June 18, 2012

St. Augustine's Founder is Not My Cup of Tea


In St. Augustine, Florida, the Nation’s Oldest City, there is an impressive bronze statue that sits in front of a museum / city hall that was once an impressive Victorian hotel. City founder Pedro Menéndez de Avilés y Alonso de la Campa stands proudly atop the base in 16^th century glory. There are wreath-laying ceremonies, birthday celebrations, and Founders Day shout-outs to this man, yet somehow in this fanfare the conquistador’s darker nature is ignored. This is the part we should never forget. In September and October 1565, beginning at the bloodbath at French Fort Caroline and ending with the second massacre at Matanzas near St. Augustine, Florida, he was responsible for hundreds of Protestant deaths. And there is no doubt about that fact.

An 1858 guide book by George Fairbanks, entitled “The history and antiquities of the city of St. Augustine, Florida, founded A.D. 1565” sums it up quite well: The Adelentado, taking Jean Ribault behind the sand hills, among the bushes where the others had their hands tied behind them, he said to these and all the others as he had done before, that they had four leagues to go after night, and that he could not permit them to go unbound; and after they were all tied, he asked if they were Catholics or Lutherans, or if any of them desired to make confession.

He goes on: Jean Ribault replied, ‘that all who were there were of the new religion,’ and he then began to repeat the psalm, ‘Domine! Memento Mei;’ and having finished, he said, ‘that from dust they came and to dust they must return, and that in twenty years, more or less, he must render his final account; that the Adelentado might do with them as he chose.’ The Adelentado then ordered all to be killed, in the same order and at the same mark, as had been done to the others. He spared only the fifers, drummers, and trumpeters, and four others who said that they were Catholics, in all, sixteen persons.

Fairbanks further writes: At some point on the thickly-wooded shores of the Island of Anastasio, or beneath the shifting mounds of sand which mark its shores, may still lie the bones of some of the three hundred and fifty who, spared from destruction by the tempest, and escaping the perils of the sea and the savage, fell victims to the vindictive rancor and blind rage of one than whom history recalls none more cruel, or less humane. But while their bones, scattered on earth and sea, unhonored and unburied, were lost to human sight, the tale of their destruction and sad fate, scattered in like manner over the whole world, has raised to their memory through sympathy with their fate, a memorial which will endure as long as the pages of history.

Left: Pedro Menendez de Aviles at Lightner Museum in downtown St. Augustine
Right: Jean Ribault's massacre marker at Matanzas

This is Pedro Menéndez de Avilés’ legacy. I have heard (although I have not yet had the chance to substantiate it) that the faculty of Flagler College, a historic liberal arts college in St. Augustine that was once built as a hotel by Victorian mogul Henry Flagler, has in the past refused to pay homage to Menéndez because of his butchery of the Huguenots. But what of the “unknown assassins”? What of the Spanish soldiers who not only thought they were doing their religious duty but did it gladly, deriving pleasure from it, then returning to St. Augustine and kissing their wives and children before gleefully building their newly-founded colony?

Forgiving is not forgetting. 

There is much talk of Menéndez’s accomplishments and little of those he had put to death. His memory is exalted; theirs are obscured. Whenever I see a statue or portrait of Menéndez I think of Huguenot men of all ages kneeling on the beaches of Matanzas with their hands tied behind them. I think of the bloodbath that Menéndez not only ordered but almost certainly took part in, and of the unceremonious way the Protestant victims were left and forgotten. No voice. No rights, even to life. No chance. Yet this Spanish Captain-general gained popularity in the following generations and took on an important place in St. Augustine. This has always been greatly disturbing to me. 

Some might choose to show honor to Menéndez’s impressive commemorative statue in downtown St. Augustine, but I much prefer a quieter, more secluded spot . . . the hidden dunes and old markers proclaiming that nearly two hundred and fifty men chose death over conversion and remained true to their faith. I would rather respect them for their courage and mourn the passing of men with dreams in their eyes and the hope of freedom in their hearts. Pedro Menéndez de Avilés and his conquistadors have become larger than life despite their evil deeds. What of those they killed so unjustly? Jean Ribault’s legacy is something I would much rather admire. ‘Lord, remember Jean Ribault,’ the ill-fated French commander said, personalizing David’s Psalm 132. I know the Lord will. And I will as well.

(c) 2012 Joyously Saved

June 17, 2012

The Lutheran Book of Prayer

A while ago I received a small, burgundy-colored hardbound book called the “Lutheran Book of Prayer,” but I have neglected to really “get into” it until now. The very first thing I read inside the book proved to be inspirational. It was a quote from Martin Luther, written in 1537, and is so very true: “Let this be for you an encouragement, that with all diligence and earnestness it may become your habit to pray. For next to the preaching of the Gospel, in which God speaks with us and gives us all His grace and blessings, the highest and foremost work we can do is to speak with Him through prayer and receive from Him what He gives us.”

