November 16, 2012

The Lutheran Pietist Movement: Basic Facts

I first heard the word “Pietist” while researching my family history. One of my ancestors, a Lutheran minister, was criticized for not embracing this movement, and I was curious as to what exactly that meant. Pietism sprang up in the 1660s as a response to traditional Lutheranism, which many felt was still clinging too tightly to originally Catholic practices. These men considered themselves Lutheran and did not want to turn to stricter groups such as Puritanism or Anabaptism --- which for the latter would have been illegal --- but they did desire to take Lutheranism by storm.

One such individual was Philipp Jakob Spener, most likely the man who “got the ball rolling” on the actual founding of Pietism.  He wanted to be Lutheranism’s “reformer,” a “modern-day” Martin Luther, taking a large, well-established faith and “cleaning it up” from the inside. It didn’t go quite the way he planned. It makes one wonder if his years in Switzerland, in the former Calvinist stronghold of Geneva, might have conditioned him to appreciate Calvinism’s strict morality and to seek that same piety for the Lutheran faith.

Spener believed that like the medieval Catholic Church, Lutheranism had been swallowed up in ceremony and outside appearances and did not cling tightly enough to the beauty and simplicity of the Gospel (though many devout Lutherans disagreed with this analogy). The arrival of Spener’s tract “Earnest Desire for a Reform of the True Evangelical Church” sent shock-waves through Germany’s large Lutheran population. Most likely it was a cry of “not another fanatic!” but there were also those who shared Spener’s views.

One of the things he suggested was that those who did not share Lutheran views were to be handled with respect. In the bitterly feudal 17^th century, in the midst of France’s horrific persecution of Huguenots and a general European martyrdom of Anabaptists, tolerance between faiths was a radical idea indeed. The Lutheran community held mixed views toward Pietism. Many pastors saw merit in Spener’s words and became Pietists. Many did not.

The backlash from this movement was still going strong in the 1740s, when my pastor ancestor was preaching to German emigrant congregations in America.  Many rivalries in which he found himself involved were connected to the Pietist movement, proving that nearly a century after the movement began and probably even longer, tensions were still high.

(c) 2012 Joyously Saved 

November 15, 2012

The Ribault Column and the First Protestants in America

The Ribault Column, and, to the right, an interpretive plaque and
the beautiful St. Johns River ("Riviere de Mai")

At the Fort Caroline / Timucuan Ecological Preserve near Jacksonville, Florida there is a tall white column with four bronze plaques, standing over the river that the first French settlers named “Riviere de Mai.” At first glance it might not look like much, though it is impressive . . . it’s the history that makes this memorial column so intriguing. In May 1562, explorer Jean Ribault, whose martyrdom was still three years away, had brought multiple stone columns to “La Floride” for the purpose of marking his landing sites. (More information on Jean Ribault can be found in my post of March 06th). He placed one of these columns near what would one day become Jacksonville. Sadly, though I visited Fort Caroline in March, I wasn’t able to get up to the Column (it’s located a short distance away at the top of a flight of steps). I’ve put it on my itinerary for next year. Luckily one of my traveling buddies did manage to get some photos.

This particular column, of course, is not the original . . . though it would indeed be impressive if a 450- year-old column would look so good! This replica was placed in 1924, and its significance goes far beyond marking the spot where a hearty band of intrepid French explorers came ashore. It represents the beginning of the Protestant faith in America. Before 1562, no Protestants had yet set foot in what would become the United States. One wonders if these men imbued with the spirit of the Reformation even realized the significance of their venture as they stood and watched the first column being heaved into position.

When explorer and Ribault contemporary René de Goulaine de Laudonnière (see my post of March 12th for more on him) returned to the site of the original column years later, he, having been raised to disavow unfamiliar customs, was quite disturbed by what he saw. The native Timucua Indians had been bestowing great veneration upon the column as if they thought it a god. They had heaped decorative items and garlands upon it and had bestowed upon it some kind of otherworldly power. This did not set right with the Huguenots of La Caroline. History failed to record what measures were taken to ensure this did not happen again, or at least I haven’t yet found such a record.

