October 11, 2012

Casiodoro de Reina and the Spanish Bibles

Spain’s Casiodoro de Reina was no ordinary man. First, he had that unusual name, the origin of which I still have not discovered. Second, he was a 16^th century Spanish Protestant. To anyone who knows Reformation history or the Spain of that era, those two words create an oxymoron. This learned man had the advantage of having perused Scripture since childhood, thus being able to explain nuances and understand Biblical concepts that the average illiterate man would have been forbidden to grasp. He became a monk at age twenty-seven and joined the monastery of San Isidoro del Campo in Seville, Spain. This would prove to be the catalyst for a new life.

The monks at San Isidoro were no ordinary Catholic scholars. Many if not all were secret Protestants, translating Scripture, holding meetings in which they upheld the tenets of the Reformation. But in a rigidly orthodox country like Spain, under an absolutist Catholic ruler like Philip the Second, de Reina and his companions faced death. He thought he would be content in Geneva, John Calvin’s feted realm, but instead found various flaws. Perhaps his Lutheranism and Geneva’s Calvinism presented too great a hurdle. One of his largest concerns was that Calvinism in Geneva, like Catholicism in Spain, was attempting to assert too much control over its adherents, forming a religious prison of sorts. This he could not tolerate.

There was, of course, no place in heavily-Catholic countries for Protestants of the “new thought,” and de Reina, with Spanish friends who had also taken flight from their homeland, continued from city to city. Under a pen name de Reina was able to talk of things that he himself would have been forbidden to breach. In a bold move for the day, he advocated kindness even toward those considered to be “heretics” and supported author Sebastian Castellion, who said Christians should not show brutality even toward those who held unorthodox beliefs. Considering the prejudice and intolerance that ran rampant in all camps during the 16^th century, it was a daring statement indeed. He opened a potential can of worms by suggesting that the idea of Anabaptists dying at the hands of both Catholic and Protestant governments was sickening and ungodly.

De Reina next tried London. It was a good thing he was no longer living in Spain, as the Spanish considered him an arch-heretic and burned his effigy for good measure. The 1557 Index of Valentia, which proclaimed certain books off-limits to Spanish Catholics, swelled with de Reina’s works. He eventually moved to Frankfurt, Germany. Feeling confident enough to write against the Inquisition, he penned various literature decrying the cruelty of torture and other methods used on convicted Protestants.

All this activity was only leading up to Casiodoro de Reina’s greatest achievement: the Spanish Bible. While other men had a hand in these translations, de Reina was a leader, offering knowledge and insight. The average Spaniard of the 16^th century had never read the Bible for himself. Even if he would have done so, the Latin words would have been nearly incomprehensible to him. De Reina wanted to change that. He may have been exiled from his homeland, but he would give his countrymen the chance to learn what Martin Luther and the Reformation had truly taught.

At least two men had previously attempted a Spanish Bible, Juan Perez de Pineda and Francisco de Enzinas, and de Reina vigorously assimilated their works into his own. De Reina’s Spanish Bible hit the shelves, so to speak, in Switzerland in the late 1560s. He never set foot in Spain again, preferring to consider himself a Frankfurter and to become a full-fledged Lutheran. He died at the age of seventy-four. Ironically, many who had died in Spain for Protestant tendencies were killed for much lesser offenses, but de Reina, the “arch-heretic” who translated Scripture into the Spanish tongue, died elderly and much-fulfilled.

Even today his name is quite popular, as many current Spanish Bible translations bear the name “Reina-Valera.” The “Valera” refers to Cipriano de Valera. In 1602 this man, having toiled to improve de Reina’s version, completed the Reina-Valera translation. Today it is known as “Reina-Valera Antigua” and is available online and in print. Spanish-speaking Protestants will delight in the words and realize that even in the prejudicial Spain of the 16^th century, the bright embers of the Reformation found a few welcoming corners.