The Lutheran Book of Prayer is a great little volume for those seeking specific prayers. Some of the sections include prayers for the church, prayers for the world, and prayers of the sick. Some sections include morning and evening prayers for each day of the week. While many might not be able to “use” some of the prayers for specific organizations and in particular situations, there are also “generalized” tidbits such as “Selected Psalms” and the Ecumenical Creeds (those that every Christian, no matter the denomination, is expected to confess). The creeds include the Athanasian Creed and the Nicene Creed. 

I happened to come across part of the “Prayers For Our World, Nation, and Community” chapter, the prayer for our armed forces: “O Creator of the universe, You did not form Adam from the dust of the world so that his children would spill their brothers’ blood in that dust.” My mind flew immediately to the St. Bartholomew’s Day massacre and the many atrocities committed during the Reformation era and beyond. The light of the Gospel came only with great bloodshed. It is impossible to read the thoughts of Luther (this book is made up of many of his writings), Calvin, and other Reformers without remembering the dead. 

All in all, while I often forget the gems hidden within it, I think the Lutheran Book of Prayer is a nice little volume through which one must wade to get to the “good stuff,” the things that are relevant to each individual life. To my fellow Lutherans, consider it money well spent.

(c) 2012 Joyously Saved

June 16, 2012

Louis, Prince de Condé: Huguenot Prince

Louis is considered by many to be the “third wheel” in the Huguenot triumvirate of 16^th century French Protestant leaders. In that time of mayhem and unbridled violence it was necessary that France’s beleaguered Huguenots might have a strong set of ringleaders to guard their rights, defend the faith, and provide social protection. The two other members of this unofficial group, Jeanne d’Albret (see my post of June 04), and Admiral Gaspard de Coligny (see my post of March 09) were also powerful movers and shakers who kept the Huguenots’ tenacious hold at least partially secure throughout the rampant brutality of the era.

But who was Louis de Condé? He was born to Charles de Bourbon in 1530 and was the brother of Antoine, who famously married Jeanne d’Albret and firmly refused to give a thought to her Protestant doctrines. Thus, Louis was the uncle of that lion of the Wars of Religion, Henri IV de Navarre. A few prominent members of Louis’ branch of the Bourbon family tree, the Condés, became known for their unabashed Protestantism and were despised because of that fact.

Louis’ record was far from spotless. In 1560 he allegedly took part in a plot to kidnap boy-king François II. The end result of this plot would have been involved becoming more powerful than the hated House of Guise, which was firmly entrenched in Huguenot minds as a Catholic faction much in need of a walloping dose of humility. This clandestine plot fell short and was seen by wary Catholics as a threat to the fabric of French society; many Protestants lost their lives due to this altercation.

The Wars of Religion raged in the 1560s, when Louis was only in his third decade of life. He proved himself an able officer but was taken prisoner at the Battle of Dreux. Apparently he was still in some position of influence, for at the age of thirty-three he was called upon to approve the Peace of Amboise. This edict allowed the Huguenots to breathe a sigh of relief, for it decreed freedom at least in part. Louis wormed his way into court affairs quite persuasively and agreed to curtain Huguenot ambitions so he might find himself better accepted by the French Crown. When a hoped-for promotion did not come, he fled in 1567 and found himself once again swept up in the Wars of Religion.

Louis I, Prince de Conde

His life and death may have seemed contrary to one another at this point. At first he failed Admiral Coligny’s aspirations by approving the controversial Peace of Longjumeau in 1568, but then, in 1569, he found himself rushing to strengthen Coligny’s defenses and rescue the very man whom he had recently disappointed. It would be the last decision we would ever make. While we might be tempted to praise the Huguenot triumph that resulted from his final battle, Louis de Condé’s end, sadly, was far from heroic. He was assassinated in a scrap that stemmed from the battle, and his body was abused and mocked in turn. It was an impious end to a once-powerful man.

What of Louis the man as opposed to Louis the prince and soldier? Contemporaries said he was hunchbacked, a fact which must have earned him much ridicule throughout his life. A contemporary portrait shows a man with reddish hair swept seamlessly up over his head, and a carefully-trimmed mustache and short beard. His dark eyes, heavily-lidded, show an expression that can almost be called tiredness, while his nose is prominent but not overly so. He is dressed in the conservative Huguenot fashion --- a black ensemble that reaches to the throat and is topped with a modest lace ruff --- and some sort of neck-chain.

