July 07, 2012

“To Be French Is to Be Catholic” --- Not So

I was recently reading up on the Huguenots and came across a Google Book titled “The London Quarterly and Holborn Review,” which stated that people throughout time --- including Frenchmen --- believed that “to be French is to be Catholic.” It might seem that way to most of us as well. Yet the French Huguenots, who suffered for centuries on account of their faith, would find that observation very offensive. There has been a Protestant element, no matter how small, since the early 16^th century. Some quick history:

Protestant thought first arrived in France around the 1530s. John Calvin quickly popularized the Calvinist religion, whose followers became known as Huguenots but who called themselves “Reformed.” The first few decades were punctuated by martyrdom and persecution. The 16^th century was fraught with eight religious wars and the horrendous St. Bartholomew's Day massacre, and the 17^th century held alternating decades of peace and war. The “Huguenot rebellions” took place in the 1620s. In the mid-to-late 1680s, King Louis XIV, the “Sun King,” turned against those who practiced Protestantism, taking their children, forbidding them to work, to worship, or to enjoy the most basic civil rights, and either imprisoning, killing, or sending to the galleys those who refused to submit.

After this was the “Church in the Desert,” where, from the early 1700s until the end of the century, Huguenot ministers risked their lives to spread the Gospel to Protestant families living in the “wildernesses” such as the mountainous Cévennes region. Every once in awhile, the king’s dragoons would ride into outdoor worship surfaces and round up Huguenot pastors for imprisonment and often death. Persecution finally ended in 1787 with the “Edict of Versailles.” By the time Napoleon came to power, there was equality for French Protestants, who were now considered full citizens, though their neighbors must have looked upon them with distrust. Throughout the 19^th century and to the present day there has continued to be a “Reformed Church of France,” a plucky, resilient organization that has remained steadfast even under the tremendous weight of persecution. 

Perhaps the French Catholics who lived and died over the centuries even believed ‘to be French is to be Catholic,’ themselves. Perhaps they either did not know that there had once been a quite significant Protestant population or they chose to forget; after all, King Louis XIV, after his sudden and terrible “cleansing” of the Huguenots, declared France “free of Protestants.” Did the king truly think that all the Protestants not immediately killed had simply “disappeared”? It was convenient for French Catholics to believe their nation was under Catholic rule once more. They were desperate to believe it. It signaled some sort of “unity” and “peace” they were certain could only come with one state religion.

So, “to be French is to be Catholic,” though most of us might have believed so, is inaccurate. It certainly must have seemed that way to the Huguenots, though . . . they were forbidden the most basic aspects of their civil rights. They were forbidden to cultivate a French identity. They were different from their neighbors; a Spanish Catholic and an English Protestant, for example, felt right at home. For a French Protestant --- the very words seemed an oxymoron! --- that was an odd idea. I suppose besides feeling that they were invisible, that they had no voice, the Huguenots and their descendants must have found it rather amusing. Obviously they knew such sentiments were untrue . . . but they were forbidden to contradict them. 

So were there Huguenots hidden among the so-very-Catholic soldiers in the rugged wilderness forts of New France, tucked away in the settlements of belle Louisiane, lingering in New Orleans’ Vieux Carré? Did they quietly steal away to practice their faith while playing the part for the outside world? Did they surreptitiously fail to observe the ‘proper’ practices at work, at play, while eating and socializing? Did they exist among the French colonies in America as they had always tried to exist in France, fighting desperately for life and the right to be called ‘French’? We may never know. But it is easy to believe that they might have . . .

(c) 2012 Joyously Saved

July 06, 2012

The French Huguenots were not the only Reformation descendants well-accustomed to martyrdom and suffering. The Anabaptists were also known for their trials, and as a result, they published striking hymns full of emotion and glory. I had the pleasure of listening to a few of these hymns on Youtube and of studying the circumstances under which they were written and sung. The following song, called “O God, Do Thou Sustain Me,” was written by a man named Leonhart Sommer. He himself died a martyr in 1573.

O God, Do Thou Sustain Me

Leonhart Sommer

O God, do Thou sustain me

In grief and sore duress

Pride counter which disdains Thee

And comfort my distress.

O Lord let me find mercy

In bonds and prison bed

Men would seek to devour me

With guile and controversy

Save me from danger dread!

Thou wilt never forsake me

This firmly I believe

Thy blood Thou has shed freely

And with it washed me.

Therein my trust is resting

In Christ, God’s only Son

On Him I am now building

In tribulation trusting

God will me not disown!

To die and to be living

Until my end I see

To Thee my trust I’m giving

Thou wilt my helper be.

Soul, body, child, companion

Herewith commit I thee

Come soon, Lord, come and take me

From ruthless men do save me

Be honor ever to Thee.

