The Burning Time

by Virginia Rounding

  Article X, Of Free-Will, is an example of an attempt to hold opposing views in balance: ‘The condition of Man after the fall of Adam is such, that he cannot turn and prepare himself, by his own natural strength and good works, to faith, and calling upon God: Wherefore we have no power to do good works pleasant and acceptable to God, without the grace of God by Christ preventing us, that we may have a good will, and working with us, when we have that good will.’ So we do not of ourselves have free will, but when we have the grace of God bestowed on us by Christ (‘preventing’ meaning ‘going before’ rather than having its modern meaning of ‘hindering’) then we do have free will to do good. It is an elegant answer to a question constantly argued over in the mid-sixteenth century.

  Article XI, Of the Justification of Man, affirms the Protestant doctrine of justification by faith alone, so central to Luther’s teaching, defended by Tyndale and preached by Little Bilney: ‘We are accounted righteous before God, only for the merit of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ by Faith, and not for our own works or deservings: Wherefore, that we are justified by Faith only is a most wholesome Doctrine, and very full of comfort.’ But then, in the following Article, good works are commended too, as stemming from faith and pleasing to God, even though they ‘cannot put away our sins’. Article XIII, Of Works before Justification, makes it clear that ‘works’ can only really be good if they follow from grace and faith. These three articles together, along with the next one which condemns the idea that people can reap virtue by allegedly doing more good works than they are called to do, neatly resolves the difficulty of affirming that good works do not of themselves ‘justify’ while avoiding the anarchy of saying there is no need to perform them.

  One of the most contentious doctrinal disputes of the Reformation concerned so-called Predestination and Election, and it is these with which Article XVII deals. This is one of the longer articles, and it largely consists of setting out the problem: while ‘godly persons’ who ‘feel in themselves the working of the Spirit of Christ’ may be comforted by the idea that they have been ‘chosen’, others – particularly ‘curious and carnal persons’ – may find this doctrine drives them either to desperation or to the pursuit of ‘most unclean living’, because there is no point in trying to do anything else. The Anglican answer does seem to be something of an evasion in this case; the Article concludes with the injunction to perform ‘the Will of God’ as ‘expressly declared unto us in the Word of God’; the implication is that we shouldn’t worry too much about whether or not all is ‘predestined’, but accept the promises of God ‘as they be generally set forth to us in holy Scripture’.

  The doctrine of purgatory and all practices associated with it are roundly condemned in Article XXII: ‘The Romish Doctrine concerning Purgatory, Pardons, Worshipping, and Adoration, as well of Images as of Relics, and also invocation of Saints, is a fond thing vainly invented, and grounded upon no warranty of Scripture, but rather repugnant to the Word of God.’ Despite its unequivocal tone, this is an Article regularly disregarded by the current Catholic, or ‘High Church’, wing of Anglicanism.

  Those martyrs, such as John Rogers and John Bradford, who made such a point of condemning the use of Latin in church are fully vindicated by Article XXIV: ‘It is a thing plainly repugnant to the Word of God, and the custom of the Primitive Church, to have public Prayer in the Church, or to minister the Sacraments in a tongue not understanded of the people.’

  Article XXV, Of the Sacraments, comes down firmly in favour of there being ‘two Sacraments ordained of Christ our Lord in the Gospel, that is to say, Baptism, and the Supper of the Lord’. There are another five ‘commonly called Sacraments’ – that is, ‘Confirmation, Penance, Orders, Matrimony, and extreme Unction’ – but, though these are not in any way forbidden, they are ‘not to be counted for Sacraments of the Gospel’. One thing, however, is definitely frowned upon: ‘The Sacraments were not ordained of Christ to be gazed upon, or to be carried about.’ Although such a clear stricture would have delighted Anne Askew, who had declared to William Paget in 1546: ‘though he did say there, Take, eat this in remembrance of me. Yet did he not bid them hang up that bread in a box, and make it a God, or bow to it’, it is another which is regularly ignored by Catholic Anglicans.