I often look at portraits of Protestants who lived in this era and see the knowledge, forewarning, and perhaps tired acceptance in their eyes that martyrdom most assuredly awaits them. While Louis de Condé avoided such an end, his own death was far from glamorous. He was only thirty-nine at that event. He left a wife, Francoise d’Orleans, and sons Charles, Louis, and Benjamin. His first two sons were three and two at their father’s death. The last son was born the year Louis died. 

He had also had eight children from a previous marriage. Rumors that he had had a child with his mistress dogged his young adult life. Louis himself refused to admit it. We are still uncertain of the truth. What is certain is that he did indeed engage in practices that were contrary to the Huguenot sense of austerity. At the death of Louis de Condé, France’s Protestants lost an able leader. They would still have Admiral Gaspard de Coligny for another three years. 

His end would be even less heroic.


(c) 2012 Joyously Saved

June 15, 2012

“The Church in the Desert”

After the revocation of the Edict of Nantes in October 1685, Protestants in France found there was a third option besides converting to Catholicism or being killed for their beliefs; they blended quietly into the background, moving outside of the cities and towns, worshiping in the open air and settling in rugged mountainside villages that were easily defensible and where their presence would not easily be detected.

Many Huguenot families escaped to the Cévennes region. They roamed the wild vistas and set up shop in the prehistoric gorges. Many might have seen it odd that such a clandestine lifestyle was still necessary. Sectarian violence was expected of the Reformation-era 16^th century and perhaps even the religiously-explosive 17^th century, but by the mid 1700s it would seem that the world had entered a time of relative civility. 

Yet persecution still raged for the Huguenots in this “civilized” era, with periods of relative peace punctuated by sudden and dreaded raids by successive generations of dragoons. Ministers who were caught preaching the Gospel in the Reformed manner were often hanged or otherwise jailed. The Huguenot pastors of this time were particularly courageous. Though harassment was no longer as widespread as it once was, the possibility of martyrdom was still in existence even throughout the 1750s and beyond, and the Huguenots of the Cévennes were prepared to follow their ancestors’ example. 

There were times that the Protestants of Cévennes remembered the Huguenot victories during the Wars of Religion and fought back, such as the rebellion of the Camisards (Huguenots of Cévennes) in 1702. After the “Great Burning of the Cévennes,” which took place in 1703, the Protestants dug deeper into their clandestine pastoral life and continued their wilderness wandering.

Why was this time of hiding known as the “church in the desert”? This was supposedly due to Scriptural references to the Hebrews meandering through the desert sands for forty years. Like the Israelites, God heard, protected, and provided for the Huguenots even during these days of neglect and intolerance. The “desert years” ended in 1787 with the publishing of the Edict of Versailles. Though their troubles were not entirely over, the Huguenots were, for nearly the first time in their existence, finally considered French citizens.

(c) 2012 Joyously Saved

June 14, 2012

The Power Behind the Words

They are such simple words, “grace” and “faith.” “Grace” comes from the Old French “grace”, meaning “pardon” or “mercy.” This word was taken from the Latin “gratia.” “Faith” came from the Old French “foi”, meaning “belief” and “trust.” “Foi”, in turn, stemmed from the Latin word “fides.” Such simple words, aren’t they? But “grace” and “faith” are two of the most powerful words in Scripture simply because of the God-breathed way in which they were put together. “For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith.” Powerful stuff!

I often think we cannot even begin to comprehend God’s mercy and love, the far-undeserved lifeline He threw out to us by making such a beautiful statement. “By grace through faith” is such an amazing and revolutionary concept . . . and, in the case of our early Protestant ancestors, it was to die for. The Reformers had nothing but praise for this most merciful offering. Martin Luther said, “Faith is a living, daring confidence in God’s grace, so sure and certain that a man could stake his life on it a thousand times.” 

Amen and amen.

(c) 2012 Joyously Saved

June 13, 2012

Often while I am researching the 1500s and the Reformation era, I think of the St. Bartholomew’s Day massacre, and it brings tears to my eyes. It is an utterly disturbing thought that we should forget the horrific massacres that colored Protestant history. The St. Bartholomew’s stands out as “the Big One.” Thousands of nameless victims were slaughtered in Paris and beyond. French Protestants must have believed the world was ending. They were massacred simply for their faith, by the same men they had likely spoken with and exchanged pleasantries with just a few hours before. Few crimes against our Reformation predecessors of various denominations and perhaps even against our ancestors have been so great, and this event must never be forgotten. 

Following is a poem I wrote:

The Stones Cry Out

(c) Joyously Saved

Where did the houses stand, tottering half-timbers, in that hot August of 1572?

The homes where visiting Huguenot families dreamed grand dreams

And were so violently awakened at the bell’s toll and the assassin’s knock?

Are their foundations still soaked with blood, silent ghosts clawing at the stones?

