April 17, 2012

The Edict of Nantes


In my post of March 04, I spoke of the Edict of Fontainebleau (more commonly known as the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes) and how, after this decree, life for the Huguenots in France became unbearable. So what exactly was the Edict of Nantes, and why was it passed if only to be revoked less than a century later?

Beginning in 1562, France became a hotbed of civil war. While Catholicism remained the only religion of Spain and England took on a more Protestant face, France was matched bitterly between both factions, resulting in various instances of bloodshed (such as the burning of a church full of Huguenot parishioners in Vassy) that brought about the First War of Religion. Fighting raged on and off for over three decades. By 1598, the French were weary of bloodshed.

It was ironic that Henry IV (Henri de Navarre) was the king of France who signed this particular Edict. He had bravely espoused the Huguenot cause in his younger days but, upon claiming the throne, found he could not reign if he held true to his Protestant convictions. He made the choice to convert to Catholicism so he might rule, perhaps in part so he might be an "inside contact" for his Huguenot brethren. Despite his conversion he remained tender-hearted toward the Huguenots so brutally persecuted. In 1598 he passed the Edict of Nantes.

France held her breath. Protestants, having been shunned for the first six decades or so of their existence, doubted if this new edict could save them and restore their rights, so they dearly hoped for recognition. Catholics dubiously looked upon the edict as giving the Huguenots too much leeway. As Henry IV had hoped, the wars did not pick up where they left off. Frenchmen turned warily, casting a distrustful eye to their neighbors. The St. Bartholomew's Day massacre of 1572 was still on everyone's mind. That event, which caused the death of thousands of Protestants, was the catalyst by which peace and agreement could never be found.

There were certain parts of the Edict of Nantes that could be considered highly favorable toward the Huguenots, while there were other parts in which the king delicately affirmed his newfound Catholicism just enough to appease pope and council. He asserted that the Catholic Church was the only "official" church of the French state but that Protestants practicing their faith earnestly and with no thought of civil disobedience might live and pray in peace.

Henry IV promised that any Huguenots visiting other countries would be sheltered from the far-reaching tendrils of the Inquisition. This olive-branch, this royal assurance that Protestant subjects would be protected from foreign evils, was a new concept and must have made the Huguenots finally feel some sense of worth and value. Not everyone was as pleased with the decree. "This crucifies me," were the words uttered by Clement VIII, the pope of the day. It made no difference that the Huguenots were still expected to show a certain amount of obeisance to Catholic feast days and to understand there were basic civil rights they must forego. In the eyes of their opponents, France's Protestants were dangerously close to freedom.

This unassuming parchment produced in April 1598 signified
life and freedom for the persecuted Protestants of France

The Edict of Nantes also granted the Huguenots certain towns where they might gather for protection, called "places of safety." If the Protestants were willing to pay, they might also be granted forts whereupon they could defend themselves if the need arose. It was easy to see that Henry, despite having joined the Catholic realm, still cared deeply for his former co-religionists and understood that no man should live in a constant state of fear and inequality. 

I remember reading extensively about Henry IV and being disappointed that he had abandoned his faith. Yet I realized that, in order for him to have the authority to publish an edict that could benefit the Huguenot populace, he had to belong to the Church that crowned kings. A Huguenot could have never come to such a high position in the sixteenth century. Thus his people would have been vulnerable and without protection. We cannot know exactly why Henry IV converted, whether it was simply to gain the kingdom of France, or due to sincere beliefs, or to help the Protestants by assuming authority in the only way that was possible at the time. Whatever his reason, the end result granted temporary peace to France's beleaguered Huguenots.

God has always worked in mysterious ways.


(c) 2012 Joyously Saved

April 16, 2012

Beauty in the Simplest Places


It happened early last Saturday morning in the midst of a slew of errands. I left early, hoping to beat the crowd. It seemed like an ordinary day in all regards . . . the sun was only starting to emerge, and the chill of morning pervaded my skin. But as the drive wore on, I looked over to the right, and I suddenly got a raw, powerful, soul-edifying glimpse of God's handiwork.

The sky was now slashed with streaks of pink, orange, and purple, golden rays shooting from the clouds. I was nearly breathless with amazement. Truly there is no other logical explanation for such beauty, day after day, morning after morning, than an Almighty and merciful God. I could only stare at the scene with a warm, tingling feeling of glory.

Then, as I have dedicated my life to remembering the martyrs of yesteryear and am always thinking of my Protestant ancestors and their sacrifices, I realized how such visions must have stirred their hearts and given them hope. I imagined Huguenot refugees knee-deep in snow and ice, trekking through the Alps in the hopes of escaping to Switzerland, perhaps feeling as if God had forgotten them. How often did they look up to the incredible beauty of a pink sunrise and suddenly feel once again that God was love? Such images impress upon the mind in indelible and incredible ways.

There are few things I enjoy seeing more than a sunrise, God's "good morning" in so many ways.


