caelum et terram. Terra autem erat inanis et vacua et tenebrae super faciem abyssi et spiritus Dei ferebatur super aquas. Dixitque Deus fiat lux et facta est lux. Can you read this? Most people cannot. Imagine someone telling you these words come from the Latin Bible and that this was the only version you could read. You can pick out some words, perhaps . . . Deus means God, for example, like the Spanish Dios. But most of the words mean very little to everyday Bible-readers. That is how life was before Scripture was translated into the English language. 

Circa 1380 --- over a century and a half before the Protestant Reformation began --- that most influential of pre-Reformation figures, John Wycliffe, did the impossible. He translated much of the Bible into the English tongue. This had been done before but not to this degree. William Tyndale next took up the torch. Before his time the New Testament had never been printed in English. His success in doing so was a monumental milestone. While these events produced a sensation (and rightfully so!) when they occurred, it was not only the 1500s that people began to read the Bible in English on a large scale.

The "Great Bible," published 1539

And it was not just English. Many other congregations, including the French Calvinists and German Lutherans from whom I descend, were blessed with copies of the Bible in their own languages throughout the 1500s as well. The ability to read, memorize, and understand Scripture became a staple for hearty groups such as the Huguenots and the Puritans throughout the 1500s and 1600s. Just imagine . . .  in modern times you can go to just about any store that sells books and browse a varied selection of English-language Bibles. You can go online and purchase a Bible in just about any language you choose. We could thank John Wycliffe, William Tyndale, Martin Luther, or any number of printers, pamphleteers, and Scripture-lovers for this . . .

. . . but we ought to thank God, for it was His hand that set everything in motion.


(c) 2012 Joyously Saved

May 20, 2012

The Huguenot Temple of Charenton’s Fiery End

Date: November 1685. Engagement: Local mobs versus the Protestant church of Charenton near Paris. Outcome: Too horrific to be believed. Imagine this: On that long-ago day, demonic red-orange flames shot through elegant classical windows and the handsome columned entrance of Charenton temple, astonishing onlookers with an infernal dance along the railings of the finely-carved cupola. There could be few things worse than watching one’s church, a house of God, a place one’s family worshiped so freely, engulfed in flames and horrendously desecrated.

Charenton was the crème de la crème, the model for Huguenot temples. I can imagine standing in numb, disbelieving silence and staring up at the round window over the entrance, watching the flames licking through the opening. Ash must have rained down on skin and clothing before drifting to the ground. This was a burnt sacrifice offered in anything but love. Charenton was one of over five hundred churches obliterated or reused during Louis the Fourteenth’s repression of Protestantism. The same story that unfolded at Charenton was only one of many. Far, far too many.

The temple was constructed in 1621 and, ironically considering its ultimate fate, destroyed by fire. The new temple became one of the most well-known and well-recognized of the Huguenot churches. Architect Salomon de Brosse designed the temple so that over 3,000 worshippers could comfortably fit inside. It was indeed a blessing that so many might pray and hear Scripture in such a beautiful place. The temple of Charenton was a testimony to the civil rights and freedom the Huguenots had enjoyed for the past nine decades. 

Charenton temple sported a Romanesque façade and sides that were somberly festooned with three rows of windows. The back of the temple consisted of a small cupola, a pointed roof, and three rows of windows, the top row being of arched design. Drawings give us a peek at Charenton’s inner beauty. Though the temple was free of statuary and colorful decoration, it was indeed stunning. The room was full of pews, facing toward the altar, facing the sides, facing the back of the temple. There were two levels of open balconies with delicately-crafted spindle railing. These balconies were reached by large winding staircases.

When the flames began to leap, all that engineering would all be gone in a matter of moments.

Fire was not the Charenton temple’s only foe. The Huguenots’ enemies pulled down walls, desecrated whatever remained of the interior, and completely flattened the church to the ground. They stormed through the Protestant cemetery and ravaged old venerable graves while destroying tombstones without care. When the smoke cleared, what was once a beautiful old church and graveyard was a pile of rubble that bore ample testimony to the end result of intolerance, injustice, and persecution.

Perhaps in the 16^th century it would have been more expected. That was an era of wars, sieges, massacres, and violent religious upheaval. Yet by the 17^th century, French Protestants had been afforded so many rights and privileges that this sudden medievalist attitude toward “heresy” hit them completely out of the blue. They had assimilated. Belonged. Flourished. And now the ugly prejudice of the previous century was rearing its head once more in the most horrific of ways.

