The Courage of Your Faith, Volume 1

The Courage

of

Your Faith

Volume 1 (1555-1745)

Thomas Macy

Now these things happened to them as an example, and they were written for our instruction, upon whom the ends of the ages have come.

1 Corinthians 10:11 (NASB)

Copyright © 2016 Thomas Macy

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 1539921123

ISBN-13: 978-1539921127

The Courage of Your Faith is built from the short stories that are part of the Bible study series with the same name. At www.COYFaith.com, you can find the studies, pictures to complement the stories, and much more.

1555 The Martyrs

The martyrdom of William Hunter and the importance of scripture

1608 The Brethren

The first Baptist church and the impact of baptism

1638 The Cause

The English civil war and Baptist divisions

1650 The Seekers

The whipping of Obadiah Holmes and Baptist persecution in the New World

1718 The Southerners

Bonet and Blackbeard come to Charles Town where Baptists deal with alcoholism and more

1745 The Evangelists

The First Great Awakening begins to change the Colonies.

1771 The Separates

The Battle of Alamance and the division over emotion in worship

1784 The Revolutionaries

The start of a new nation and the separation of church and state

1793 The Slaves

Gowan Pamphlet’s black church of Williamsburg and the impact of associations of churches

1845 The Southern Baptists

Baptists divide north and south and one issue is slavery

1871 The Missionaries

Lottie Moon and suffering in a Christian’s life

1979 The Literalists

The conservative/liberal confrontation for control of the SBC and the literality of scripture

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to the men and women who have lived courageously in days gone by—ordinary people who led extraordinary lives because of circumstances and a commitment to our Lord and Savior.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

1555 - The Martyrs

1608 - The Brethren

1638 - The Cause

1650 - The Seekers

1718 - The Southerners

1745 - The Evangelists

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This collection would not have been possible without the people who brought to my mind the peculiar nature of our Baptist forebears, how they were a catalyst for change. Pastor Steve Hoekstra taught me that the Baptist heritage is one worth studying. Pastor Dave Samples and his class on Baptist history aroused in me a wonder of the controversies in which Baptists immersed themselves. By example, while co-teaching a class called Chasing Rabbits, my friend Bill Elliott showed me that our history has application today.

The Courage of Your Faith would also not have become what it is without Sandy, the love of my life, who gave me the idea for the title and the insight that the common element in the people in my stories was their courage.

.

1555 - The Martyrs

England, 1555

The afternoon sun shone in the old man’s face. William’s muscles tightened as he sought to force his eyelids shut. Every sinew tensed until they hurt, but just like the other times, he focused on the kindly wrinkles that furrowed the brow and outlined ancient eyes. This grandfather was no one he knew, yet the face was any man’s.

Shade by consuming shade, the light, in all its glory, grew brighter shutting out all but this image. White unkempt hair framed his face and hung halfway down his chest.

William knew—but wasn’t sure how—that the man had been locked in prison for weeks. Yet his countenance was beyond brilliant.

Turn! Look away! All he wanted was to close his eyes. The unfulfilled desire spread out and engulfed him.

Normally, a servant of God would reflect His radiance in the eyes and face. But this glow did not come from there. No, it never did.

Lower.

He didn’t want to see but his gaze continued its descent. Look up!

Lower. Below the old man’s beard.

Eyes quivered in their sockets but still moved down. A rope about the waist secured this teacher to a pole.

Lower.

No! The fire hurt William’s eyes.

Lower.

The old priest’s feet and legs shrieked out in agony as flames licked at them burning brighter in the consumption. With his hands raised toward heaven, this servant of God at last drew William’s eyes to his own, so peaceful in the pain.

Like dead stumps, William’s arms hung at his side and would not rise to his ears. The Priest’s words sounded clear.

Are…

No! The silent scream died without being heard.

…you…

Speak not the words!

…able?

I don’t want to hear it! William cried. Not again!

Are you able?

No!

A cold sweat dampened his blanket. Breathing as if he had spent his last ounce of strength running from the burning, William sat up, darkness all about him. No light shining here. The scent of the weaver’s shop gradually eased his gasping.

Are you able?

The priest never said for what. But William knew. Those words plagued him. Though the vision wasn’t nightly, it came often enough and was always the same. So much for sleep. He paced to the window and looked out. By the moon, he still had hours until sunrise.

