He Never Feared the Face of Man
“Lord, behold their threatenings: and grant unto thy servants, that with all boldness they may speak thy word”
“Nearly four o’clock, the candle in the great hall has burned down to the red line, and the call to arms has sounded for the second time; surely he cannot be long now, thought Marjory Bowes to herself as she left her embroidery frame and walked distractedly to the window. The narrow casement was open, and the bustle down on the street hummed musically, for, though not a manufacturing or trading town, Berwick-on-Tweed was still a busy place. Its location on the border between England and Scotland gave it much importance in those times of warfare. Marjory’s father, Sir Robert Bowes, as governor of Berwick, held a position of some rank in the city.
At a spinning wheel placed at the other end of the great parlor sat Marjory’s mother, Dame Bowes, whose sad face and tearful voice contrasted with the smiles and laughing eyes of her daughter. Marjory was fair while her mother was dark; the daughter, indeed, with her long blond curls and blue eyes, was considered to be the beauty of the North.
“Ah, all preachers are not like John Knox!” said Dame Bowes, her eyes staring off wistfully through the open window as she thought of Knox. “I remember when he first landed in England on his release from the French galleys, and the King’s Council sent him here as a preacher for the North. How we marveled at his frank words, and how the Roman Catholics shouted in anger when he called their communion wafer a ‘round, clipped god!’ And how anxious we were when he preached in defense of the gospel before the great assembly at Carlisle, after Tunstall, the Bishop of Durham, accused him before King Edward out of envy and hatred of his doctrine! That was in April of 1550. And the next year the King’s Council placed him in Carlisle and made him one of King Edward’s chaplains. They say that he is doing much the same work at Carlisle, but I sure wish he was still stationed here.”
“That sermon in Carlisle was certainly an amazing sight, mother! I will never forget seeing our church filled with soldiers in their white coats edged with green. How they admired his boldness, as he spoke plainly about their sins and God’s punishment of those who do wrong! I fear, Mother, that is one reason why Father doesn’t like Knox. John has no fear of what other men think, and would just as soon reprove the King and even the Emperor of their sins as he would the lowly fishwives downtown. But other men love him for his very plainness. John Manwell told me once, ‘I don’t love the Scots, and I fight against them with a happy heart; but this maverick Scotsman was a preacher I loved to listen to. At times I felt as if I could break my sword over his head because he showed my wicked life so plainly to all. But I admire a man who says the truth.’
“But here, mother, comes a horseman!”
“It’s him, then, without doubt,” replied Dame Bowes, unable to hide the excitement in her voice. “I am so glad he could come. Tell the maids to prepare him something for him to eat and drink. But, Marjory, before he comes in, let me ask you one question. I wouldn’t be surprised if Knox asks your father for your hand in marriage. I would love him for a son-in-law! Although people say he has a rugged way of speaking, he also has a true loving heart beneath his rough-hewn face. In fact I love him all the more for his strong opinions and for the way that he won’t yield one inch when he believes he is right. He is a man of iron, but that iron will sustain a weak spirit like mine. I love to watch him face the angry faces of those who in their hearts know he is right; he is a soldier in the best sense. So, dear Marjory, I ask you: what would you say to becoming his wife?”
Marjory blushed deep red at the question, and leaned over the window seat to conceal her face. Before she could reply, however, the door burst open and the subject of their conversation strode into the room dressed in a plain broadcloth suit, his face less haggard than when a prisoner in the galleys, and his eyes twinkling with kindness. Knox greeted the ladies and unceremoniously seated himself as if in his own home, knowing well how much his hosts welcomed his visit.
How strong his step! Every word he says makes me feel his strength; indeed, he is a man to lean on in hard times, thought Marjory, as she watched her mother’s sad face breaking into sunshine under the cheering speech of her favorite preacher.