The 1924 column sits on a bluff with beautiful views of the St. Johns River and of natural scenery, and one of its plaques reads as follows: “Erected by the Florida Daughters of the American Revolution – May first 1924 – Commemorating the first landing of Protestants on American soil.” This is big news. This is powerful. Before the Puritans . . . before Protestantism became the bedrock of early American society, before later Protestants became intrigued by the grace, faith, and fortitude of their persecuted ancestors . . . there were Huguenots stepping on Floridian soil for the first time.

Another plaque on the Ribault Column (there are four) reads: “This is a replica of the marker placed on or near this spot by Jean Ribaut – May first 1562 – In taking possession of Florida for France.” The two plaques with text are decorated by a shield, three small fleur de lis, the French royal coat of arms, a laurel wreath, and a hanging cross with a dove that is likely meant to represent the Huguenot cross. The two other plaques are decorated with seashells, the pattern of three fleur-de-lis that was emblazoned on the medieval French flag, and the royal crown.

(c) 2012 Joyously Saved

November 14, 2012

Swedish Reformer Laurentius Petri's Legacy

Today was another one of those “names popping out at me” days, and as I was researching Protestant reformers, I came across the name Laurentius Petri. I admit I had no idea who this man was or what he did. Petri was a Swede who was a near-contemporary of Martin Luther, having been born in 1499. He eagerly adopted (most) Protestant doctrines of the Lutheran variety and gave his life to spreading the Reform throughout Sweden. His brother Olaus greatly assisted in this venture.

Laurentius’ first brush with the country that would give birth to Protestant doctrines came in the early 1500s, when he attended school in Germany. At the time he likely had no idea that this movement would gain such momentum. He later moved to Gotland, a Swedish island already famous for its Viking ancestry and impressively-decorated rune-stones. Gustav Vasa, king of Sweden, saw great potential in Laurentius’ new mindset and decided that the most subtle (and most beneficial way) to introduce Lutheranism into Sweden was to make Laurentius Petri archbishop. This was done, but soon the two men began to have a battle of wills as to how the Reformation should progress in their native land.

During this time Laurentius retained some contact with Catholic ideas, and this caused even more friction between him and his monarch. During his lifetime, in 1541, a Swedish Bible emerged. This revolutionized Protestant thought in Sweden just as it had done in Germany and France. Before 1560 there was little conflict between Lutheranism and Calvinism in Sweden, yet when Petri and other Swedish Protestants began to verbalize disagreements with Calvinist beliefs, it became apparent that they had developed a uniquely Lutheran church.

History records that Laurentius was a more soft-spoken and perhaps more thoughtful man than brother Olaus, though to what degree I do not know. Olaus’ subsequent troubles with the monarchy took him out of the picture and left Laurentius to fend for himself against the throngs, with Gustav Vasa (mostly) in his corner. As Uppsala’s archbishop, Petri had a great amount of influence and was able to mold his domain into more a picture of what he believed it should be. This had an unprecedented effect on Swedish Christianity.

Laurentius Petri died in 1573. By that time the Protestant Reformation has exploded across Europe, had won a startling number of converts, and had been bathed in the blood of persecution. He most likely heard stories of the French St. Bartholomew’s Day massacre that took place just fourteen months before his death. But he had done his part to introduce Reformation thought into Sweden . . . his country would never forget him, and neither should we.

(c) 2012 Joyously Saved

November 13, 2012

What’s In A Name? Part Two

Ever wonder why certain Protestant denominations were given certain names, or what those names mean? How close did they come to being called something else? My post of September 22 discussed what terms various Protestants groups used for themselves (i.e. Huguenots preferred “Reformed”), but today I was interested in learning where the names that would become common originated from.