Such stories are a physical ache in my soul. Perhaps it is due to my Huguenot ancestry or the proud and long-standing Protestant heritage I claim, but I am personally grieved by this terrible event and its ramifications.  I have long wondered if there is such a phenomenon as ‘ancestor memories’ or if thoughts, feelings, interests, and things of endearment somehow travel through the blood even down through so many generations. I believe it is certainly possible, for I cry for the temple of Charenton just as surely as if I had stood there.

Perhaps my ancestors did.

(c) 2012 Joyously Saved

May 19, 2012

The Battle of Ivry: Imagination-Style

           “Companions! If you today run at risk with me, I will also run at risk with you; I will be victorious or die. God is with us. Look at his and our enemies. Look at your king. Hold your ranks, I beg of you; and if the heat of battle makes you leave them, think also of rallying back: therein lies the key to victory. You will find it among those three trees that you can see over there on your right side. If you lose your ensigns, cornets or flags, do never lose sight of my panache; you will always find it on the road to honor and victory.”

Such was the speech of King Henri de Navarre. Many Huguenot soldiers decided then and there that they would follow him forever --- if they survived what would become one of the most well-known battles of the French Wars of Religion. Just beyond the opposing armies lay two dense forests cut back so they appeared to have been dropped in the middle of the plain for no reason. Men shivered in the chilly predawn spring breeze.  It was the 14^th of March in the year 1590; to the men of Henri de Navarre’s army, the idea of espousing a cause that could very well swing the fortunes of the much-persecuted Protestant movement sent adrenaline flowing and spirits soaring.

The world was tearing apart at the seams. France’s Catholics rallied with powerful Spain whenever they thought it necessary, while French Huguenots and their fellow Protestants in England cast their lots together as well. The opponents of Calvinism wished them gone, by war or by fire, however they might accomplish such an end. Religious vitriol had been raging for decades. Europe thought of nothing but Catholic and Protestant. Every man’s life had become about these differences. Like the phoenix, the Huguenots always rose from the ashes, coming back stronger. They determined they would no longer be led to the stake like sheep to the slaughter. 

The Battle of Ivry took part during the eighth such War of Religion fought on French soil. There must have been something awe-inspiring in the moments before battle; excitement, fear, anticipation. Mayhap it was the knowledge that they were fighting to avenge decades of martyrs, countless battles, endless sieges, and the horrors of the Saint Bartholomew’s that made Protestant hearts strive so valiantly for victory. 

While most of the Catholics were French, they had Swiss and German footmen at their disposal, as well as Spanish cavalry. The Huguenots had 8,000 infantrymen. The Catholics had 12,000. That did not bode well. Yet one must doubt that the Huguenots were very worried. Rumor had it that the enemy army was full of untrained nobleman and Catholic friars. Men must have mused, as I myself have, that battles were so beautiful before they began. Each side was drawn up in colorful array . . . banners flew as arquebusiers, lancers, infantrymen, and cavalry alternated along the lines. 

Both armies had powerful artillery at their disposal along the front lines. The Plain of Saint André was beautiful and deceptively quiet; few of the men likely knew much geography, but most would have known that the armies were gathered near the town of Ivry. Suddenly, artillery broke the stillness of the dawn. BOOM! One, two, three, four, five, six. Each blast flipped men’s hearts in their chests. For the Huguenots, there was so more at stake than could ever be imagined. They were fighting for their very rights, for the survival and furtherance of their religion, for their peace and safety and for the security of their women and children. 

The Catholic Duc de Mayenne spurred his cavalrymen into frenzy on some ill-fated charge. For about fifteen minutes there was nothing but blind, furious action. That was only the prelude. The Huguenots were pleased to note that some of the Swiss and Germans abandoned their commanders in the heat of the moment. Whether this was due to fear or a desire to protect the Protestants they secretly admired, none could tell. It did not matter. Mayenne’s right flank was breached.

Henri de Navarre dashed madly after the fleeing foe as soldiers watched through the haze of their own struggles. Few Huguenot soldiers of that day and age would have seen war as “glorious.” Perhaps as children they thought that way, but after a few such battles full of guts and gore and helpless screams and clashing steel and heart-pumping mayhem, such notions were quickly obliterated. Yet the Huguenots had much to show for their efforts at Ivry. Their tactics worked . . . they won the day and another victory for the Protestant faith in France.