(c) 2012 Joyously Saved

October 10, 2012

Music To the Ears

There are Christian songs, and then there are powerful, gut-wrenching Christian songs that really drive home the truths of Scripture. A good friend of mine was looking up hymn lyrics a few days ago and came upon “Someday the Silver Cord Will Break” by Fanny Crosby. The last verse was an eye-opener: “Some day, till then I’ll watch and wait / My lamp all trimmed and burning bright / That when my Savior I will greet / My faith will then be changed to sight.”

I thought of my ancestors, and of others who sacrificed their homes, their goods, and often their lives for the purity of faith and the love of God. How else could they face the burning stake, the rushing waters, the hangman’s noose? How else could they say, clear-eyed and stout-hearted, “I will not convert”? How else could they retain that eerie calm and assurance even when their hours were numbered? Because they understood the truth in those words. “My faith will then be changed to sight.” That was all that mattered. No evil that man could inflict upon them could overtake the thrill of being enveloped in the Savior’s arms at the moment they gave their testimony.

Though they were weak, vulnerable, and oppressed, at that moment, when they understood what was expected of them and the sacrifice they were called to make, I believe they were stronger than we could ever hope to be.

(c) 2012 Joyously Saved

October 09, 2012

October 09, 2012

Book Review: “Strangers in the Land” by Louise A. Vernon

I am always on the lookout for fiction set in the 1500s, 1600s, and early 1700s, especially concerning my religious interests.  I recently embarked on the book “Strangers in the Land” by Louise A. Vernon and was pleasantly surprised. When I opened the small book, which is written for children and young adults, I worried it would be presented on a kid level. I was completely wrong. Though it does cater to a young audience by repeating and sometimes jumping too quickly from one event to another without explanation, the words were expertly crafted.

I must admit it was difficult for me to read, not due to any fault on the author’s part, but because I knew these kinds of things truly happened to my ancestors after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes. One of the fictional events in the book involved a mother with a baby in her arms being implored to give up her faith. When she refused, the dragoon commander cut a few hairs from the child’s head with his sword, and the mother, wishing safety for her and her children, agreed to convert. Another event was when a company of dragoons moved into the main character’s home. Billeting in Huguenot homes provided the king’s soldiers the opportunity to do as they pleased, to destroy Protestant books, harass family members, and take whatever items they wanted for themselves. “Strangers in the Land” details the main character’s indignation that his family’s belongings might be so casually reassigned.

And these things actually happened.

While I do not know if children as young as twelve and seven were assigned to prison, as the main character and his brother were in this tale, much of the narrative --- the family’s initial degradations, harassment by the dragoons, and escape to England and finally America --- is very much what happened in many Huguenot families of the time. The boy Pierre, through whose eyes the story is told, recounts how Protestant children were taken away to convents. He explains how words were twisted in such a way that one might obtain a “confession” from a child that he wished to become Catholic, thus taking him from his parents to train up in that faith. Though I am uncertain if that was the norm, I shudder to think of how my ancestors, two of whom fled with a very young child, must have received such news.

With this story I learned that just because a book may be a classic or written before my generation, it does not necessarily mean the reading will be dry, boring, superfluous, or difficult to understand. This one was a fine read. It was rather short --- I read through in a day and a half and many readers could probably take less time than that --- but meaty, definitely a good choice for anyone interested in the 1600s and the religious upheaval of that era.

(c) 2012 Joyously Saved

October 07, 2012

October 07, 2012

***NOTE: I will not be available tomorrow, so there will be no post on October 08^th***

A friend recently posed a question concerning how the French Catholics of 1565 felt about French Protestants being France’s representation in the New World. I immediately got the feeling that, as France wanted a toehold in Florida, they might have sent the “dregs of society” to the front lines, so to speak . . . like sending out the least-well-liked of a group of friends to scout for danger. If the colony failed, many might have shown less concern for these social and religious misfits than for their own people. That is not to say many French Catholics did not support the venture and perhaps even wish their countrymen well, however . . . it varied from family to family, and likely from region to region.