How long did the screams echo as men and women were cut down one by one?

Risen from bed in nightshirts or naked, killed in their own peaceful chambers

Or dragged to the shadow-darkened blood-drenched streets and silenced?

Where was justice to acquit them of the non-crime of Protestantism?

Where did the blood of innocents flow, washed down the grimy streets

Numbly watched by uncaring passers-by who marveled at the sight?
Where are the ancient stone walls against which the blood was splashed

And the foundations where the slain were once heaped with abandon?

When did twisting medieval streets once choked with the dead become clean

When did the horrific sights of endless injustice and carnage end?

Where did their earthly temples go, unceremoniously buried by laughing laborers?

Why is there no trace of the massacre in today’s bright and precocious Paris

And no overwhelming desire to remember and mourn for the dead?

Grand old Saint-German l’Auxerrois still stands, thinking herself absolved

From her turrets rang the bell that began a massacre without parallel

Smugly she overshadows Parisian streets; did the walls cry out in protest?

How many other foundations remain, bloodstained and spirit-choked

As witnesses to the horrific “cleansing” Parisian zealots so desired?

Or has the old given way to the new and such notions been lost?

Where did they fall? Where did they cry out? Where did their souls take flight?

Where did they pass from the living to the dead, to Christ’s unending mercy?

Where did the inferno break loose on earth, urged on by the spirit of destruction?

(c) 2012 Joyously Saved

June 12, 2012

Good Christian fiction concerning the Huguenots is hard to come by. It’s been my experience that many such books are written in what I call “old-speak” and are difficult to “get into.” Those that remain are few and far between. I have, however, chosen Golden Keyes Parsons’ “In the Shadow of the Sun King” as my second-favorite book. (I reviewed my favorite, Miles Harvey’s “Painter in a Savage Land,” in my post of May 23). 

“In the Shadow of the Sun King” begins in the 1670s, as France’s Protestants are nearing the “boiling point” that will explode into the rights-revoking Edict of Fontainebleau in 1685. The family in question is the Clavells. The main characters are Madeleine Vaudois-Clavell, her husband François Clavell, their children Evangeline (Vangie), Charles, and Philippe, François’ loyal brother Jean, a cruel dragoon commander named Paul Bovée, and Paul’s illegitimate adult son Pierre. 

Each character was lovingly and three-dimensionally crafted, which is always a gift. They were believable and interesting people I could have known; not stiff and stereotyped as many book characters have the misfortune of being. I must confess that strong-minded, proud, faithful Madeleine was actually not my favorite character in this book. Rather, I liked François Clavell best. He was a genuine believer, gentle but strong, the sort of gentleman who was not afraid to stand up for his beliefs. In fact, the book intimates that he and Madeleine first met when he was a very young man escaping persecution. 

There were many places throughout the tale that François was tempted to convert in order to restore peace to his family, but his quiet and steadfast refusal to do so, along with the tender spirit with which Ms. Parsons so ingeniously infused him, endeared him to me. I also enjoyed the parts featuring Francois’ courteous and witty brother Jean, though he made some choices that I was very uncomfortable with (read the book to find out!).

Long story short, dragonnades (King Louis XIV’s Catholic soldiers known for their brutality toward the Protestant families in whose homes they billeted) take over the Clavell estate, resulting in flight for Jean, Philippe and Charles and bullying for everyone else. Young children were often kidnapped and sent to convents and monasteries in this time. Madeleine, who has a romantic history with Louis that may have been more serious than anyone anticipates, attempts to restore the king’s favor to her family and to stop the cruelty. After many twists and turns François is slated to be a galley slave (one of the worst tortures a Protestant could suffer, as it was considered to be a long and drawn-out death).

I loved the way Ms. Parsons wrote, the way she “colored” her characters, and the way that there was no end to either thought-provoking dialogue or fast-paced adventure. The people were so real that they could have lived in modern times just as well as the 17^th century, but they never went “out of their element” . . . luckily she refrained from modern terminology and even added a few French words for authenticity’s sake. 

The sad part was that every sort of horrific event of which she writes actually happened. Children were taken from their parents. Houses were desecrated and burned. Families were accosted continuously while soldiers billeted in their homes. Louis XIV did make life for French Protestants worse than death. “In the Shadow of the Sun King” did not mince words while describing how difficult times were, but I as a reader was caught between drama, excitement, and intrigue, so the story did its job.

The sequel, “A Prisoner of Versailles,” was also good but not quite as gut-grabbing as the first. And the third in the series, “Where Hearts Are Free,” which deals with a grown-up Philippe Clavell making a life in America, was not one of my favorites either. But “In the Shadow of the Sun King” is definitely in my top five!

(c) 2012 Joyously Saved