If you have the chance to listen to the video (the song is sung by a family named the Overholts) I hope you as are touched by the song and its words as I was.

(c) 2012 Joyously Saved

July 05, 2012

Jamestown’s Old Brick Church: A Study in Religious Firsts

If the failed French settlement of La Caroline constituted the birth-pangs of Protestantism in America, then the successful English settlement signaled its birth. Jamestown was the first permanent English settlement in the New World and as such was the first colony to uphold Protestant doctrines. Were it not for Jamestown and subsequent English rule of America, it is very unlikely that foreign Protestants (in many cases, our ancestors) would have been allowed to settle here. 

Quite awhile ago, I visited “Olde Jamestowne,” Virginia. Being a history buff, I was enthralled even by the brick foundations and by the monuments scattered here and there. I loved the old brick church most of all. This Jamestown Church is a reconstruction, but the tall, foreboding tower, an original, dates to about 1647. (I did not even realize the tower’s history when I walked through its cavernous entrance, so I could not properly appreciate that I was passing through about 360 years of history!) I was touched by the church’s quiet and holy ambiance. 



Jamestown Church seen from the main path



The original church at “James Towne” was not a church at all but was rather a canvas tied within a clump of trees. When a church was constructed, Captain John Smith likened it to a barn and called it “homely.” Another church was built in the 1610s. It was wooden, with a stone base. Yet another church rose in the mid-1600s and was magnificently finished in brick. When it fell, many years later, a reconstruction was built. That is the church we see today.

Inside, Jamestown Church is cozy, with the wall opposite the entrance covered in lattice-glassed arched windows. Some interesting features are: (1) A glass floor cover along the edge of the church that protects the original foundation, which visitors can still see, and (2) the tomb of a knight. A real knight. Not, of course, the sort of knight that wore full medieval armor and charged along on the Crusades, but a man who died in 1627. His name was Sir George Yeardley. He had lived at Jamestown many years and had even been elected Governor of Virginia Colony at one point.

Inside the old brick church

Jamestown Church is a marvelous example of America’s Protestant history. It could easily be said that it is the first Protestant church in the nation, for it is doubtful that the Huguenots of La Caroline, whose colony was founded in June 1564 and destroyed in September 1565, would have had time to construct a permanent church building. If they did, it has been lost to time. This would be a great place for a “Protestant pilgrimage” for those whose faiths follow the Reformation. It was as a direct result of England adopting the Reform that these Protestant men and women settled at Jamestown and provided an alternative to the New World monopoly of Spanish Catholicism.

(c) 2012 Joyously Saved

July 04, 2012

St. Bartholomew’s Day and the “Miraculous” Hawthorne

The worst part about the St. Bartholomew’s Day massacre, which took thousands of Huguenot lives in Paris and other cities beginning in August 1572, was that it was enacted or at least sanctioned by ordinary people. Not mercenaries. Not corrupt government officials. Not paranoid royals. But by ordinary men, butchers and bakers and candlestick makers, those who might have chatted amicably with ill-fated Huguenots just hours before. They were old men, young men, fathers, brothers, husbands. They were also, as many were in the 16^th century, very in-tune to such things as miracles, visions, and signs which may or may not have meant what they believed it to mean.

One such example is the “miraculous hawthorn.” On August 25^th, the day after the initial wave of violence against the Protestants in Paris, a hawthorn tree long thought to be barren sprang into full bloom with seemingly no logical explanation. The Parisian townsfolk literally took a break from the massacre to form a procession through the streets so they might go and marvel at the hawthorn. Numb, desensitized to the religious violence for which the 16^th century would become so famous, they ignored the heaps of wounded as they thanked God for this miracle. They believed the hawthorn had bloomed as a sign of the Lord’s favor upon the massacre of the Protestants.

They believed He was sending His praise.

Of course, if there was indeed anything miraculous, there is another, more palatable explanation. Who is to say that the barren tree did not suddenly spring into an array of white flowers, the whiteness of purity, as a commemoration for the countless victims whose souls were cleaved from their bodies in that horrendous massacre? What if the blossoms were God’s mourning, the tears of angels, grieving for so many Christian believers slaughtered without pity and without reason? Did that thought give comfort to even one of the joyous Parisians who wondered at the beauty of this sign? Did ragged survivors --- and there must have been so few, who escaped by one means or another --- consider such a possibility? 

However many years that tree stood, it became a pilgrimage destination of sorts, a symbol of the sort of attitude that pervaded France and much of the known world at the time. They might have marveled at its branches and thought of Christ the Judge condemning Huguenot souls, but I choose to think of the above scenario: Of the pure white blossoms symbolizing the innocence of those massacred. It is a new and bold explanation to be sure. But I know in my heart that God would never bless the wholesale butchery of His children. The full truth of the matter will never be known . . .