(c) 2012 Joyously Saved

May 18, 2012

The Fascinating Tale of Lady Jane Grey

“Lady Jane Grey, Queen For Nine Days.” Many of us were taught at least a little something about her, but it was not until I began studying the people of the Protestant Reformation era in greater depth that I learned what a fascinating figure she was. She was a faithful Protestant at a time when being a Protestant could very well be a death sentence . . . Henry VIII’s daughter Mary I ascended the throne and intended that England should have no more Protestants or dissenters, and Lady Jane was to be one of the first victims. 

So who was she? Born in 1536 and thus only seventeen at her death, she married young as was the order of the day, to Lord Guildford Dudley. Common sense dictated that there was no reason she should have had access to the crown. Yet, Henry VIII’s only son Edward VI, just before he died, declared that Jane, not his sisters Elizabeth or Mary, should have the kingdom. Whether or not he fully knew Jane’s regal character or only desired a strong Protestant figure, Jane found herself thrust into a whole new world.

It was difficult for women to get ahead in the sixteenth century. A scholarly woman was considered an anomaly; a scholarly woman who was a Protestant posed a double threat to Mary’s sovereignty. Lady Jane accepted her crowning only with great reluctance, and some believe she was “tricked” into having the crown placed on her head. She understood the immerse power she would wield and was unwilling to take on such a task at such a young age. When she finally did accept the power entrusted to her, it was not long after that fighting broke out between those who supported Lady Jane and those who supported Mary I. Both Jane’s and her husband’s families were up in arms over Jane’s refusal to crown Guildford Dudley king, and about the current state of rebellion in which their troops were finding themselves.

Mary I was victorious. She won over the people quite quickly; custom dictated that Lady Jane should pay for her “arrogance.” To give an idea of what Protestants faced under Mary’s reign, Mary was given the authority for Jane “to be burned alive on Tower Hill or beheaded as the Queen pleases.” Despite Jane’s tender age, she had the mien of a martyr . . . she admitted to having acted in a royal capacity, and she remained steadfast in her faith and met the charges against her without any great drama.

Lady Jane Grey was one of those people who could carry on pleasant conversations even with those who sought to sway her away from the beliefs she held dear. John Feckenham, Queen Mary’s confessor, was sent so he might lure Jane away from her “errors,” but instead he found himself garnering friendship with this outspoken young lady. Jane would bear unimaginable psychological distress before ever being led to the executioner’s block. It is said that she witnessed the procession of her young husband’s body as it was somberly transported from London’s Tower Hill.

Jane was prepared for her fate. Though she showed the same anxiety expected of anyone in her position, she remained calm enough to recite Psalm 51:

Have mercy on me, O God,

According to Your unfailing love;

according to Your great compassion

blot out my transgressions.

Wash away all my iniquity

and cleanse me from my sin.

For the “sin” of taking over the kingdom Edward VI had bequeathed to her and looking distrustfully upon the woman called Mary I who would one day earn the moniker “Bloody Mary,” and of carrying the Protestant faith proudly like a banner, Jane was condemned to die. 

In 2006 an old portrait in Streatham, England, was analyzed in the hopes that it might depict Lady Jane Grey. It shows a young woman in a luxurious dark red bejeweled gown, carrying a small book (perhaps the Bible, which she loved so well?), and sporting a beautiful headpiece. Though her pallor is sickly, her eyes, dark and full of knowledge, stare straight ahead as she treats the viewer to a secret smile. I always find it difficult to imagine the calm and quiet way in which Protestants of this time gaze toward their future. It can be seen in their eyes; the knowledge that martyrdom awaits, and the assurance that their salvation is secure. Whether or not this portrait is of Lady Jane, it still makes one think.

(c) 2012 Joyously Saved

May 17, 2012

The Power Behind the Huguenot Cross


I was recently thinking about my Huguenot cross and what it means to me, how I feel solidarity for my Protestant ancestors and their suffering when I wear it. Then I really got to wondering how many people truly know what it means. I once attended a relative's birthday party and proudly wore the Huguenot cross. I was rather sad when no one brought it up, but then I realized it was very likely that no one knew what it was. In fact, many people have little idea what "Huguenot" means and why Protestants should be proud to uphold the name and memory of this martyr church. So if you wear a Huguenot cross and someone seems interested in it, tell them. Explain the symbolism, the dove of the Holy Spirit, the twelve fleur de lis points representing the Apostles, the eight points for the eight Beatitudes.