The word “Anglican” was not used (at least popularly) until the early 1600s. It comes from Middle Latin anglicanus and Anglicus, both of which mean “of the people of England.” “Angle” (Angle-land) is the word from which the word “England” came. It refers to the Angles, a Germanic tribe that occupied the country in the Dark Ages. The word “Anglican” used to describe a person who attended the Church of England was said to originate in the late 1790s. Before this time followers would have likely been called Protestants or simply described as belonging to the Church of England.

The word “Lutheran,” used to describe an adherent to Martin Luther’s Protestant doctrines, was not preferred in Reformation-era Germany but became popular nonetheless. This term comes from the name Luther, which in turn is thought to derive from Lothar (German “Hluodhari”). Hluodhari carries the strong meaning of “famous warrior” and would have been considered a fine name for a German male.

The word “Anabaptist” has an origin that is easy to uncover. Since most “Brethren,” as they preferred to be called, had been baptized as babies, their belief in adult baptism meant that they had to be “rebaptized.” Their enemies called them “Anabaptists,” which came from the Latin anabaptista and anabaptimus and literally meant “second baptism.”

The word “Huguenot” has never been adequately fleshed out. Many believe it comes from Eidgenoss, the Swiss word for “confederate,” a member of the Swiss Confederation). Many Huguenots had fled to Geneva and at one point, due to its association with John Calvin, it was called the “Protestant Rome.”) Others believe it came from the personal names Hughes, as Hughes Besancon was a known leader of religious dissidents. I have heard that the word “Huguenot” was even considered an odd word in France, and no one was exactly sure where it came from and what it had originally meant.

In contrast, “Reformé,” “Reformed,” was much-preferred among French Protestants. The word “Reform” comes from Latin reformare, “reforming,” or literally “to form again.” One interesting etymology site I often use, www.etymonline.com, says that the term “Reform” as applied to the Huguenots is not thought to have come into use until the 1580s. If this is true, I wonder what the Huguenots called themselves from the 1530s through the 1570s . . .?

                                                                                                                                               

Some food for thought!

(c) 2012 Joyously Saved

November 12, 2012

Frenchmen in Carolina

In my post of October 21, I mentioned that many American states had at least a small Huguenot population and that North Carolina was one of those unlikely places. I’ve recently been missing those beautiful southern states and wanted to focus on the French Protestants of New Bern and outlying regions. The year was 1709 . . . this was the year many Huguenots and German Palatines sailed to America, as the combination of Old World strife and the welcome of Protestant England’s American colonies made it only natural to do so. 

In 1709, there was no “North” and “South” Carolina. Both colonies were named simply Carolina, and the distinctive boundaries would not come about until later. Huguenots were rushed to the Neuse River region. Some intrepid Frenchmen had arrived years earlier, however, from the lovely colony called Virginia. In 1707 there were Huguenots settling what would become known as New Bern, enjoying the natural resources of the Trent River. Doubtless the French of 1709 must have felt lucky to hear their own language being spoken. One of the North Carolina cities connected with these early settlers is the venerable Beaufort.

Though French Protestants were usually happy to find that they had left behind the chaos of Europe for a work-filled but generally persecution-free life, the settlers of North Carolina, those who lived near modern-day Beaufort, were not so lucky. Tuscarora Indians had not taken kindly to intrusions and decided to rampage against the new settlement, including the homes of the French so recently arrived in America. The Huguenots accustomed to persecution simply due to their Protestant faith were now forced to endure violence simply because of their ethnicity and where they had chosen to live. 

I imagine that to the French, the English government must have very often seemed like saviors in disguise. This much-persecuted church had been ravaged so many times in its own homeland that escape must have often seemed impossible. Beautiful lands like Virginia, “Carolina,” and, further north, New York, were blessings to a hardworking people who only wanted to practice the faith they loved without giving up their basic rights. North Carolina provided freedom to many of these men, women, and children. Its contributions to Huguenot history may not be well-known, but they are exceedingly important.