(c) 2012 Joyously Saved

April 15, 2012

Michael and Margaretha Sattler: Anabaptist Martyrs

In keeping with my Reformation Protestantism theme, I often write about Lutheran and Calvinist figures, yet I also intend to occasionally feature articles on the Anabaptist faith. This belief system, too, developed in the early 1500s as a direct result of the Protestant Reformation. Unfortunately, Protestants and Catholics both found it impossible to reconcile with these “radical” believers, thus the Anabaptists were universally disliked. Like the French Huguenots, the Anabaptists understood the culture of martyrdom. It was a fate they daily expected. Any families who helped Anabaptists hide or escape were treated harshly. I found myself interested in the story of one particular man, Michael Sattler. Here is why. 

Michael Sattler was a German born sometime around 1490. I do not know his physical appearance, though I believe that is a key element of assigning identities to those who have gone before. At first glance, Michael and his wife Margaretha seem to parallel Martin Luther and Katharina von Bora in a very interesting way. Michael was once a monk and Margaretha was once a nun. Like Martin, Michael grew disillusioned with the monastic lifestyle and was stunned by the hypocrisy he witnessed. However, the similarities end there. Michael fled to Zurich in Switzerland so he might live his life freely even though he disagreed with major theological issues of the day. The Peasants’ War might have been another reason for his hasty decision to leave the monastery. 

One of Michael Sattler’s defining differences was that he had strong opinions against infant baptism. Both Catholics and Protestants of the sixteenth century believed it was necessary, while Anabaptists and likeminded individuals preferred baptism when a child or adult was spiritually and mentally mature enough to understand the choice they were making. Anabaptists also rejected governmental assignments and other statutes regarding the formation of a pure church. It did not take long for Michael and Margaretha to become suspect. In 1527, it came time for Michael to make his testimony. He underwent various torments too heinous to describe and yet continued to pray and lament for those who wounded him. 

As he was about to burn at the stake, he showed no fear. Some of his last words were: “Almighty, eternal God, thou art the way and the truth; because I have not been shown to be in error, I will with Thy help on this day testify to the truth and seal it with my blood.” He even motioned to those watching his fate, reassuring them he remained unafraid and that the laurel of victory would soon be his. The date was May 17, 1527. Martin Luther had abandoned his monastic strivings and had been married just a few years. John Calvin was only eighteen years old. 

Margaretha Sattler learned of Michael’s death with a heavy heart, but also with the knowledge that he was with God and no harm could touch him now. She herself underwent a round of torture before her fate was decided. She was forcibly drowned just a few days after her husband’s death. This was the end chosen for Anabaptist women who refused to recant. The men, Michael’s companions, were burned just as he had been. Due to these Anabaptist believers’ courage, faith, and confidence in God’s will, what their enemies meant to be a horrendous black mark on their record was instead a test of endurance and an overwhelming victory. They have been remembered as witnesses of the finest caliber. May they be remembered always.

(c) 2012 Joyously Saved

April 14, 2012

France in the New World: Nicolas le Challeux of La Caroline

Who was Nicolas le Challeux? Perhaps he was known in great detail only to his friends. History has certainly kept silent about this Huguenot gentleman who survived the raid of the French colony of La Caroline in September 1565. He must have been permanently scarred --- emotionally if not physically --- by the bloodshed he witnessed, by the visions of friends being slaughtered while half-asleep. He mentions in his memoirs that, at age sixty, he did not believe himself to be of any particular strength, but that he was able to leap over a nearby wall when the Spanish soldiers drew near. That visual has always intrigued me. It must have brought a ghost of a smile to the lips of those who watched, even as their terror urged them to defend themselves however possible.

Little is known of le Challeux’s previous life. He would have been born around 1505, thus, would have been baptized a Catholic. It must have been exciting and perhaps frightening to watch as Protestant thought spread throughout France. Did he convert to the Huguenot faith as a child, as a young man, as an older adult? Who were his friends and family? Did he ever have a wife or children? While this information is near impossible to find, the extreme pathos of his situation at La Caroline --- his raw fear, momentary strength and resolve, and dogged determination to survive --- makes him come alive even with so many facts missing.

In his Discours, le Challeux writes of his escape from La Caroline to wherever safety might be found. “And when we really thought we were at the last period of our lives we hugged one another, and with communal affection we began to sigh and to cry to the Lord, complaining of our sins, and recognizing the rigors of His judgment upon us.” This is telling. This mirrors the Huguenot spirit. These rain-drenched refugees, having escaped one of the worst situations they could have ever imagined, do not erroneously blame God as many men both past and present have done. Instead they trust Him to protect and guide them no matter the circumstances, and they lament their own sinful natures. Thus is the Christian spirit. 

Nicolas le Challeux returned to France after an arduous journey he would have preferred to forget. It must have been immensely difficult to take a stab at a “normal” life after everything he had seen and endured, but somehow he persevered. I have no doubt it was his faith that carried him through.

(c) 2012 Joyously Saved

April 13, 2012

Through Native Eyes

How your fellow humans remember you during your lifetime can make a big difference in how you are remembered centuries after you are gone. In the case of the French Huguenots who settled Fort Caroline in current-day Jacksonville, Florida, the shaky relationship between Frenchmen and Timucua Indians was overcome by the respect and interest the Native Americans had for their European neighbors. That is not to say there were not violent incidents . . . as with any culture clash, there were quite a few. Yet I find it interesting to note how the Timucua remembered the French even after many Huguenot men had been killed at La Caroline and women and children had been captured and sent toward fates unknown.