The French Crown did support the venture militarily and financially, but only with the promise that Spain would have no idea of the colony’s whereabouts. This, of course, would not be the case. I was also asked how the majority of Frenchmen reacted after the slaughters of La Caroline and Matanzas. Did they breathe a sigh of relief that “only Protestants” had been wiped out? Did they feel angry, betrayed, confused? (France and Spain were supposedly in a time of peace, though Spain admitted that such promises were not for Huguenots). There was in actuality a great public outcry, and many French Catholics were upset that such massacres had been enacted. Whether or not the majority felt the Protestants “deserved what they got,” they saw it as a stain on national honor, and they wanted revenge.

Family members of the slain men demanded reparations or at least some kind of memorial recognition. They got none. Queen Mother Catherine de’ Medici did express dismay and went to the king of Spain with her chastisements. Fearing war, she eventually let the matter drop. Friends and loved ones of the New World’s Huguenot martyrs were forced to bear their grief alone. In 1568 Dominique de Gourgues, acting less on Christian principle and more on a personal desire for revenge-his-way, led a reconnaissance mission that wiped out the Spanish settlement of San Mateo. San Mateo had been build over the ruins of the wrecked Fort de la Caroline near present-day Jacksonville, Florida.

(c) 2012 Joyously Saved

October 06, 2012

"Oldests" and "Firsts"

As St. Augustine, Florida, is my favorite historical vacation spot, I am accustomed to lots of “Old” this and “Oldest” that. Thus I started to wonder about each Reformation denomination’s oldest church in the United States. (There’s a mouthful: Reformation denomination. Catchy). Here is what my research yielded.

  

Some of the oldest churches in America:

      . . . Lutheran church: Augustus Lutheran Church, located in Trappe, Pennsylvania, was begun at the start of 1743 and semi-finished near the end of the year. Unable to wait any longer to hold services, the minister shepherded everyone inside a church that was basically empty and far from welcoming. Augustus Lutheran Church was finally finished in late 1745. Amazingly, this structure, dating from an era of Indian raids, inter-denominational squabbles, and harsh Pennsylvania winters, remains intact and can still be seen today.

      . . . Reformed church: Sadly, the oldest Reformed church no longer exists, and it appears as if the runner-up refers not to a church building itself but to a congregation. This is the First Church (North Dutch Church) in Albany, New York.

     . . . Anglican church: There seems to be some controversy over which is the oldest Anglican church . . . St. Phillip’s Episcopal Church in Charleston, South Carolina, Trinity Church in New York City, or Old North Church in Boston. There may be different criteria, i.e. one may be the oldest building, one may be the oldest congregation, etc., but I’m not sure.

     . . . Anabaptist church: Though there are no “Anabaptist” churches in that particular capacity, the oldest Mennonite house of worship is located in Germantown, Pennsylvania, and was constructed in 1770.

  

Since I found these studies fascinating, I thought it might be interesting to see which where the oldest denominational churches in the world, and what I found was intriguing.

  

The oldest churches in the world:

      . . . Lutheran church: Haemelschenburg Castle Church, called the “oldest Lutheran church in the world still in use.” Located in Emmerthal, Germany, this impressive church has been utilized by a Lutheran congregation since the 1500s.

  

      . . . Reformed church: There is no “oldest Reformed church” per se, but the oldest “Reformed congregation,” which considers itself to have been Protestant before the Protestant Reformation and before Calvinism, is that of the Waldensian or Bohemian Church. (The Moravian Church has made similar claims, thus I do not know enough about their doctrines to say if they would consider themselves ‘Reformed’ or not).

     . . . Anglican church: Peartree Church, found in Southampton, England. This beautiful stone church was constructed in 1618. Many will agree there is something intensely spiritual and mysterious about old stone churches, and Peartree certainly lives up to its history.

     . . . Anabaptist church: An ancient Anabaptist church can be found in Langnau, Emmental, Switzerland, said to be the first of its kind. At this time I am unable to find much information.

