During the summer of 1535 we read of constant preaching, not only in houses, but in the churches. The citizens carried Farel to preach in one church after another, and at last in the cathedral itself. We read also of the breaking of the images by the citizens, a work which was begun by some children, who went into the cathedral whilst the priests were chanting at vespers the 114th Psalm. It would seem the words of the psalm that follows, were remembered by some, for a voice in the crowd called aloud, “They sing curses upon those who make idols, and trust in them, but they leave the idols standing there!” and, in a moment the children rushed upon the images, and broke them upon the pavement. The citizens were unwilling to stop short in this work of destruction till every image was demolished. They went from church to church, from convent to convent, till none remained. “It is the work of God,” they said, “and we must do it.” The priests fled in terror.
And now at last came the turn of the church of St. Gervais, where the dead saints sang under the pavement on Christmas Eve. The pavement was taken up, and under it were found a number of large empty jars, all put in a row, with a pipe which passed from one to another, and the end of which fitted into a hole in the wall of the church. If anyone outside sang or spoke into this hole, the sound was carried under the pavement, and, echoing from these hollow jars, it made an unearthly noise like that of hollow voices speaking in a tomb.
The Council of Geneva had not ordered this destruction of the images; they had even forbidden that the preaching should be in the churches, fearing that the gospellers were going too far. They wished all changes to be made by slow degrees; but finding that the whole city took part with the gospellers, the council at last summoned the priests. “Speak up now, gentlemen,” they said, “and prove to us from the Bible that the images and the mass are right. If you prove this, we will have every image restored, and the mass shall be commanded; but if you cannot prove these things, we must own that our citizens have the right on their side.” The priests replied, they were poor simple men, who could not argue, but only wished to live as their fathers had done. The council did not consider that this was a proof of their being in the right. In August the command was given that the mass should cease in Geneva till further orders.
Many dark days had been noted down in Sister Jane’s journal. But the story of a blacker day than any before it had now to be written. You shall hear it in her own words.
“The Sunday in the octaves of the Visitation of our Lady, the magistrates came, with the shabby preacher, William Farel, and Peter Viret, and a miserable friar, who was more like a devil than a man, and a dozen of the chief citizens, all heretics, at ten of the clock in the morning, when the poor sisters were going to their dinner. They asked to come into the convent, for our good and our comfort, saying they were our fathers and kind friends.”
Sister Jane then tells us that the mother vicar, “fearing a trick,” refused for a while to open the door, but the father confessor, fearing it might be broken in, advised her to give way.
“All then went straight to the chapter house, and the magistrate said, ‘Mother Abbess, make all your sisters come at once, without dispute or delay, or we shall go all over the convent to fetch them.’ Then the mother vicar said, ‘I will not hear your sermons of perdition,’ and made all possible excuses; but the mother abbess and the father confessor, (who seem to have been frightened) obliged all the sisters to come by holy obedience, young and old, sick and well; and all being assembled, the young ones were placed before this cursed Farel and his evangelists to be flattered and deceived. Silence being made, Farel had his wish, and took for his text, ‘Mary arose and went into the hill country,’ and he said, ‘The Virgin Mary did not live a solitary life, but was diligent in going to help and serve her aged cousin,’ and thus did he throw contempt upon holy seclusion; and religion, and it pierced the heart of the poor sisters.
“Then the mother vicar, seeing that these seducers thus thought to beguile and flatter the young sisters, stood straight up amongst the elder ones, saying, ‘Sir magistrate, as your people do not hold their tongues, I shall not hold mine either; but I shall find out what they are saying to my sisters there.’ And she went to stand amongst the young ones, and said to the preachers, ‘You are wicked seducers, but you shall get nothing by coming here.’"
It was in vain the magistrate commanded the angry lady to go back to her place, or at least to be silent. “At last they furiously commanded that the mother should be put out of the room; and she said, 'You are doing me a great kindness, for I desire nothing better than to be put out of your company, where I shall not hear your cursed preaching.’ Then several took her, and led her out of the chapter house.”
The sermon then proceeded, after the nuns had made a vain attempt to rush out at the door that was opened for the mother vicar’s departure. “After a while the nuns,” says Sister Jane, “began to scream, ‘Those arc lies!’ and to spit in their anger upon the preacher, saying, ‘we cannot hear more of these errors!’ And the preacher was indignant, and said, ‘You, father confessor, who keep these poor blind women in this shameful captivity, why do you not make them keep silence to hear the Word of God?—but they cannot hear it, because they are not of God, but have corrupt hearts. Yet we know that some of these poor girls would gladly hearken to the truth of the gospel, if you and the older ones did not keep them under your power.’ Then the father confessor, quite frightened, commanded silence, saying St. Paul had said women should keep silence in the churches. But the mother vicar outside had no thought of keeping silence, but went behind the wainscot, just opposite the preacher, thumping upon it with her two fists as hard as she could, and calling out, ‘Oh, wretched, accursed man, you are wasting your false words; you shall get nothing here! I pray you, my sisters, listen to nothing that he says!’ Then the heretics were more troubled than before, for she made such a noise with her fists and her screams, that the preacher became confused and bewildered. The magistrates swore they would lock her up in prison, but so firm was she in her good will that she was not afraid of death itself for the honor of God. Some of the sisters had stuffed wax into their ears that they might not hear, and the preacher, seeing they had no esteem for his words, ceased to speak, and I, who write this, being present, and curiously examining his countenance, could well perceive that the devil and his followers cannot endure the company of the true spouses of Jesus Christ, and the sign of the holy cross, which the sisters continually made in spite of him, and in contempt of him, and of his crew.”