  There is the hint of an allusion to the parable of the wheat and tares in the opening words of Article XXVI, Of the Unworthiness of the Ministers which hinders not the effect of the Sacrament: ‘Although in the visible Church the evil be ever mingled with the good …’, and this perhaps suggests that the Anglican interpretation of the parable is that the tares are to be left there, to be dealt with by Christ on the Day of Judgement, and not before.

  Article XXVIII deals with the central question of what Bishops Bonner and Gardiner termed ‘the sacrament of the altar’, though that term is resolutely not used here, and the emphasis is on the action, the sharing of the bread and wine by the people, and not on the nature of the elements themselves: ‘insomuch that to such as rightly, worthily, and with faith, receive the same, the Bread which we break is a partaking of the Body of Christ; and likewise the Cup of Blessing is a partaking of the Blood of Christ’. The doctrine of transubstantiation is explicitly rejected: ‘Transubstantiation (or the change of the substance of Bread and Wine) in the Supper of the Lord, cannot be proved by holy Writ; but is repugnant to the plain words of Scripture, overthroweth the nature of a Sacrament, and hath given occasion to many superstitions.’ The description of what does occur is entirely in line with what Anne Askew and other Protestants insisted during their interrogations: ‘The Body of Christ is given, taken, and eaten, in the Supper, only after an heavenly and spiritual manner. And the mean whereby the Body of Christ is received and eaten in the Supper is Faith.’ So important is the rejection of the sacrament of the altar as an object of veneration in itself that the stricture already uttered in Article XXV is repeated here: ‘The Sacrament of the Lord’s Supper was not by Christ’s ordinance reserved, carried about, lifted up, or worshipped.’ Game, set and match to the Protestant martyrs, you might think – and yet … neither this Article nor Article XXV expressly forbids the reservation, carrying about, lifting up or worshipping of the sacrament – they just state such things were ‘not by Christ’s ordinance’. This opens the way to a very Anglican compromise, perhaps, or to the turning of a blind eye towards those who like that sort of thing, even if no such compromise was envisaged by the members of the convocation who compiled the Articles, under the direction of Archbishop Matthew Parker, in 1563.

  Article XXXI, Of the one Oblation of Christ finished upon the Cross, rejects the Catholic idea of the Eucharist being offered as a sacrifice rather than a commemoration, while Article XXXII, Of the Marriage of Priests, leaves the decision of whether or not to marry up to the individual bishop, priest or deacon, just as with ‘all other Christian men’.

  One of the most interesting of the Articles in the light of all the bitter controversies that preceded the Elizabethan Settlement is Article XXXIV, Of the Traditions of the Church, which begins with an apparent embracing of difference: ‘It is not necessary that Traditions and Ceremonies be in all places one, and utterly like; for at all times they have been diverse, and may be changed according to the diversities of countries, times, and men’s manners, so that [i.e. ‘provided that’] nothing be ordained against God’s Word.’ Nevertheless, such apparent latitude comes with a stern caveat; the individual is not thereby empowered to do what he pleases: ‘Whosoever through his private judgement, willingly and purposely, doth openly break the traditions and ceremonies of the Church, which be not repugnant to the Word of God, and be ordained and approved by common authority, ought to be rebuked openly, (that others may fear to do the like,) as he that offendeth against the common order of the Church, and hurteth the authority of the Magistrate, and woundeth the consciences of the weak brethren.’ It is offending against ‘the common order’ and the undermining of authority that constitute the most serious threats, accordin
g to the compilers of the Articles, to the Church and, it is implied, to society as a whole. The privileging of personal conscience over collective authority is never, almost by definition, acceptable to the Establishment.