“O mother,” replied Knox to Dame Bowes’s complaints, “don’t pay any attention to Satan’s suggestions! If I had as much evidence of my own election as I can see of yours, I still couldn’t be any surer than I already am of my salvation. Your adversary Satan tempts you by putting these doubts into your mind. Why should you despair and trouble your soul with thoughts that will never, never come true? Is not Christ your all-sufficient strength, and will He desert the soul that hangs helplessly onto Him? Never, never! I’m sure that He cannot do so. It would be as contrary to His nature, as for your husband to play a coward’s part.”
“But you don’t know not how evil I am,” replied Dame Bowes, her face returning again to its habitual gloom. “You have no idea what a wicked heart I have inside me.”
“Didn’t Christ know, Mother?” asked Knox. “Didn’t He know it perfectly, long before He called you by His grace? What kind of love changes like the moon, or depends on our weak and movable feelings? Is He not unchangeable and eternal? O Mother! Let’s not insult Him by thinking that He might fail.”
“Well, John, we need to talk about this more often,” said Dame Bowes, greatly comforted. “I wish you were always nearby to remind me. When I see you so calm and brave, knowing what you have to bear, I feel ashamed of my cowardice; but when I am by myself my mind begins to race and I start to brood, and as I sit alone, thinking over the past, and thinking about myself, I start to feel very anxious and depressed.”
“Mother, don’t sit alone, and, above all, don’t brood; go visit your maids, and talk to them about these precious things of Christ. I don’t believe we should look so much within ourselves, but we should rather spend all our quiet time thinking of Christ. It is as wicked for a Christian to brood and doubt as to steal or swear, and I think that doubting Christ is both theft and blasphemy. It is robbing Christ of the honor due to Him, and it is contempt of His Holy Word.”
“Well, I will work hard to overcome it. I know it’s strange, but I almost enjoy being alone, and at times I feel a strange pleasure in making myself sad; but I know that it is wrong, indeed I do! I won’t do it again, John. But tell me now, what about Carlisle?”
“Dear Mother,” said Knox, “I find that the more I prosper, the more the enemy rages against me and against Christ. In Carlisle I had a lot of difficulty at first, but the Word of God spoken boldly went to the hearts of the brave men of my congregation. My lord, the Duke of Northumberland, became angry when I reproved sin and Roman Catholicism, and he stirred up enemies against me among the Council. But by God’s grace I escaped their anger, and now I am appointed to preach in London and the South of England this year (1553). The lords of the Council will allow me to stay briefly in Newcastle to arrange my affairs there, and then I need to go on to London.”
“Well, I am going to speak to Sir Robert,” said Dame Bowes, rising. “I will be back soon.”
Left alone, John and Marjory sat facing each other for a few moments in awkward silence. John played nervously with the buttons on the front of his suit coat. Finally, working hard to choke down his nervousness, he leaned forward in his chair and said, “Marjory, I’m not very good at saying things like this, but be sure that my heart is stronger than my tongue. I earn, as you know, about forty pounds per year working as one of the King’s chaplains. We can live comfortably, if not in wealth, on that amount. I don’t anticipate a smooth life in the future, and I’ll never be popular, because God has made me like an ax to chop down the trees before finer tools—other servants of God—can more artfully craft their wood. I may often have to do difficult and demanding work, and I’ll have a hard-working and perhaps shameful life to offer you. You and I have thought about each other a long time, and we can read each other’s opinions easily. Tell me, now, will you become my wife, provided your father, Sir Robert, consents?”
“Yes, of course John,” whispered Marjory, hiding her face in her handkerchief.
“Remember, I don’t have any prestige, and I may be called upon to die at the stake as better men have done. This King Edward is weak with illness. There are bad men behind him who don’t care at all for men’s souls, the kind that will become Roman Catholic tomorrow to earn a penny. I foresee a terrible judgment for the half-hearted way in which God’s work is now being done. O Marjory, can you share and endure this with me?”
“I can bear it better with you than alone, and I trust I won’t weaken your faith,” replied Marjory.
“No, I’m sure you won’t,” answered Knox. “I well remember the first time your mother asked me to visit her, and I caught my first glimpse of you. The sight of your face fascinated my heart. I listened to your mother’s story, but all the time I couldn’t keep my mind from thinking about you. When I read back at home, your face lit up my books, and in my dreams the angels of God that I saw coming to defend me looked just like you.