Sister Jane further tells us that, as they turned to go, “a sister ran behind that wicked friar, who was hideous to behold, and struck him on the shoulders with her two fists, saying, ‘Wretched apostate, make haste to begone out of my sight!’ but he answered not a word. I believe that his tongue was paralyzed.”
Farel, according to Sister Jane’s account, refused to preach any more in the convent, “but there was not a day,” she adds, “that some of the sect did not come and spy out the poor nuns, and often speak words that were infamous and detestable.” She has not, however, told us what these “infamous and detestable words” were, except on one occasion, when our friend Claudine Levet came to see her sister Blaisine, who was one of the younger nuns. “She began with a false and serpent-like tongue to speak of the gospel, saying, 'Poor ladies, you are very obstinate and blind. Do you not know God has said that His yoke is sweet and easy, and He has said, ‘Come unto Me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest’; and He has not said, ‘Shut yourselves up in prison, and torment yourselves, as you are doing.’" But Claudine’s words were stopped by the nuns shutting the door in her face.
After this, “the poor sisters, counseled by our Lord, assembled one day in the chapter-house, invoking the aid of our Saviour, and of the blessed Holy Spirit, and of the holy Virgin Mary, and all the Heavenly army, with such abundance of tears that one could not hear the other. The young sisters were then asked if they meant to persevere, or to escape by any good means such as God might inspire them to use: for some good ladies had advised them to leave the town secretly in disguise.” The young nuns replied that they would rather be torn in pieces than give way to the heretics.
Sister Blaisine alone made no answer; “she looked pensive.” The old nuns knew not what to make of this, and sent for her two aunts, who lived in the town, and begged them to talk to Blaisine, and find out her mind. But Blaisine refused to speak with any one till she was told “her heretic sister” was come to see her, “then she sprang up and went joyfully to talk with her”; but it appears the nuns had thought it right on this occasion to tell an untruth, and poor Blaisine found her aunt waiting for her, not Claudine, as she expected.
“Ah, Sister Blaisine, I know your silly thoughts, you want to be married,” said the aunt. But Blaisine, without answering, only “smiled,” and returned to her cell. From this time poor Blaisine was looked upon as a black sheep—but it was not for long.
“The day of my lord St. Bartholomew the Apostle,” writes Sister Jane, “a great company of armed men came to the convent, and a poor lay-brother, thinking no harm, opened the door to them.”
A scene followed which was a terrible one to the poor nuns. Under the direction of our friend Baudichon, the “armed men,” whose arms appear to have consisted chiefly of hatchets, broke down all the images, crucifixes, and crosses, took possession of the mass-books, and lastly gave notice to the nuns that, if any now desired to have their liberty, they would take them to their relations, or to whatever place they desired; none would be forced to leave, but any who wished to leave would be protected.
The nuns, who had wearied themselves with tears and shrieks, gathered round the mother abbess. The gospellers knew that Blaisine was longing to escape; but she dared not at first come forward. “Are you Sister Blaisine?” they asked of one nun after another. “Indeed I am not,” replied each one, “nor do I wish to be.”
At last poor Blaisine ventured to take a few steps towards her deliverers. The active mother vicar flew upon her, and would have dragged her back, but Baudichon and his friends held down the angry lady. Blaisine was led forth amidst the cries and bitter words of all the nuns. She was taken, Sister Jane tells us, to the house of a cobbler, where she changed her nun’s dress for one which the poor sister describes as “a worldly robe, in which she looked like a dissolute and vulgar woman.”
Claudine had, as you remember, astonished all her worldly friends by the plain dress which she wore from the time of her conversion. But everything that was not a “religious dress,” was worldly in the eyes of Sister Jane. Thus whilst the Jews called John the Baptist a devil, on account of his austere life, the Pharisees accused the Lord of being a gluttonous man and a wine bibber, because He ate and drank in the usual way. “If a wise man contend with a foolish man, whether he rage or laugh, there is no rest.” So has it always been—so is it still.
The nuns now determined to leave Geneva. The Duke and Duchess of Savoy had offered them a convent at Annecy. They sent a message therefore to the chief magistrate of Geneva, asking leave to depart from the city. The magistrate went at once to the convent. “What day do you wish to go, fair ladies?” he asked. “Tomorrow at daybreak,” replied the mother vicar. “We ask leave to take only our cloaks and wraps, and each one a white handkerchief besides those we wear.” “You shall go, fair ladies,” said the magistrate, “and we will conduct you as far as the bridge, where our territory ends.”