Are you able?

He sighed. These words held another meaning. The apparition had momentarily wiped away the decision that waited before him. Was he able to make the choice?

The weaver had become like a father to him. Of his eighteen years, fourteen had been in the country with his parents and brother. The last four were served as an apprentice to the weaver of silk. Just like William’s father, Master Gibbons loved to tousle his red hair. But the warmth that normally spread out and engulfed William in the thought, stayed away, hidden somewhere in the darkness of the room.

He stood a head taller than the master silk weaver but weighed much less. They surely made an odd couple on the street—Master Gibbons short and corpulent, the apprentice tall and skinny. The man had always been good to him. Six more years of training would go quickly. Should he choose to stay in London with the weaver, finish the apprenticeship, and become a journeyman after mastering the trade? Lord knows, the shop was busy. Ladies in London craved these exotic fabrics.

How he loved the work. Who would have thought it? From peasant to a weaver of silk. His parents arranged the apprenticeship. He would be the first of his family to earn respectability, to become a freeman. By learning this trade he would be more than just a yeoman or a servant. His future depended upon it. But, after last night, how could he stay?

The pending decision pressed in from every side.

Master Gibbons had told him they burned a weaver of Shoreditch, a pious man who prayed with his customers. They burned him because he was Protestant. With Queen Mary ridding England of those who would not accept the Catholic way, William must attend Mass or move on. Master Gibbons said the choice should be obvious. Tears had filled his teacher’s eyes. He wanted his apprentice to stay.

William loved it here. But his parents raised him Protestant. He had been taught that Catholic sacraments were wrong…that Protestants were right. How could God be honored by staying with the Master?

But this was his future.

William sat back down.

Are you able?

He wasn’t sure.

§

The next day, standing alone on the street, William wondered if he had made the right choice. What would his parents say when they heard the master weaver put him out...because he refused to attend Mass? Surely, they would ask. He knew what the Catholics believed was wrong. But why were the beliefs of the Anglican priests true? And why should what he thought be deemed right?

He could turn around. Mary would not be Queen forever. Attending Mass while she ruled might not be too bad. But his insides turned all different ways considering such a course. He must stand for truth…and some things about God just could not be understood. He knew that. Master Gibbons was right; he really did have no choice.

People filled the street—shoppers, onlookers, travelers. The crowds parted in front of him and merged behind him, involved in their private conversations. All of them going somewhere.

To his right, the top of a church was just visible behind a row of trees. He had worshiped there until the local Bishop arrested the minister and barred the doors. No one met in the building now.

With each step he took, his bag swung at the end of his arm, like the pendulum of Mr. Gibbons' clock, always moving but going nowhere. He sighed. The bag wasn't heavy. He didn't have much.

Gradually, the laughter of children and the loud hum of bartering, selling, buying, and yelling diminished, and the road emptied into Trinity Square. People passed by, entering and leaving London. William turned to the left and found a spot out of the flow of people on the north side of the square. There he stopped and sat.

The weaver's shop would have its first customers feeling the fabric, looking for just the right silk for a new scarf...or perhaps for a blouse. He closed his eyes and still smelled the subtle sweet scent of the exotic threads, how the aromas would settle within his mouth so that he even tasted the silk.

Across the square, the scaffolding stood tall against the wall of London’s Tower, like a king overseeing his court. Nothing happened here that it did not approve. Its blessing was upon the burnings, beheadings, and tearing apart of bodies. Rarely did a month go by without some poor soul receiving the judgment of this court. On those days, people packed the square. Leaning his head back he stared into a gray sky.

Only a year earlier, the place was filled with folks for the beheading of Lady Jane Grey. Of course, being of nobility, her execution was behind the walls, in the Tower of London. Still, the event drew a crowd. From then on, the Queen’s voracity in seeking out Protestants was like…like that dog digging and yelping after the meat it smells in the passing cart. Oh...if only Mary had not deposed her. If Lady Jane still wore the crown, things would not be as they are. Her words from the block rang in his head. I pray you all, good Christian people, to bear me witness, that I die a good Christian woman, and that I do look to be saved by no other means, but only by the mercy of God in the blood of His only Son Jesus Christ.

