Here is the Martyrs' Mirror account.
We must cling to a God who approves
of blasphemy because he hates Jehovah and Nobodaddy and Zeus . . .
all the other kings of terrors and tyrants of the soul. To a God who
appreciates obscenity because he looks not into the secret of our
hearts, but into the hearts of our secrets, and knows that our
bloodfilled guts and cocking guts are the real battlefield —
Northrop Frye
Some people should
die. That's just unconscious knowledge — Jane's Addiction
I have friends — born and raised and
baptised Mennonites — who went on to become Catholic. I've also
spoken with former Catholics who pointedly embraced Anabaptism so
completely that they submitted to a second baptism of conscious
consent. I've converted several PCs from Windows to Linux. Maybe the
metaphor is too facile to be pertinent, but it seems to me these
people have allowed their guiding, religious Operating Systems to be
similarly converted.
Some of these conversions provoked considerable consternation among family members. But physical violence? Not really. A parental eye-roll, a noisy sigh of exasperation, occasionally some shouts and unfortunate words. Nothing in league with getting tied to a ladder and dumped into flames.
So my first, unfiltered response to
poor Anneken's demise: is there any stupidity more brutal than the
attempt to physically exorcise one's religious doubt in the face of
another's religious certainty? Funny (o ho-ho — my sides)
how religion provides convenient license to execute: if you're a
bailiff in 16th Century Amsterdam, a Communist in 20th Century China,
an Imam in 21st Century Tehran — or (it could, and probably should,
be argued) a drone pilot for present day America. “I'm right.
You're wrong. Go to Hell.”
"Here's me under the ladder, losing my religion..." |
The more circumspect side of me wonders what this account is not saying.
Anneken Heyndriks was a relative
newcomer to Amsterdam, from Friesland — which even today's
Amsterdamers consider a back-water. She couldn't read or write, but
(if we take the account at face value) she was no slouch at
committing scripture to memory: her response to her underbailiff
neighbour's intrusion is remarkably similar to her Savior's, when He
was finally approached by the State constabulary. It is this adept
knowledge of the Gospels, or at least of their Passion narratives,
which she is keen to impress upon her (Christian) captors.
What did she do to piss off her
neighbour? Sixteenth Century Amsterdam was a city of massive
commerce, and a modestly successful diaspora: even Jews — the most
obvious, and thus the most frequently persecuted, dissenters to the
ruling religion — were tolerated by the authorities. The regents
who ran the place clearly had more pressing concerns than hunting
down illiterate peasant heretics. Yet something about Anneken
prompted Evert to drop the hammer. Perhaps the sound of hymns being
furtively sung in the neighbouring barn during the wee small hours of
the morning woke him up once too often.
Or perhaps it was something more
personal. Listen to her response, preferably in Plaut-Dietsch or
German, when he shows up with the rope: “Neighbour Evert, what is
your wish? If you seek me, you can easily find me: here I am at your
service.”
“Meek spirit,” you say? Riiiiiiight. Listen, I've known a few Heinrichses in my
day. If you're in the right frame of mind, they can be a barrel of
laughs. If you're not, they're a pain in the ass (a little like some
Reimers, maybe). When Anneken spoke, Evert clearly wasn't in a
laughing mood — yet.
And she goes on to speak a great deal
more, with a liberty perhaps born of the realization she has nothing
left to fear or lose. Or maybe she just likes to talk — some
Heinrichses are like that. The fact that she, a peckerwood
Frieslander, moved to the nation's bustling metropolis — at her
advanced age — indicates a remarkably robust spirit (again, another
trait common among the Heinrichses). Whatever the case, she does what
she can to keep the spotlight trained on her, whether her audience
consists of passersby or Pieter the Bailiff or Sir Albert the
anointed chaplain of State.
Go on and look at me, an old woman
all hog-tied and off to jail. What for, do you think? Prostitution?
Robbery? Nope: following
Jesus — you know: that guy you stare at every
Sunday morning at Cathedral. The one ON
A CROSS. Kind of ironic, isn't it? Kind of makes you think,
doesn't it? Well if it doesn't, it sure should. Say, He was tried by
the religious authorities of His day, too, wasn't he? Sure makes a
person think, alright. Hey, good neighbour Evert: you remember that
guy Judas, who led the State authorities to Jesus? Jesus died, Judas
lived — for a bit longer, anyway — you know the guy I mean.
Where's Judas now, do you suppose?
So Anneken, our determined saint, gets
the final word; Evert, the last laugh.
"Fools in old-style hats & coats, who half the time were soppy-stern And half at one another's throats." Philip Larkin |
Or does he? Both Anneken and the Mirror's scribe clearly (and quite understandably) expect God's Righteous Judgement to mete out a proper turnabout to underbailiff Evert in the Hereafter. And even if the staunch materialists among us determinedly dismiss this theological phant'sy, a curious historical irony nevertheless takes place.
You see, I happen to know a few Ewerts,
also — in fact, it's a fairly common name among Mennonites. They're
wickedly intelligent, and possess a weary sort of humour that I
deeply enjoy, especially in difficult times. They're also an
incredibly supercilious bunch (again, a little like the Reimers). It
seems that somewhere in the untold part of this story, family members
of the villainous underbailiff were radically converted, and joined
the community this man hated with a murderous passion.
So it goes. Perhaps a few 21st Century
Ewerts have even returned to Catholicism. And of course there are
Heinrichses, Ewerts and Reimers who have committed apostasy —
that's inevitable, no matter what your clan or religion. You can be as pious as you like, but walk far
enough and you'll eventually cross paths with someone who thinks
you're beyond the pale. In my hometown, back in the day, there were
elders who considered a zipper on your pants an act of heretical
pride.
I gave last week's post to my wife to
read. She said, “There's something ghostly about those accounts,
isn't there?” There sure is. Read it in its ancient font, with the crude illustrations, inside a 1200-page hardcover too
heavy for your coffee table, and that “ghostly” quality is magnified something
fierce. But do keep reading it. These people, who were just smart
enough to get into the worst kind of trouble, changed the world.
Are
you enjoying your religious freedom, the freedom to have no religion
at all, the freedom to read whatever you like? You owe it all to the Age of Enlightenment — a tertiary ideological engine set into motion by the Reformation, the wheels of
which my people greased with their blood, motherfucker. And
you're welcome.
You're even welcome
to chuckle at the old fart with the combed beard who tut-tuts the
zipper on your pants. Perhaps he knows, like few people do, that in
the bloody tide of our species' history your many blasphemies are
trivial and banal, enacted to no great effect and easily forgotten.
Further reading: Mennonites, patron saints of mediocrity; awfully full of themselves, but boy, can they sing; and please won't you join my Long Line of Nüscht?
Further reading: Mennonites, patron saints of mediocrity; awfully full of themselves, but boy, can they sing; and please won't you join my Long Line of Nüscht?
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