  Article XXXVII affirms the rule of law, repeats that ‘The Bishop of Rome hath no jurisdiction in this Realm of England’ and affirms the lawfulness of capital punishment ‘for heinous and grievous offences’. (I would imagine that many Anglicans who think they accept the Thirty-Nine Articles have a) not read them recently, if ever, and b) are unaware they contain this endorsement of capital punishment.) This same Article also states that Christians (or, rather, ‘Christian men’) may fight in wars, if so commanded by ‘the Magistrate’. Article XXXVIII refutes the Anabaptists’ claim that property should be held in common: ‘The Riches and Goods of Christians are not common, as touching the right, title, and possession of the same, as certain Anabaptists do falsely boast. Notwithstanding, every man ought, of such things as he possesseth, liberally to give alms to the poor, according to his ability.’ The final Article deals with the question of whether or not Christians may swear oaths (an uncertainty which had led Reginald Eastland to refuse to answer during his interrogation), and concludes that they may indeed do so, when required to by a magistrate.

  Despite these religious questions being allegedly ‘settled’ for the Church of England under Elizabeth I, from time to time the old enmities emerge, even in the City of London, with evangelical Protestants and liberal Catholics (both of the Anglican variety) holding apparently irreconcilable views and, if not actually setting fire to one another, trying to incinerate with words. When one of Sir John Deane’s successors as Rector of St Bartholomew’s blessed the civil partnership of two gay priests in 2008, for instance, the reaction from some of the evangelical clergy and laity of the City Deanery was fierce and uncompromising. In an ‘open statement’, they declared ‘with great sadness’ that they could not recognize the Rector of St Bartholomew’s as ‘a teacher of the same gospel as ours’. In his response, Deane’s successor alluded to the parable of the wheat and tares, and to the Donatist heresy: ‘To the representatives from St Helen Bishopsgate, St Peter-upon-Cornhill, and St Botolph-without-Aldersgate, I say this: We become Donatists if we doubt the faithfulness and promises of God. We do it if we think the Gospel is ours and not the Gospel of Jesus Christ. We do it if we think we, and we alone, are the good seed and everyone who does not agree with us is no better than weeds.’ And he asks the old question of how this parable is to be interpreted, in words that would not have been out of place in any of the ‘examinations’ of the sixteenth-century martyrs: ‘Is this City of London the world? Is this present time the harvest? Are the representatives of these City churches the reapers?’ He even makes a direct reference to the burning time in pointing out the dangers of such disputations in the Church: ‘Perhaps we do have one claim to superiority in Smithfield: experience tells us that it is dangerous to judge others, to pronounce them unchristian, to declare fellowship fractured, to rend the Body of Christ – it leads to the fires that consume the martyrs. We know that because it is a shameful part of our history.’

  The Bishop of London, Dr Richard Chartres, while perhaps longing to emulate his predecessor Bishop Bonner by depositing all concerned in a coalhouse to cool off, restricted himself to writing a cross letter, which he made public (in fact it appeared in a national newspaper before the intended recipient had actually read it himself) and in which he asserts: ‘The point at issue is not Civil Partnerships themselves or the relation of biblical teaching to homosexual practice. There is of course a range of opinion on these matters in the Church and, as you know, homophobia is not tolerated in the Diocese of London. The real issue is whether you wilfully defied the discipline of the Church and broke your oath of canonical obedience to your Bishop.’ Bishop Chartres concluded his letter: ‘I have already asked the Archdeacon of London to commence the investigation and I shall be referring the matter to the Chancellor of the Diocese. Before I do this, I am giving you an opportunity to make representations to me direct.’ Rather like Bishop Bonner when faced with a recalcitrant heretic whom he nevertheless hoped to be able to pardon rather than burn, Bishop Chartres seemed to be trying to offer a way to the Rector of St Bartholomew’s to dig himself out of a hole. The rector duly ‘recanted’ – in so far as he promised not to conduct such a service again, at least as long as it remains contrary to Anglican teaching, and further confrontation between the City Deanery’s liberal and evangelical factions was averted through a tacit agreement to say nothing. In the meantime, shifts in public opinion and an increased emphasis on equalities of all kinds continue to have an effect on attitudes in the Church as in the rest of society, and what was considered anathema in 2008 may well be common practice by 2020, even if some people leave the Church of England as a result. This particular controversy could not possibly have occurred in the sixteenth century – everyone would have been on the same side – but it does serve to illustrate, particularly in the references to the parable of the wheat and tares, that some of the old fault lines are still there and occasionally give rise to tremors. (And, as I write, I read that an old acquaintance of mine from my student days, Canon Jeremy Davies, formerly precentor of Salisbury Cathedral, has just been refused permission to officiate in the diocese of Winchester because he has married his male partner of thirty years; this, then, is the present-day equivalent of all those clergy who had taken wives during the reign of Edward VI and who were deprived of their livings under Mary.)