(c) 2012 Joyously Saved

October 05, 2012

"Nieuw Amsterdam" and the Reformed Church: New York City’s Religious Heritage

When studying 17^th century America I see a distinct pattern: English on the eastern seaboard; Spanish in Florida; and French in Louisiana, Alabama, and “New France.” But I often fail to remember that there was actually a very important Dutch presence in America as well. The Dutch had had quite an ugly falling-out with their Spanish overlords and had refused to be subjected to Catholicism. Adopting Calvinism, they threw in their lot with those much-accustomed to persecution and thus became part of the Reformation heritage. The Reformed Protestant Dutch Church came into power in New Amsterdam (Manhattan Island, New York) in the early 1600s. French Huguenots flocked to the settlement, often with Dutch spouses.

 Like the English, the Protestant Dutch checked the New World presence of the Catholic French and Spanish. Though their contributions have sadly been given scant attention, it was their presence that cemented the Reformed Church of America, which is still going strong today. Concerning New Amsterdam and 17^th century dogma, I am uncertain of what level of religious tolerance there might have been. I laughed when I wondered if I and the majority of my ancestors, as Lutherans, would have been welcome. The 17^th century was a time of persecution. Yet perhaps there would have been some tolerance, as Protestants tended to stick together. They had certainly learned that attempts to step “outside the box” and fit in with their neighbors often ended badly.

So how important was the 17^th century Dutch presence on Manhattan Island? Very. Although the Dutch faded from the scene rather quickly and little remains of their heritage, they still helped carve out early America and had a huge hand in its colonization. Can it be proven that they were even there? Many documents still exist that testify to the presence of early Dutch Reformed and Huguenot settlers on Manhattan Island. In some cases, these letters are fascinating and detailed glimpses into the settlers’ lives. Underneath 21^st century glitz and glamour, New York City and its environs hosts more history than most might be aware of.

(c) 2012 Joyously Saved

October 04, 2012

Faithful Unto Death: Different Countries, Different Ideologies, Same Devotion

At first glance it might seem that the two following people had nothing in common. One was a man and one was woman. He was French and she was Belgian. One met their match at the gallows and one perished in the roiling waters. But their stories had eerie similarities . . .

His name was Anne de Bourg. (Yes, Anne was a man). Like many eminent Protestants of the 16^th century, he may have believed that his position of authority excluded him from the chopping block or from an equally gory fate. Yet that proved not to be the case. Perhaps he was imprisoned because he had tried to hide his Huguenot tendencies. Perhaps it was because he was dangerously outspoken against those who initiated persecution, while he attempted to protect the persecuted.

At any rate, Anne du Bourg, who had previously been an influential figure, faced a hanging. Friends and followers begged for his release. They were unheard. But du Bourg had his say. Before the end, he gave a rousing short farewell that spoke of his love for the gospel. As an observer noted, “His one speech did more harm to the Catholic Church than a hundred ministers could have done.” Thus was Anne du Bourg slain on the 23^rd of December, 1559. After death by hanging, he was burned, obliterating his earthly body. But none could touch his soul.

Her name was Cornelia van Rommerswael, but she was known as Neelken Jacobs. Her status as a newly-delivered mother did not protect her. She had already lost her husband, Adriaen Pan, who died a martyr just ten days before her. Neelken and Adriaen had been relatively unbothered in their former home of Flanders, it seems, but for some reason they made the decision to settle in Antwerp. This proved to be deadly. At first all must have seemed well . . . a beloved child was expected and would soon be delivered. But that child, when delivered, would come to know neither its father nor its mother. Neelken was martyred for her Anabaptist beliefs on the 28^th of June 1559, drowned at Antwerp. This was a cruel punishment mostly reserved for Anabaptists.

So what do Anne du Bourg and Neelken Jacobs have in common? Faith. Their tenets were very different . . . had they met in person, there would have been a myriad of arguments, no doubt. Yet they both clung to faiths set in place by the Reformation. They both loved their Savior enough to die for Him. They both placed higher priority on remaining faithful to God and to conscience than on their very lives, even though both had so much to live for.

They had so much more in common than they would have ever realized.

(c) 2012 Joyously Saved