(c) 2012 Joyously Saved

July 03, 2012

John Bland, Minister and Martyr, 1555

As one of my main goals is to breathe names, faces, and identities into the memories of the Reformation-era Protestant martyrs, I was surprised to note that I had not yet featured any Anglican martyrs. Anglicanism, though owing much of its existence to Henry VIII’s own familial schemes, was very much a product of the Reformation in the way it grew and developed and responded to Protestant thought patterns already circulating in Europe. 

Yesterday I discovered the Canterbury Martyrs who died in July 1555. Their names were John Frankesh, John Bland, Nicholas Sheterden, and Humphrey Middleton. The first two men were ministers and all four held religious positions. One must wonder how they knew each other (for they surely did, or if not, their shared fate would have certainly united their spirits) and what family lives they had. Following are choice parts of John Bland’s prayer upon his execution. It was written in the language of the day, so I have tried to “modernize” so his words are better understood. “. . . I choose rather the torments of this body, and loss of this my life, and have counted all things but vile, dust, and dung, that I might win thee: Which death is more dear unto me, than thousands of gold and silver.” 

He ended, “Accept this burnt offering and sacrifice, O Lord, not for the sacrifice itself, but for thy dear Son’s sake my Savior: for whose testimony I offer this free will offering with all my heart and with all my soul. O heavenly Father, forgive me my sins, as I forgive the whole world. O sweet Savior, spread thy wings over me. O God, grant me thy Holy Ghost, through whose merciful inspiration I am come hither. Conduct me unto everlasting life. Lord into thy hands I commend my spirit: Lord Jesus receive my soul. So be it.”

There were thousands of similar prayers breathed throughout the Reformation era, in different languages, in different circumstances, and in different sentiments. But each entreaty was, without a doubt, carefully stored by our Lord and Savior.

(c) 2012 Joyously Saved

July 02, 2012

The Difference Between Tolerance (Good) and Assimilation (Bad)

When our ancestors came to the shores of the New World throughout the last few centuries, they understood what being Protestant meant. (In this case I speak mostly of Protestant faiths with a Reformation tradition . . . Calvinism, Lutheranism, Anglicanism, and those faiths that sprang from Anabaptism). It carried a world of insinuations . . . it meant to keep the faith unto death, to be willing to die in order to defend the five solas of the Reformation (grace alone, faith alone, Scripture alone, Christ alone, for the glory of God alone). It meant using only the Bible as a guidepost and beseeching the Lord, both a gentle father and a powerful judge, for daily needs. It meant having the shadows of persecution always behind you and clinging to others who shared your values.

It also meant using an empty cross to symbolize that Christ was not here on dark, death-bound earth; He has risen, and the faithful still awaited His return. It meant loving Scripture and committing much of it to memory. It meant remaining strong in the face of adversity and understanding that if those who had gone before could give everything --- including their lives --- for their faith, surely the current generation could endure whatever troubles came their way. When the Huguenots came to America, many had been persecuted quite recently. For some it was not even a question of what had happened to their ancestors but what they themselves had endured.

Being Protestant was a thing of pride.

Yet over time, people of other faiths settled in America. Some thought that being Christian and tolerant meant that one should blend seamlessly with his neighbors, no matter what place of worship --- or lack thereof --- they attended. Some might erroneously think that having religious pride means being standoffish or even prejudicial towards those of other faiths. Not so. There is a difference between keeping a separate, crystal-clear spiritual identity and showcasing one’s own core beliefs and purposely being rude, intolerant, or even physically abusive of those who follow different creeds. The Lord could not bless intolerance. Neither, however, should anyone desire to forget their past.

We must remain proud Protestants and proud descendants of our martyr ancestors even in an era when “mixing and blending” in the interest of assimilation and ecumenism is considered “in.” A surge of quiet should come when we realize the strength of our conviction and realize we have the privilege of carrying on their legacy. One can be a Protestant without being intolerant of others. I have visited Catholic and Orthodox chapels. In these places I was respectful and I understood that God blesses those who follow Him, even if it is not in the way I would like. Yet I did not don Catholic or Orthodox apparel or pray their particular prayers as I went along. I retained my Protestant, Lutheran identity while remaining respectful. It is very important to remember such things. 

We are set apart, not to be hermits (Christian love induces us to reach out to others, and we must be respectful of other faiths and desire to help others no matter if we agree with them or not) but to always keep hold of our heritage. We come from martyr blood. We are different. Our ancestors and spiritual predecessors deserve to be remembered. For the moment we forget them is the moment they truly die.

(c) 2012 Joyously Saved

July 01, 2012

The Siege of La Rochelle in Depth: 1627 / 1628

‘Though an army besiege me, my heart will not fear;

though war break out against me, even then I will be confident.’