It has been said that, for an indeterminate amount of time after the French language ceased to ring out on Floridian shores, the native Timucuans would curiously seek out any travelers with some variation of the question, “are you French or not?” Unlike other nations of the day, the French did not actively seek to convert the Indians. Nor did they force their beliefs upon them. As a result, many of the natives became quite interested in the fledging and brutally-crushed Protestant faith simply by witnessing its practice, and they actively memorized Psalms they heard the Frenchmen sing. One of these was Psalm 128.

“Blessed are all who fear the LORD, who walk in obedience to him.
You will eat the fruit of your labor; blessings and prosperity will be yours.
Your wife will be like a fruitful vine within your house;

your children will be like olive shoots around your table.
Yes, this will be the blessing for the man who fears the LORD.”

It always stirs compassion and longing in my soul when I ponder that these devout Protestants never got to enjoy their brave new world. They were plucked from life for the simple reason that they were Calvinists and Frenchmen. Yet I think the way they witnessed was quite beautiful. It is impossible to forcibly change a man’s heart, to make him believe a religion he finds distasteful. 

The Spanish approach to converting the Native Americans of Florida was largely successful but in many cases led to hard feelings. The French, however, taught by doing. They did not seek out the Indians’ presence but neither did they condemn them. They simply sang Psalms and worshiped as they saw fit, oblivious to the eyes watching their services. As a result, the Timucuans took a liking to the French and remembered them long afterwards as devout souls, as the “lesser of the two evils,” perhaps, when it came to these “invader” Europeans.

How many years, I wonder, did the Timucuans retain fond memories of the gentle Frenchmen who sang Psalms with gratefulness and devotion in their hearts? How many years after the last French voice had faded from the land did the Native Americans look hopefully toward the river? How long after the ugly, bloody downfall of the French colony and the subsequent massacre at Matanzas did the Timucua scan newcomers hopefully, peppering them with questions? “Are you French or not?”

(c) 2012 Joyously Saved

April 12, 2012

Whom to Root For

As much as I have always loved history, I found it difficult to study religious thought during the Dark Ages and the Middle Ages. I could not relate to the pervading theology, to the bishops, monks, and nuns who penned their thoughts. I slugged through in the hopes I could find some similarities, and while I did, for the most part I was lost. 

I could not identify with medieval men and women who were constantly speaking of barefoot pilgrimages, self-whipping penitents, and self-denial in the hopes of God’s love and acceptance. That did not mesh with my view of a loving and merciful Savior. Medieval man simply did not believe as I believed. Then I discovered the Protestant Reformation era.

Suddenly it was as if a light-bulb came on over my head, as in the cartoons of old. These were people like me. People who believed in grace and faith and Christ alone. People who studied Scripture with a deep and personal longing that opened the entire world to their perusal. People who believed in the five solas of the Reformation. 

And then, as my studies of the 1500s and 1600s progressed, I discovered more. Protestants exploring early America in an era of Catholic domination. Protestants becoming doctors and theologians, the “movers and shakers” of the early modern world. I could relate to these people. I was excited when I learned that famous personages such as Johann Sebastian Bach were of the Lutheran faith. 

There is an innate need for humans to belong to a group, to fit in, to associate with those who share their faith and values. When I read of early Protestant explorers like Jean Ribault and learned of the sacrifice he made for his faith, this was someone to whom I could relate and identify. And as I began teaching myself the history of Protestantism, I reaffirmed that I was right where I was supposed to be.

(c) 2012 Joyously Saved

April 11, 2012

The Pain of Inequality

When we think of the worst heartaches our Protestant ancestors were forced to endure, a multitude of harsh realities come to mind. Physical harm was of course the foremost danger . . . torture and death was imminent for much of the Reformation’s early history. Yet we seldom ponder the emotional longing for equality. The sense of injustice. The desire to belong. Of course the early Protestants understood the concept of living “in the world, not of the world,” but it must have been difficult to walk through a city square and be immediately suspect. It could have been the clothing they wore. Their demeanor. Their conversation topics. A neighbor’s condemnation bringing the delicate subject of faith to light. Whatever the particular instances, humans have an innate desire to belong and to be treated as equals. It must have been painful and frustrating to not only be treated with indifference but to be mocked and vilified for their faith. 

On an entirely different note, in my post of April 04, I mentioned there was a man killed in the Matanzas massacre in Florida on October 12, 1565 named Monsieur Sainte Marie. Unfortunately I have been unable to discern his Christian name, but I discovered he was an officer connected to French explorer Jean Ribault’s entourage. He held the rank of captain. Thus there was a good chance that he was a man of high standing. Sadly, I can construct only his final moments. I can imagine the fear, the confusion, the indignation, and the numb sense of resignation that flashed through his mind as his hands were tied behind his back on that bloody beach. Yet I know nothing of his life, his family, his past adventures. I can only hope that such details will someday come to light.

(c) 2012 Joyously Saved