She was sixteen, younger than he, and said to be one of the most learned women in England. Lady Jane must have believed much as he did, that indulgences bring no one to God. Only the grace, delivered through the shed blood of Christ, does that. And how can Catholics believe that at the supper they receive the real blood and body of the Lord Jesus? Don’t they know He arose to heaven and lives there today with the Father? These were important differences. The Anglican priests told him as much. Their words sounded of truth. And, if he couldn’t trust them…. But Lady Jane was so sure of what she believed.

What would he do if he were tied to a stake, fodder for a fire? Would he recant? Did he know enough to stand like the priest in his dream? The assurance of the decision to leave evaporated in the heat of the times. He'd been raised with the truth…taught it by the priests. But Lady Jane understood what she believed. She died like the noble Christian she was. He hid his head in his hands.

The Crown was the source of all these troubles. His gut tightened and, for a moment, he pictured Queen Mary upon the scaffolding. In that instant, the bile of his anger soared on wings of possibility.

He squeezed his eyes shut. He was right, he had to be right. Lady Jane knew the truth. The Anglican priests know the truth.

But so many Christians suffer and die, and all because of Mary's blind belief in the Pope and his religion. He shook his head wishing he could see through this fog.

These troubles could be avoided. Master Gibbons would always welcome him back. The thought tickled his mind in a good way. What was he to do out here away from the shop? With bag in hand, he stood and turned back toward the weaver's.

Before a step was taken, Lady Jane's words slammed into his thoughts again. ...by the mercy of God in the blood of His only Son Jesus Christ.

He must leave London. This old life was over now. He spun around and headed north.

§

William's feet moved with a purpose. Home was a little under thirty miles away. He would take Whitechapple Road to Mile End Road. Brentwood was an easy two day's walk north and east.

With the sun inching past mid-sky, William moved off the path a piece and sat, letting the grass caress his arms. Thoughts of childhood in the fields drifted about. God had been good to him. His stomach growled, but the distraction was only a minor inconvenience. In the haste to leave, he hadn't thought to purchase food.

Reaching into his bag, he felt past the wool jacket and clothing, searching. He found it, the silk scarf Master Gibbons forced into his hands when he left the weaver. Such fabric was only for nobility, but the old laws weren't enforced much. And Gibbons wanted him to have something to remember the shop. Maybe the master thought it would entice his apprentice back.

Not much chance of that. The decision was made. Time at the weaver's would provide fond memories, but until the Crown turned for the Church of England, going back was not to be. He rubbed the soothing threads. A breeze brushed his cheek and roughed his hair as tall grasses and flowers bowed before it in a wave that flowed across the field. Clinging to one of the petals next to his feet, a little butterfly moved about the colored tassels seeking what sweetness might be found.

A rhythmic beat of horse hooves stopped on the road. Pray thee, friend, you have a hungry look about you. The young man driving the wagon waved. Beside him, a woman leaned back and smiled shyly.

William raised his hand in greeting. I hope my stomach's grumbling did not frighten your horse.

Do you mind if we join you?

I'm afraid you would leave my table no more satisfied than when you sat to enjoy this feast. William gestured to the empty ground around him.

For the honor of sharing your table, we will provide the food.

Then come, be my guests.

The fellow drove his horse and wagon off the road and helped his lady out. He was dressed much as William, wearing a white shirt, cream doublet, and brown jerkin. The large, wide trunks had a weave of brown threads. A tan hat covered rough locks of black hair.

I'm Richard Gardner and this is my wife, Deborah. He set a basket in front of William.

The young woman smiled in a way that competed with the sun itself. William stood as she spread her orange kirtle and floated down onto the grass. A gray apron covered the skirt and a ruffled partlet fit nicely. A black cowl flowed from her head, the bottom edge blending into the grass.

I'm William Hunter. He joined his guests on the ground.

So, William... Richard pulled a loaf of bread from the basket and broke off a piece, handing it to Deborah. ...you heading to London or away? He passed some to William.

Away.

Richard peeled crust from the top for himself and looked sideways at William. We always thank God for his provision.

William smiled back and nodded. He would have done no less.

For this food we are about to receive, we, your humble servants, thank You. Amen. Starting with their foreheads they each made the sign of the cross.

William's stomach lurched. God had met his need...but through