We will now return to the Swiss valleys, where we left Farel in the month of November, 1529.
He had preached and taught in spite of all opposition, and all difficulty and danger. For a great part of the time he had been laboring at his own cost. But for a little while back the lords of Berne had provided for his necessities. They first gave orders to their governor at Aigle “to supply him with food and drink, garments for his body, and other needful things.” And for the last year or more they had given to him, and to another preacher, Simon Robert, “a house, with a court and kitchen-garden, and two hundred florins.”
Farel had for a long while been single-handed, but had had the help, later on, of several preachers who were of more use than the lazy monk Christopher. One of these men was also a monk. He had been sent to Farel from Strasbourg, by his old friend, Capito. “I send you a brother,” said Capito, “whom I have set free from his monastic vows. The dyer, the tailor, and the barber, have all had their hand in this transformation, and now behold our ancient monk, dressed like you, in a black coat. But to speak seriously, I think this brother will help you in preaching, for he is a Frenchman, and though he is simple, he is pious and willing.” So the ancient monk arrived at Aigle, and was soon rewarded for his labors by the honor of imprisonment for Christ’s sake.
The Bishop of Lausanne seized upon him, and shut him up in the prison of Lausanne, where he was cruelly tortured. Twice did the lords of Berne write to the bishop, desiring that he should be set free. The bishop promised to release him, though he had, he said, “been guilty of the double crime of perfidy and apostasy.”
But in spite of the bishop’s promises, the ancient man did not reappear. William Farel at last sent another preacher, also a monk, to Lausanne, to inquire what was become of him.
But all the answer the second monk received was that he deserved to be shut up in a dungeon himself. And forthwith the poor man was carried off to the castle of Chillon, and dragged down into that gloomy vault, which you may still see if ever you go to that beautiful old castle. And still you may see the pillar in the torture-room to which the Lord’s servants were fastened, there to be racked with pulleys, and burnt with red-hot irons. Just as in Lambeth Palace may you see these black marks upon the wooden walls and floor, telling tales of torture and death.
Very soon the governor of Chillon had a letter put into his hand from the lords of Berne—“We greatly regret,” they said, “that those persons, sent by us, are seized without cause, and cruelly tortured. We desire you to send back those persons into our lordship of Aigle, without delay. You had best consider that we will not suffer such outrage and violence. We know well that you seized the prisoner without any just or reasonable cause. Were he a malefactor, as you say, our friend William Farel would not have taken him as a fellow-worker in the Word of God. We desire you to release him instantly, and henceforward to refrain from such violence, for we will not suffer it in any shape.”
The governor of Chillon knew that it was best to consider, and also to submit to anything that Berne might command. But what had become of “the ancient monk?” We find that a month later, the lords of Berne wrote to the Bishop of Lausanne, complaining that “the ancient man, John Clerc,” had, in spite of the bishop’s promises, been removed to the castle of Ripaille, where he was still a prisoner. Whether he was ever set free, I cannot tell you. Many of the Lord’s dear servants have passed from chains and dungeons to the paradise above. It may have been thus that he left the castle of Ripaille. We shall know some day.
And now, as time went on, Farel had had the joy of seeing the four Bernese parishes of the Pays de Vaud turned from their idols to the living God. During the last six months he had been able to rejoice over multitudes in other parts of western Switzerland, who had believed in the Lord Jesus, and received eternal life.
But there were three large towns where, as yet, the gospel had not been preached. These three towns were Lausanne, Neuchâtel, and Geneva. You will remember that Farel had twice attempted to preach at Lausanne. Twice he had been driven away unheard. He would go there again some day, if the Lord would make the way. But in the meantime he would turn his steps to the place towards which his thoughts had often turned to the old town of Neuchâtel.
You will find Neuchâtel on the northern shore of the lake, which bears its name. It is a quiet, pleasant town, on the slope of the vine-clad hills, the lake below, the steep hills of the Jura above it; and opposite, far away across the blue waters, the snowy peaks of the Alps, range behind range, stretching back as far as the great Mont Blanc amongst the mountains of Savoy. It was on a November day, in that year 1529, that a weather-beaten, sun-burnt man, with a red beard and flashing eyes, arrived, staff in hand, before the walls of Neuchâtel. “He had come,” we are told, “to take possession of Neuchâtel in the name of the Lord Jesus.”
There it stood, the old popish town, with its fine castle, and its churches, and its convents—five large convents—besides the great college of the canons, and these amongst them owned the land on every side. Everything was in the hands of the priests and monks, who had it all their own way, for the governor of Neuchâtel was all they could desire, an obedient servant of Rome. This governor, George de Rive, represented the real sovereign of Neuchâtel, Jeanne de Hochberg. She was the heiress of the counts of Neuchâtel, but had married a French prince, the Duke of Orleans, and she liked better to live a gay life in France than to be shut up in the quiet old castle of Neuchâtel, where, according to the simple manners of the Swiss, the kitchen was her state apartment, and the citizens’ wives the only company. She was a vain, extravagant, pleasure-loving princess, and she was glad that George de Rive should look after everything at Neuchâtel and never trouble her about business, except to send her the revenues of the little state to spend in Paris.