Did the Huguenots of La Rochelle stand upon the ramparts and think of such Scripture as they pondered the coming engagement? Perhaps the thought of the past Wars of Religion hung heavy on their minds in this eventful year of 1627, and certainly the St. Bartholomew’s massacre, just a little over fifty years ago, still resounded in aged survivors’ memories and in the stories they had told their descendants. 

They vowed to fight. To protect their rights. If the Catholic League, the French Crown, and all their enemies pushed them, they would push back harder. Gone were the days of naïve martyrdoms --- or so they believed. They knew how to make a stand. Both soldiers and civilians felt hope as they gazed upon the banners. Tossed adrift, abandoned even by their own monarch, they would have once had no recourse. Yet seeing their very own flags upon the ramparts gave them a chill of hope. There were no illusions they might gain any great victory over the Catholics. Yet they would hold, or die trying. That in itself would be a mark of pride.

La Rochelle had long been a Huguenot haven. Where else could French Protestants go when their own countrymen desired only to shed their blood? The seaside city of La Rochelle was marked by venerable old walls, impressive towers, and the blessing of a sea escape if such might become necessary. In August 1627, ‘all the King’s men’ were amassing an unprecedented assault against the stronghold. They boasted of seven thousand men, over five hundred horses, and over twenty siege cannons. Many must have wavered back and forth between intense pride for the Huguenot army and anxiety when they remembered how men, women, and children were often slaughtered when an opposing army found itself triumphant. Many young soldiers were probably completely convinced that the Huguenots would prevail. Hymns and psalms were most assuredly sung.

It was not until the 10^th of September that cannon-fire bellowed through the air. As time wore on, the French Royalist army ensured that the Huguenots were completely cut off from the outside world. Many must have watched the enemies’ trench-digging with wide-eyed foreknowledge. The Catholics hastily threw up eleven forts amid their entrenchments. This was in April 1628. Thirty thousand French soldiers waited to attack. Engineers constructed a seawall so the beleaguered Protestants might be forced to remain within the city borders. Now they were trapped. Visions of hunger and devastation danced through their minds.

But then there came an unexpected event that infected the Huguenot defenders with the spirit of hope. British ships --- full of Protestant allies --- appeared in the harbor. They were bringing supplies. Relief must have run rampant until the defenders noted that the French army would in no way, shape, or form permit such supplies to be delivered. The next great spark of hope came in the news that Huguenots in the south were staging an uprising and fomenting a plan to save those trapped within La Rochelle.

Every week it seemed there were new and exciting bits of news to share, albeit with great emotion. One was particularly repugnant. Many of the French ships now carrying enemy soldiers had come from none other than Calvinist Holland. Royalists “borrowed” them from Amsterdam and then sailed to La Rochelle. Many Huguenots must have believed that the Dutch were traitors to the faith. Yet, were they still surprised by betrayal? One might wonder “why Holland?” That country had agreed to help the French fight the Habsburgs. France and Spain both claimed the Catholic faith, but they were always fighting each other. Somehow they managed to find the time to harass the Huguenots. 

Soon after, the Habsburgs joined the French Crown for a powerful Spanish-French alliance against the Huguenots. Here were the inhabitants of La Rochelle, blockaded inside one of their last strongholds, tossed asunder by the world, and the two most outspoken champions of Catholicism had banded together against them. That did not bode well. Thankfully, as time wore on, they saw that the Spanish ships were not in a position to provide devastating cannon-fire. Everyone likely breathed a sigh of relief. Such was short-lived. 

By October the situation was dire. Those who had not been killed by disease or hunger ran the risk of succumbing to cannon-fire, musket-shot, or the sword, and there was nothing left to do but pray. The English ships floating in the harbor had been a source of great disappointment, for though they desired to bring the Huguenots supplies, they were continually forbidden to enter the harbor. In September the Earl of Lindsey’s vessels arrived. There are sixty ships in all, but they did very little good. Soldiers and civilians listened in numb silence as the English warships pounded the Royalist forces with withering cannon-fire, aiming for the hastily-constructed French seawall. All these efforts were in vain. The Huguenots finally saw they would not be victorious. Their inhabitants were starving, and they could hold out no longer. News was bandied about that there was nothing for them to do but surrender.

On the 28^th of October in the year 1628, the siege of La Rochelle was broken. It had been a grueling fourteen months. No one knew what would happen next, but they had a fairly good idea. After all, the strains of the St. Bartholomew’s still ran through their minds in a haunting, bloody melody. Thankfully their lives were to be spared. The French Protestants stumbled out the front gate, weak and emaciated, each person with his or her own personal hardship and in various states of disarray, probably wrapped in tattered garments. They must have been all too aware of their enemies’ scathing eyes. And perhaps, as they marched, the Huguenot Battle Hymn rang defiantly through the ranks once more.

(c) 2012 Joyously Saved