This bridge is just outside the town. The nuns spent the night in packing their bundles. At five in the morning they set forth, two and two, having made the sign of the cross, and promised not to speak to anyone. The magistrates sent a strong guard to protect them from the crowd which had gathered to see them depart. An innkeeper, who lived just beyond the bridge, came to meet them, and gave them each “a slice of bread, good cheese, and a good glass of wine—the best that he had.” In the meantime, the poor lay-brother went to find a large cart, in which the old and the sick were to travel.
And now began the journey. “It was a piteous thing,” says Sister Jane, “to see this holy company. The day was rainy, the road was bad, and there were some poor old nuns who had spent almost all their life in religion, never having seen the world. They fainted away, not being able to bear the open air. When they saw some cows in a field, they thought they were bears, and when some woolly sheep appeared, they thought they were ravening wolves. Though the mother vicar had given them all good shoes, most of them did not know how to walk in them, but hung them to their girdles. And thus they journeyed from five in the morning till night, during which time they had only reached St. Jullien, which is a league (three miles) from Geneva.”
But here they were to have a warm welcome. The clergy and parishioners came to meet them “with great devotion, bearing a cross,” and they found beds for all the party. The next night they reached a castle, where they were welcomed just as warmly. “And in this castle were 36 beautiful rooms with fire-places, and furnished with beautiful beds with ample curtains of white and red satin, and fine quilts.” Before they left, the baron, who was lord of the castle, cheered their spirits by allowing them to see and to smell a piece of the flesh of St. Romain, “which was very fragrant, and the good Father Garin made all the sisters kiss it,” which cured Sister Jane of a fever which she had at that time. And a day or two later the whole party reached Annecy, where we will leave them.
The convent at Geneva was now in the hands of the council. They were surprised to find in it no less than 1700 eggs, and three large barrels of fine flour, and of oil: for the nuns had always said they lived from day to day upon the alms of the faithful. “And,” says the chronicle, “it was found to be true that they slept upon vine-cuttings as they had said, but they were well hidden under their feather beds. And we know not whence came the fine ballads and love songs, of which a great number were found in their rooms.” The eggs and flour were a treasure to the starving people of Geneva, and were given away to the most needy.
And now that you have heard this strange story, how the blessed gospel of Christ was received in the nunnery of St. Claire, I would ask you solemnly to consider whether that same blessed gospel has found a warmer welcome in your heart. It is a sad truth that the convent of St. Claire is but a picture of the heart of every man and woman and child, till God in His grace has drawn them to His Son. We may not in these days employ the coarse words, and rude actions, of the poor nuns. But I would ask you, have you never gone out of the way of any one who was likely to speak to you about Christ? Have you never determined not to listen, if taken against your will to hear some “shabby preacher,” who preached the good tidings with which Christ had sent him? Have you never felt well satisfied—more than that, proud, of your zeal for what you call the Church? your religion, your goodness, your forms, and your many services? You may not have been a worshipper of images; you may not have worn a rosary or a crucifix, or prayed to dead saints, or confessed to a priest; and you may have thanked God you are “not as such men and women are,” when you have seen “poor blinded papists “on their knees before their idols; but it is not of papists more than of Protestants, not of Jews, or Mohammedans, more than of those who profess and call themselves Christians, that God hath said, “Ye must be born again.”
If the nuns of St. Claire were born dead in sin, so were you. If they were born blind to the glory and beauty of Christ, so were you. If they were born as the deaf adder that stoppeth her ears, so were you. “There is no difference.” “Him whom man despiseth,” is the name which God, who sees the heart of man, has given to His beloved Son. “He is despised, and rejected of men:" not of some, but of all, of the race of Adam, whose hearts are alike, “enmity against God.”
If that wonderful day has never dawned upon you, when the Christ whom you despised has shone into your heart—when you, who were dead, heard the voice of the Son of God, and awoke to everlasting life—you may see yourself in the chapter-house of St. Claire. “He that is not with Me is against Me.” You stand in the ranks in which Pilate and Judas stood, and where the cry arose, “Not this man, but Barabbas.” You are still the enemy of God.
And what has God to say to His enemies? Strange to say, He has words of love, deeper and tenderer than any He has spoken to the holy angels in heaven. He tells them of “His great love wherewith He loves them, even when they are dead in sins.” Yes, “When we were enemies, we were reconciled to God by the death of His Son,” by the act of deepest love that even God could perform. He beseeches you, He prays you, therefore, to be reconciled to Him. And strange as is this immeasurable love, no less strange is it that it is this message from the heart of God, that men are most ready to reject and to refuse. It is not the law which curses, but the gospel which saves, which the heart of man dislikes and despises. It was against this message that the nuns of St. Claire stopped their ears, as you and I have done also. To be saved as a lost, worthless, wicked, foolish sinner, is a hateful thought to every man, woman, and child. To be mended and improved, and dressed up in a sightly religion, is something to be desired; but to be cast aside, religion and all, as fast mending, is another matter. Blessed are they who can say, “This is what God has done for me: He has set me aside, once and forever, and in my place Christ stands in the bright glory, the delight of the heart of God!”