  If a ‘gay wedding’ can start to provoke language that would not have been out of place in sixteenth-century ecclesiastical disputes, allegations of ‘abuse’ of various kinds can sound even more like accusations of heresy, and inquiries into such abuse appear to take on the attributes of a heresy quest. We may not now be able to comprehend how a misplaced word about the ‘sacrament of the altar’ could lead to being on trial for one’s life, but it requires no leap of the imagination to think of the possible consequences of, for instance, admitting to curiosity about child pornography or wondering, out loud and in the wrong company, whether we have got it right to construe any sexual relation between an adult and someone under the age of sixteen as abuse. We no longer burn people, but we do attempt to silence them – and ourselves.

  Anglicanism has continued to evolve since the days of Elizabeth I and, particularly since the mid-nineteenth century, when the so-called Oxford Movement sought to re-emphasize an awareness of the Church of England as part of the ‘one Catholic and Apostolic Church’, many ‘Catholic’ practices have become an accepted part of the liturgy of a significant minority of Anglican churches. And so, on the evening of Sunday 6 December 2015, as on many Sunday evenings in the last fifteen or so years, I kneel in the sanctuary at St Bartholomew the Great, amid clouds of incense, at Benediction, when the ‘most holy sacrament of the altar’ is placed in a monstrance to be gazed at in adoration by priest and people, and then lifted up by the priest in blessing. Somewhere below my feet (or, rather, knees) is buried Fr William Peryn, prior of the Dominicans at St Bartholomew’s from 1556 until his death in 1558, and a firm defender of the kind of ritual in which I am participating. Also somewhere below me, close to Fr Peryn but his exact location not known, is Prior William Bolton, the last prior but one, who died just a few years before his beloved monastery was dissolved and the Church in England torn apart by political and doctrinal dissension. Over towards my right, just outside the sanctuary, again his precise location not known but the approximate place marked by his memorial slab, lies Sir John Deane – to whom this ceremony would also have been familiar, though by the end of his ministry it had, as far as anyone could tell, been abandoned forever. Others buried in the Priory Church, in long-unidentified locations, their coffins probably several feet below the ground and indeed below other coffins, include Sir Robert Blagge, Deane’s patron and the father of George who came under suspicion of heresy in 1546, and Richard Bartlett, eminent physician and grandfa
ther of the Protestant martyr, Bartlet Green, whom he tried so hard to persuade to return to the Catholic fold. And outside the church is the memorial to many of the martyrs, while opposite the entrance is the place of their execution where, in 1849, during the excavation of a drain, workmen are reputed to have found a heap of unhewn stones, ‘blackened as if by fire and covered with ashes and human bones charred and partially consumed’.

  To these people on two opposing ‘sides’ in the sixteenth century reconciliation appeared impossible, the practices and doctrines of each side anathema to the other. And yet now, within the ancient walls of St Bartholomew’s, well known to most of the characters in this history, the traditions meet and coalesce, and it seems possible to twenty-first-century believers, semi-believers and doubters, to pick and choose in our religion, to take the parts that suit us, temperamentally, intellectually, aesthetically, politically, and discard the aspects we like less, and no one seems to worry very much about it. Benediction works well in this building; some congregants love it, others find it a little hard to take – but this is the City of London, and if you prefer another tradition, it’s easy enough to find it.