Such was the condition of affairs when Farel arrived. He was well aware that the very sound of his name would rouse the priests and people into fury. He was known now far and wide as the great heretic preacher, the image-breaker, the blasphemer. And had his face been as well known as his evil deeds, he might expect worse treatment than any he had yet received. But Farel knew what he was doing when he thus invaded the dark old town. He brought with him the weapon before which “every high thing shall be cast down, which exalts itself against the knowledge of God.” He brought with him the Word which “is as fire, which is as a hammer that breaketh the rocks in pieces,” and what could five convents, or five thousand convents, do against the power of the Lord, when His time was come to seek and to save the lost?
What was to be done first? How was Farel to begin the attack upon this stronghold of Satan? He turned his steps towards the little parsonage of Serrières. This village, which is the port of Neuchâtel, belonged not to Neuchâtel but to the town of Bienne, which had already, through Farel’s preaching, received the truth. And Farel had heard that the curate of Serrières, Emer Beynon by name,” had some liking for the gospel.” To him, therefore, he would go. Thus did God remember this solitary priest, in his little village, whose heart was longing after something better than the dead forms, and the senseless ceremonies of his church.
Emer Beynon had not yet made one step out of Rome. But God can see where there is but a spark of the light which shines from the face of Christ. And where but one ray has shone into the soul, that ray will shine forth. What light we have, we give out, and we can give out no more. No eloquence, no talent, no energy can ever make a spark of light shine forth, beyond that which has shone into the heart from God, and where there is but a longing of the soul for Christ, some light will go forth around. If you turn to 2 Corinthians 4:66For God, who commanded the light to shine out of darkness, hath shined in our hearts, to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ. (2 Corinthians 4:6), you will there see some words which are not perhaps very clearly translated in the English Bible—the verse expresses that “God has shone in our hearts, for the shining forth of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ.” This was true of Paul, and true of all into whose hearts any ray, however faint, of that wondrous light has shone. And from the poor earthen vessel, the village curate of Serrières, there shone forth light enough to guide the steps of Farel to the door which the Lord had opened.
It was a memorable day in the poor curate’s life, when the stranger knocked at the door of his little parsonage, and told him that he was William Farel. God had at last answered the desire of his heart. He not only received Farel gladly and welcomed him warmly, but immediately bethought himself how the preaching could at once begin. It would be a bold step to ask Farel to preach in his church. “And that, too, is forbidden,” he said; “but why not in the churchyard? No one has forbidden that—and then there are fields and hill-sides, which do just as well for preaching places as a little church.”
Farel lost no time. As the people came to the mass, he stood up, like John Wesley, at Epworth, on a stone in the churchyard, and there he preached the gospel. Crowds gathered around, and the tidings spread to Neuchâtel that the great heretic preacher was come. “But he preaches beautiful things,” said the people of Serrières; “he tells us of the love of God, and of Christ in Heaven.”
The citizens of Neuchâtel determined to hear for themselves, and throngs of men, women, and children poured out of the old town, and filled Emer Beynon’s churchyard. In vain the governor, the canons, the priests, and the monks, threatened and warned the people. These hungry souls seemed as though they could never hear enough. If ever you go to Neuchâtel, you may still see the stone which was Farel’s pulpit.
Amongst the citizens of Neuchâtel was a brave soldier, called James Wildermuth. He had heard of Farel’s preaching at Aigle, and at other places. And, moreover, he had himself believed the glad tidings of the grace of God. Great was his joy when he was told that Farel was come. “The poor, pious Farel,” he wrote to Berne, “has arrived here, and he presented a letter inviting those in the town to hear him preach the Word of Christ, which he would gladly have done with all his heart, but the authorities forbid it. Thereupon I went to the governor, George de Rive, to see what I could do.” But George de Rive had no intention to allow a heretic to preach in the town. Whereupon, the brave James Wildermuth, with other citizens, determined to take the matter into their own hands. They went to find Farel. They led him in triumph through the old castle gate, along the steep street into the market place. There was the first gospel sermon preached in Neuchâtel.
You, who have often heard the glad tidings, who can never remember the time when you did not hear it, can hardly imagine how strange, how wonderful, and how blessed were those words of grace to these poor Swiss people. “That sermon,” says the old Chronicle of Neuchâtel, “won many hearts.” Around the preacher stood the wondering crowd—the weavers and the vine dressers, the merchants and the laborers—eager to catch every word. Farel spoke with a solemn reality, with an authority which awed them into silence. But suddenly a cry arose:—“Down with the heretic! kill him! Drown him in the fountain!” The monks had glided in amongst the throng, and they made a sudden rush upon the preacher. But Farel had now defenders enough. The monks soon found it would be at the risk of their lives, were they to harm the man whom God had sent.