Some might ask why a Christian would wear a Huguenot cross in place of a common cross. Sadly, I believe the usage of the "common cross" has been corrupted. Those who are not Christian wear crosses as a "fashion accessory." A person who wears such a cross is not necessarily Christian, and, though we are not to call attention to ourselves, we instinctively want to show our Christian affiliation to the world. The Huguenot cross is so different and has such a special meaning that if someone asks after its origin, one should teach about the Huguenots and, ultimately, their sacrifice for Christ. All roads lead to Christ in such a situation.

That is not to say that the Huguenots themselves were worthy of more remembrance than Christ. What is the reason we wear a cross? To remember Christ's sacrifice? To show we are Christians? To recall that we are loved, cherished, and saved? The Huguenot cross, by reminding us of those who loved God above their own lives, serves as a powerful reason to give our all for God in our own lives. We know He walked with our forebears and will continue to walk with us. And of course we know we are loved, for the cross shows that the spirit of faith can never die and God's mercy will never cease.


(c) 2012 Joyously Saved

May 16, 2012

Definitive Moments


What was the most definitive moment of the Protestant Reformation? The first burst in Martin Luther's mind, "the just shall live by faith"? The first pamphlets outlining this new and exciting doctrine? The first martyrs, who gave everything for the love of faith and truth? The French Wars of Religion? The first peace treaty? The first massacre, the first siege, the first tentative agreement? But it does not truly matter. The entire "roller coaster" of the Reformation was full of ups and downs, twists and turns that happened exactly as God planned them to. God's hand was behind the Reformation, as it is behind all else.

Think about that. Had God not planned the Protestant Reformation, there may have never been a choice for the seeking Christian soul. There would be no generation after generation of faithful Protestant believers who crossed the ocean to tame, populate, and revitalize a beautiful New World. The cherished denominations we think of so fondly would fail to exist. Thousands of churches would never have been built. Countless hymns would never have been written. Today, thank God for the truth, purity, and joy of the Reformation. Thank Him for your ancestors and spiritual forebears who had the courage to pass on their faith even under pain of death.

Thank Him that "the just shall live by faith". 


(c) 2012 Joyously Saved

May 15, 2012

When I think of the Huguenot men who died in the Matanzas massacre, it is nearly a physical ache deep inside my soul. I suppose I have “adopted” them, in a sense. In my mind’s eye I attach faces, figures, and traits to men whose true identities will most likely remain hidden. They were mostly young, I would think, eyes full of dying dreams and the crumbling hopes of New World conquest. They had already suffered so much amid shipwreck and ruin. Yet they were alive, hopeful, and alert, living and breathing God’s pure ocean air and feeling the benevolent sunshine upon their faces. Then suddenly, unjustly and horrendously, they were gone.

Gone. Lost. Silenced. Betrayed.

There have been few moments more touching in my life than standing at the boardwalk near the spot of the massacre, looking out over the fragile dunes and the sparkling Matanzas River beyond. There were two separate massacres that took the lives of nearly two hundred and fifty men in all. Each with a purpose in life, a family, a plethora of loves and hates and interests and passions. I have written many short stories attempting to capture the extreme pathos of the situation, yet no matter how much I write, I cannot capture the feeling of despair and sadness that fills my soul. I did not know these men, yet I feel as if I do. It seems they have been largely forgotten. That fate is even worse than the slaughter itself.

So I am planning to go back.

Sometime in the near future, I hope to return to Matanzas, for a Protestant pilgrimage, part two. I am uncertain when, what, or how, but hopefully my next pilgrimage will be just as momentous as the first. I also hope to return to La Caroline near Jacksonville and see the inside of the fort, which I could not do this year due to construction. The story of Matanzas remains in my thoughts and refuses to give me peace until I do all I can to make the victims’ memories known. If that is the task with which I have been entrusted, I will uphold it gladly. On a bittersweet note, I have compiled a pitiful pile of names of those killed at Matanzas.

The haunted dunes of Matanzas Inlet, taken on my recent pilgrimage

They are (1) Nicolas Barre (who, interestingly enough, was a colonist in the Brazilian colony at Guanabara Bay in 1555, see my post of May 03^rd), formerly governor of the South Carolina colony of Charlesfort; (2) Monsieur Sainte Marie, captain who was martyred at Matanzas in October; and (3) Jean Ribault, a French commander both brave and foolhardy who was martyred in October after having lived an adventurous yet tragic life. According to the official Fort Matanzas website, there were 245 Protestants killed in all. Who were the other 242 that have been lost to history?

Such are the questions that will haunt me forever.

(c) 2012 Joyously Saved