(c) 2012 Joyously Saved

November 11, 2012

Today a beautiful “Ephesians 2:8” song by Horatius Bonar:

Not What My Hands Have Done

Not what my hands have done can save my guilty soul;

Not what my toiling flesh has borne can make my spirit whole.

Not what I feel or do can give me peace with God;

Not all my prayers and sighs and tears can bear my awful load.

Your voice alone, O Lord, can speak to me of grace;

Your power alone, O Son of God, can all my sin erase.

No other work but Yours, no other blood will do;

No strength but that which is divine can bear me safely through.

Thy work alone, O Christ, can ease the weight of sin;

Thy blood alone, O Lamb of God, can give me peace within.

Thy love to me, O God, not mine, O Lord, to Thee,

Can ride me of this dark unrest, and set my spirit free.

I bless the Christ of God; I rest on love divine;

And with unfaltering lip and heart I call this Savior mine.

His cross dispels each doubt; I bury in His tomb

Each thought of unbelief of fear, each lingering shade of gloom.

I praise the God of grace; I trust His truth and might;

He calls me His, I call Him mine, My God, my joy and light.

’Tis He who saveth me, and freely pardon gives;

I love because He loveth me, I live because He lives.

I love the unwitting analogies to the solas of the Reformation . . . Christ alone, to the glory of God alone, faith alone, grace alone, Scripture alone. This song talks of “Your voice alone” and “Your power alone” and mentions that nothing we can physically do can necessitate salvation. Horatius Bonar, Scottish-born, wrote this lovely song in 1861.

(c) 2012 Joyously Saved

November 10, 2012

A Day To Remember

The year was 1483. England was in an uproar due to the disappearance of their young princes Richard and Edward, the elder of whom was the heir to the throne. Spain’s Jewish population was ousted from a land that had long sported a Jewish population, and the Inquisition was in its infancy. Michelangelo stepped back and looked upon the holy beauty of the Sistine Chapel that he had helped to create. Yet none of these grand events touched the simple bedchamber of a woman named Margarethe, who was struggling to deliver another strapping German child. The greater world had no knowledge of her birth-pangs, nor did she know or care of what was happening around her. All she knew was the new baby who came at the just the time God had planned.

His name would be Martin.

Martin Luther would be the first to say that his birth was nothing special. He was a modest man, despite his proud polemics, and he would probably not be amused that his birthday might be celebrated centuries later. Yet the birth of Martin Luther is an important event not only because he was born but because of what his life would set into place. Few had dared to stand up against the moral bankruptcy that dominated Church society in this era. Intimidated by Inquisitorial agents and threats of a burning stake, men were, for the most part, forced to make due with practices they often did not feel comfortable with and a hierarchy they did not trust.

Luther was charismatic. He said “no.” He stood up against indulgences and corruption. He said, “Your day is over. This can’t go on any longer.” And while he himself was not powerful enough to set everything in motion, he suddenly discovered that there were many likeminded men who had been waiting in the wings for a strong-minded reformer. Of course, corruption was not all he opposed. It became clear to Martin Luther that there were certain elements of Scripture that had been ignored, and that tradition had taken the place of the pureness of the Word. He wanted his countrymen to gain more knowledge of living purely and Scripturally without outside influences. This was a concept with which medieval man was sadly unfamiliar.

Today is the 529^th anniversary of Martin Luther’s birth. On that momentous day, a man was born who would change the Christian world, who would tout the importance of memorizing Scripture and reading the Bible for oneself, who would usher in a community of quiet, unshakable steadfast Protestant believers who even suffered martyrdom yet refused to deny the truths of the Bible and the love of their God. He was without doubt one of the most influential men to emerge from European --- and world --- history. Yet on that day in 1483 his parents understood only two things: A new branch had been grafted onto their family tree, and God was good.

(c) 2012 Joyously Saved