Thursday, October 5, 2017

Wm. Tyndale: The Fatal Scandal of Putting the Scripture in the Hands of a Ploughboy

October 6, Commemoration of 

The story of the Bible in English is a long and involved and even exciting one. Many names and deeds are associated with putting the Bible in the hands of ordinary English-speaking people, among these are John Wycliffe, Miles Coverdale, and even Martin Luther in a roundabout way. Most in this saga were at least arrested and persecuted, and many were tortured, and some executed for heresy. What was the heresy? The heresy was that they were trying to put the word of God into the hands of ordinary people. (At this time only bishops and scholars could read the Bible—in Latin. Even many priests were biblically illiterate.)

The fact that this was considered heretical and even a capital offense is part of one of the darkest periods of the history of the Christian Church—a period in which, in England alone, 288 people were burned at the stake in four years for the crime of being protestant.

One reason that the hierarchy of the Church in the middle ages did not want the Bible in the language of the people is that the people would then discover the true nature of the Christian faith: That it was a matter of following a humble peasant who came to love and save them by dying on a cross. They would discover that forgivenss is a free gift and does not cost either money or effort. They would discover that the word of God comes to them directly and need not be protected by bishops and priests. And they would discover, in the words of one author, that “It doesn’t say anything in here about popes and bishops living in palaces!”

Many names are connected with this project, but it is no exaggeration to say that William Tyndale gave us our English Bible. Tyndale, a quiet and humble scholar, was influenced by Martin Luther’s theology, and by Luther’s ground-breaking (and dangerous) translation of the scriptures into the German language—the language of the people. Tyndale’s goal was neither academic accomplishment nor personal recognition, but to get the Word of God into the world. (Along the way, he contributed much to our language: The words “elevated,” “high,” “donation” “gift,” and dozens of others come to us by way of Tyndale’s translation.) Perhaps the most important contribution and symbol of Tyndale’s Bible is his rendering of the Lord’s Prayer. What we have come to call the “traditional” Lord’s Prayer is William Tyndale’s translation. Perhaps those of us for whom that prayer is any part of our lives can bow the head a bit more deeply next time we pray it—as we contemplate the fact that Tyndale died for those words.

Because…  for the crime of producing a good, readable Bible in English, William Tyndale was hunted for decades, and then executed—by a church aligned with the state, by a state aligned with the church. His dying words were, “Lord, open the King of England’s eyes!” Within a year of Tyndale’s death, the King decided and decreed that there would, after all, be a Bible in English. The result is what we now call “The King James Version.” Much of it is Tyndale.

I will cause a boy that driveth the plough to know more of the Scriptures than thou doest
(William Tyndale, to a priest who opposed his translation project.)

Very good and very readable books on Tyndale and the development of the English Bible:
  • William Tyndale, by David Daniell
  • Wide as the Waters, by Benson Bobrick (on Tyndale's predecessor in English translation, John Wycliffe, who died a natural death, but whose body was dug up and burned by the Church for good measure!)
  • God’s Secretaries, by Adam Nicolson (On how the sublimely beautiful King Jame's Version of the Bible was put together by a committee!)


Friday, August 4, 2017


Writers more profound and talented than I have experienced the mystery of the muse; the feeling one has—when reading over a song or poem or story—of pondering, “Now, where did that come from…” The germ of an idea, the flash of a thought—these may be no mystery, but the spirit that inhabits what began as a skeleton of words: Where did that come from? I believe in the concept of the muse—even if it’s just the hidden firing of brain synapses. But might it be more ephemeral than that? These bits of verse, below (with the exception of the last, which was penned on Sam’s first day), were written before Sam and Violet were born. Yet they serve as a kind of narration for their lives with us today! I like to think that they were my (prophetic? proleptic?) poetic muses! (Along with Anna’s violin!)

1) A few weeks ago, as we were preparing to leave the family cabin and head for home, six-year-old Violet said, “I’m going to go down and say good-by to the creek.”  Her sweet-but-determined resolve to linger a bit took me back a few years, to the time when Violet’s Auntie Anna—then about thirteen—and I had spent a week at the cabin—just the two of us and our dog, Sunny—and were packing the car for our departure. I later reflected on the wistfulness that is always part
of leaving:

Remove all trash and recyclables from under sink.
Make sure all windows are closed and locked.
Check that fireplace is cold to the touch and swept bare.
Rinse out thermos, but first
take a last cup of coffee and
walk down to the creek where it all began,
where it all begins each time: the valley and the day,
to that flat rock where Tom used to like to hold forth
with a glass of wine.
Go back to the porch, to the piles of suitcases and guitars,
laundry and tattered books—
the open tailgate waiting at the bottom of the stairs.
Visualize the cargo space: a place for everything,
though everything will end up out of place when the dogs
scramble inside in terror of being left behind in paradise.
Before packing it away, ask Anna to take out her violin:
"Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring" sounding up the valley
one more time.
Lock gate securely behind you.

2) On a recent eighty-nine degree day, nine-and-a-half-year-old Sam expressed that age-old epiphany: “Hey! When it’s cold, we want it to be hot, and when it’s hot, we want it to be cold!” Here’s how I wrote it for my third-graders, in my teaching days. (Yes, I was once a teacher!)

It’s three below January,
I’m wrapped to my eyes
in cotton and goose-down and wool.
I look like a beach ball
about twice my size,
or a pillow that’s stuffed much too full.

And speaking of beach balls –
It seems I recall
a season of summer and fun,
when the ice comes in root beer
in glasses this tall!
And the sand is as warm as the sun.

July in the nineties!
I’m hot as a spark
of the charcoal that glows in the grill.
I hope it gets cooler
tonight when it’s dark,
but I really don’t think that it will.

And speaking of darkness –
It would be so nice
to wake up to winter and snow,
and run in the whiteness
and slide on the ice,
and tell the old wind it can blow!

3) When Sam was one day old, I was already looking forward to the day we would read The Lord of the Rings together. Which we just did!

It was this boy that I prayed for and the Lord has granted what I asked.
Now I make him over to the Lord….  ~1 Samuel 1:27-28

Samuel, I dedicate you to the Lord.
Your kooky little cap even looks like
one a prophet (or a wizard) would wear.
Though the biblical Sam wasn’t so much
a prophet as he was a wild west sheriff
trying to keep the peace between the mob
and a God who could blow at any minute.
So God made Samuel a maker of kings.
(Like Gandalf lifting up Aragorn’s crown:
Another Holy Book waiting for us!)
Lawmen and wizards and cowboys and kings:
Someday you’ll play all these wonderful things.
     But now, little prophet, your visions must keep
     as mommy and daddy rock Sammy to sleep.


Sam today. Maybe my next poem will be
inspired by crayfish!

Violet and Daddy. Down by the creek.