Second Reformed Church, Pella, Iowa November 3, 2019 Steve Mathonnet-VanderWell, preaching Hebrews 11:1-3, 8-16 Embodying Faith: Guido de Bres

I have been looking to this sermon if only because it gives me an opportunity to say the name “Guido” many times in a sermon! In our series on “Embodying Faith” today we get to know a bit about Guido de Bres.

Guido is probably best known as the author of what today we call the “,” a classic statement of Reformed beliefs, and one of four “doctrinal standards” of the Reformed Church--along with the Heidelberg Catechism, Canons of Dort, and the Belhar Confession.

Guido was hung in 1567 at the age of 45, a martyr for his faith. Just days before he died, he wrote a letter to his wife. Listen to some excerpts of that letter.

Catherine, my dear and beloved wife, my sister in our Lord Jesus. I am writing to console us both. God has given us seven years together and blessed us with five children. You have seen and felt and been part of my labors, the persecutions, and afflictions which we have endured.

When I was first arrested, I troubled myself, constantly asking and regretting and replaying, “Did too many of us travel together? Were we careless? Did someone betray us? Who might have turned us in?

I became agitated and overwhelmed by such thoughts. But then my spirits were raised and I began to feel a deep peace. I said to myself, “My God, during my whole life you have kept me and preserved my from great danger. If I have now arrived at the hour in which I will pass from this life to you, then may it be so.” If the very hairs of my head are numbered, then I am not forgotten or ignored or beyond the care of the Lord here. God sees and knows and cares about my circumstances.

Human reason resists and rebels against such thinking, and I have felt that too. For it seems as if this is to make God the source or author of our suffering, that God is cruel and unfeeling. But I have found unspeakable joy in trusting that all God wills is for our good and grounded in his endless love for us. Our Lord is incomparably greater than all the forces of evil and he graciously holds them in check.

I’ll admit that when I once preached on such things, I was like a deaf man speaking about music I had never really heard. But being in prison has been a very good school for me and the Holy Spirit teaches me here continually. My heart is light and it lacks nothing in my afflictions.

I am held in a very strong prison, bleak and dark. The air is poor and it stinks. On my feet and hands I have irons, big and heavy. But this place is not our destination. Heaven is the goal of our journey. We desire to be received in the home of our Heavenly Father and see our brother Jesus Christ. If I am to wear the crown of martyrs, that is an honor even angels never can know.

As you have always loved me with great affection, I pray that you will continue this love toward our little children. Be their father and their mother. Remember too, that our Lord is the husband of all widows and the father of all orphans. You will never be abandoned. Commend me to my mother. Greet our good friends in my name, and let them pray for me, that I may uphold the Son of God to the last breath of my life.

Farewell, Catherine, my dearly beloved. I pray my God will comfort you and give you contentment. I hope that this letter will bring you consolation. Please keep it as a remembrance of me. It is badly written, but it is what I am able to do, and not what I wish to do. Grace be with you. ​

Guido de Bres was born in 1522--that’s 497 years ago--in what today we call , then it was all part of the “” and they were all under Spanish control.

We know very little about Guido’s growing up years. Somewhere in his early 20’s, for reasons we really do not know, Guido declared himself a Protestant--aligning himself with then new and controversial teachings of and others. Why? Who or what influenced him? We really don’t know.

Becoming Protestant at that time wasn’t a decision that could be taken lightly. Within a year Guido had to flee for his life because of his Protestant beliefs. For the rest of life, Guido lived between time abroad in exile and other times when he was safe in the Low Countries. At different times, he fled to England, , Switzerland and France. The good thing about living abroad was that there he kept company and was taught by deeper, more mature believers. During one of his times of running, he stayed in --the center of the Reformed faith, and was under the tutelage of .

When he was home, he was a travelling pastor. Over time, Protestantism became increasingly tolerated, and out in the open in the low countries. Then, suddenly, there was an unexpected backlash. The more open attitude changed. Guido was arrested, imprisoned and hung in 1567 at the age of 45.

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How do you find Guido’s tone in his letter to his wife, Catherine? There is something admirable and inspiring. His courage and peace, his trust in God’s goodness are amazing.

Yet I must say that there is also something in me that says “Yes, but…” Even Guido acknowledged that ​ ​ there is something in there that doesn’t sit easily with us.

Prison is a good teacher. A teacher most of us have never had. Knowing a hangman’s noose awaits you gives you a new perspective--no doubt. I wonder if my misgivings are not like Guido suggests, “Deaf people talking about music they have never heard.”

To we modern people, Guido can almost sound as if he thinks that God is the instigator of the evils we endure, like God orchestrates the bad things that happen to us. A modern preacher said that it often it sounds as if God goes around making brakes fail on cars or pulling triggers on guns. Something in us rebels and rejects that view--rightly so.

Some of the difference between Guido and us is historical perspective. In Guido’s time, life was so much more vulnerable, unpredictable, defenseless and dangerous--no matter what your faith. You had no friends in high places. You had no security. Life was very precarious.

In contrast, think of all the ways we find security and safety that were unknown in Guido’s day--seat belts and vaccines and smoke detectors, retirement accounts, locks on our doors. Our food is inspected and our blood pressure monitored. We join health clubs, have medical care and financial planners, trustworthy police. We have tornado whistles and weather radar. All ways we try to make life less precarious. Of course, life can still feel very unpredictable. But is a far cry from people 500 years ago.

People like Guido found the only security they could in trusting in the goodness of God. The notion that life for them was totally random, out of control, this is was what was deeply troubling and frightening. Their only sense of comfort and hope was that God was in some mysterious and indirect way, at work, even in the worst of situations. And don’t we want to affirm that, as well?

I wonder if as modern, rational, “people-in-control,” our attempts to “make sense” of evil might actually be part of the problem? When we try to explain or understand evil, do we “normalize” it, give it space in our universe, a place in our lives? Our desire for intellectual mastery, to find answers to the unanswerable, makes evil something that can be comprehended, even accepted.

What if instead, evil is something we should push back, resist, not normalize or understand? Evil does not belong, it has no place in God’s universe or our lives. Evil is something we lament. We cry out to God. We mourn. We weep and sigh. We share and care. We bind up one another’s wounds and carry each other’s burdens, rather than try to “figure it out.” As soon as we explain evil, we lose the ability to say “No, it shouldn’t be.”

An old story tells of a group of learned people travelling together down the road, when they come upon a person trapped in the bottom of a deep pit. What to do? Some begin to wonder, what does this person’s plight tell us about the human condition? Does he deserve to be there? Did God put him there? Even, why are there deep pits in the world? The conversation got deeper and deeper and more complex, until they stopped debating for a minute and noticed that there were now two people down in the pit. One of travelers did not join in the discussion, but instead hopped down into the pit to offer solidarity and solace, to see if she could be of help. Perhap between the two of them they could even devise a way out of the pit. Evil is less a topic to be debated, and more a problem to be eased.

The Christian answer to suffering--although I hesitate to call it an “answer” is Jesus. Jesus is not a theoretical answer to the problem of evil. Jesus is a practical solution. The life, death, and resurrection of Jesus tells us that God is not far off pondering evil. God is not a puppet-master pulling marionette strings from heaven. God is in the midst of it all. God knows suffering and has endured pain. God has known death and by so doing, defeated death. As Frederick Beuchner says, “Jesus’ resurrection tells us that the worst thing is never the last thing.”

God doesn’t abstractly solve a problem. God enters our world, God enters our lives to absorb the mess we live in and the mess we’ve made. Hope is found not in a reasonable answer to explain evil. Hope is found in God with us--Emmanuel.