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There are moments in history
when the persecuted become the persecutors, when those who once cried out for
liberty begin to silence the cries of others, and when the hand that once
trembled beneath oppression is raised to impose oppression upon another.
Such moments should make every
Christian tremble.
The history presented in this
book is not comfortable. It was never intended to be. It reaches into some of
the darkest chambers of Protestant history and exposes a painful contradiction:
men and churches that pleaded for freedom when they were weak sometimes denied
freedom to others when they became strong.
They knew the darkness of prison
cells. They knew the bitterness of exile. They knew what it meant to have their
worship forbidden, their books burned, their ministers silenced, and their
consciences placed beneath the authority of kings, bishops, and magistrates.
They understood the terror of being told that faith must conform to the demands
of the state.
Yet when political power passed
into Protestant hands, some repeated the very evils against which they had
protested.
Catholics, Quakers, Baptists,
dissenters, and others discovered that persecution does not cease merely
because the persecutor carries a different Bible, bears a different
denominational name, or speaks in the language of reform. The prison remains a
prison. The whip remains a whip. Exile remains exile. The grave remains a
grave.
Religious oppression does not
become holy merely because it is committed by those who believe themselves to
be defending truth.
That is the terrible lesson of
these pages.
This book is not written to mock
the Reformation, diminish the courage of Protestant martyrs, or deny the great
spiritual blessings that followed the recovery of biblical truth. The
Reformation broke chains that had bound minds and consciences for centuries. It
restored the Scriptures to ordinary people, challenged corrupt authority, and
called men and women back to the Word of God.
But no movement, however
necessary, is beyond examination. No church tradition is made righteous merely
by recounting its victories. No people can honestly condemn the sins committed
against them while refusing to confess the sins committed by them.
History demands honesty.
Christian faith demands even
more.
The execution of Michael
Servetus, the hanging of Quakers in Massachusetts, the persecution of Baptists,
the violence of religious conflict in Scotland, and the bitter struggles over
conscience in Europe and America cannot be dismissed as unfortunate footnotes.
They reveal what happens when the church reaches for the sword of the state and
when civil authority claims the right to govern the human soul.
The state may restrain violence.
It may punish theft, murder, fraud, and injustice. But it cannot create faith.
It cannot compel repentance. It cannot regenerate a heart. It cannot produce
worship acceptable to God.
A forced confession is not
faith.
A coerced baptism is not
obedience.
A prayer uttered beneath threat
is not worship.
A church filled through fear is
not a church made alive by the Spirit of God.
The conscience belongs to God.
It is not the property of rulers, councils, parliaments, synods, bishops,
pastors, or majorities. When men attempt to rule the conscience, they enter a
sanctuary into which God has not invited them.
The most disturbing truth
contained in this history is that persecution is rarely carried out by people
who believe themselves evil. It is usually committed by those who are convinced
that their cause is righteous, their doctrine is pure, their nation is
threatened, and their actions are necessary.
They do not call it cruelty.
They call it order.
They do not call it oppression.
They call it protection.
They do not call it tyranny.
They call it faithfulness.
This is why the warnings of
history remain urgent.
The greatest danger may not come
from those who openly despise religion, but from those who love their own
religion so fiercely that they are willing to punish anyone who refuses to
accept it. Zeal without humility can become brutality. Conviction without
charity can become oppression. Truth defended by violence is dishonored by the
very means used to defend it.
The gospel never needed the
executioner.
Christ did not command His
disciples to conquer unbelief through prisons, fines, banishment, or death. His
kingdom is not advanced by coercion. The weapons of Christian warfare are not
carnal. The gospel addresses the heart through proclamation, persuasion,
prayer, sacrifice, patience, and love.
When Peter drew the sword,
Christ commanded him to put it away.
That command still stands.
Every generation is tempted to
believe that it is too enlightened to repeat the sins of the past. Yet the
spirit of intolerance does not disappear. It changes its clothing. It learns
new language. It finds new institutions through which to speak. It may operate
through religious authorities, political parties, cultural majorities, academic
systems, or public outrage.
Its demand is always similar:
conform, remain silent, or suffer.
That is why this book concerns
more than Protestants, Catholics, Quakers, Baptists, or the controversies of
former centuries. It concerns the permanent danger of human power when it
attempts to govern belief.
Religious liberty cannot mean
liberty only for those whose doctrines we approve. If liberty belongs only to
the majority, it is not liberty. If conscience is protected only when it agrees
with the government, it is not conscience. If Christians demand freedom for
themselves while denying it to others, they have not defended religious
liberty; they have merely defended religious privilege.
The true test of our commitment
to liberty is not whether we defend those who speak as we speak, worship as we
worship, and believe as we believe. The true test is whether we defend the
conscience of the person whose convictions offend us, trouble us, or contradict
our own.
This does not require us to
surrender truth. It requires us to trust that truth does not need chains,
prisons, or bloodshed to prevail.
The pages that follow may
provoke sorrow, anger, and even disbelief. Let them also provoke repentance.
Let them remind us that historical honesty is not betrayal. Confession does not
weaken the church. It purifies it.
We honor the martyrs of our own
tradition most faithfully when we refuse to create martyrs in another.
We defend the gospel most
faithfully when we refuse to use methods contrary to the gospel.
We preserve the liberty of our
own children most securely when we defend the liberty of those who stand
outside our churches.
May this book awaken memory
where history has been forgotten, humility where pride has taken root, and
courage where silence has allowed injustice to flourish.
May it remind every reader that
power is a test of character, that conscience is sacred, and that no church is
safe from corruption when it exchanges the cross of Christ for the sword of
Caesar.
And may we never forget this
solemn truth:
Those who ask for liberty in the
day of their weakness must be prepared to grant liberty in the day of their
power.
This version is suitable for
placement immediately before the main text of the paperback.
Guillermo Santamaria