“Dear Marjory! I feel that it is God’s will to give me the priceless blessing of your pure love, and I hope to deserve it. I don’t idolize you, but I hope to share my life in all its joys and sorrows with you. Remember, Marjory, that the minister’s wife will be insulted by those whose consciences bother them when her husband preaches. Many will slander her, and some will find wicked pleasure in adding to her troubles by their coldness and lack of love. Will you be able to put up with this, my dear?”
“Yes, and twenty times worse if Christ helps me. You tolerate far more than this, and a wife delights to share her husband’s pain,” said Marjory, smiling through the tears that had surfaced in the emotion of the moment.
“Spoken like a true woman,” replied Knox wryly, trying to cover up his own tears. “But let me say too that if there are special sorrows in a minister’s life, there are also special delights. If people with evil tongues and hearts attack your reputation, you will also have the peculiar experience of seeing precious souls drink in your speech and be comforted and strengthened by your words. O Marjory, to see a hard face soften into tears, and a wicked man forsake his sins and begin a new life in Christ ... that is an experience that exceeds our ideas of heaven! And then to see the faces of the dying light up with joy as one ministers the word of Christ to them, and to know that they pass away breathing the name of Jesus with their dying lips, thanking Him for sending us with the good news, is a tremendous joy that can’t be described. O Marjory, a minister has joys and sorrows that are out of this world! Are you sure you wish to share them with me?”
“Yes, dearest John, I have no greater desire. I would rather bear your sorrows and joys at your side than possess all the riches and honors of the kingdom of England.”
At this moment Dame Bowes returned to the room, lamenting in a sorrowful voice, “Oh, son John, Sir Robert will not hear of you marrying our Marjory! It’s pride, pride, I know, and a feeling that, should the Pope get the upper hand again in England, father would not want to oppose the King. Oh, but must you two be separated?”
“Don’t worry, mother,” said Knox bravely, though admittedly shocked by the answer. “Don’t worry about me. Marjory and I have given our word to each other, and that is as binding as an oath. If I never see her again, I will always consider her to be my wife. We must wait until God changes Sir Robert’s mind, or at least somehow clears our path. And you, Marjory, what do you think?”
“I agree with you, John. Let’s trust God to clear the difficulties out of our way. We will be true to each other and commit this matter to God.”
And so it was that in April John Knox went on to London alone. His strong heart was very sad, but he did not allow his private grief to hinder his public labors. In fact he worked harder because he felt that the time for work was short. It was shorter than he imagined, for on July 6th, 1553, King Edward breathed his last.
After King Edward died, Knox preached through several counties until the following November, when he returned to Berwick and married Marjory Bowes in spite of her father Sir Robert’s disapproval. Her father was now quickly becoming a staunch supporter of Queen Mary’s religion, so his daughter’s marriage to the likes of John Knox offended him very much. Their wedding was very simple and plain, reflecting the matter-of-fact, common-sense character of the bridegroom.
“Let’s not have a heathen ceremony, Marjory. We are not getting married to entertain our friends but to help one another in the service of God and man. What do we care if men despise us and mock our simplicity as long as we don’t grieve the Holy Spirit by undue lightness? I don’t care one little bit for all men’s opinions.”
“Neither do I,” agreed Marjory. “I want it to be just how you want it to be.”
Shortly after the wedding Knox had to flee from England, leaving his young wife in her mother’s care.
“O Marjory,” he cried as they parted, “my heart aches to leave you like this! It’s hard for me to think about it, but, beloved, we must bear this pain for Christ’s sake. I can’t tell you how much I’ll miss your sweet face and the music of your voice. It will be like half of me is asleep while we are apart. Pray God we may be reunited soon, never to part again.”
On January 28, 1554, Knox landed at Dieppe, France, a lonely exile without money and knowing no one. England’s Queen, Mary Tudor, who was ruling on the late King Edward’s throne, had reestablished Roman Catholicism in the kingdom. Knox’s friends had advised him to flee the country and the wrath of the Queen, which was sure to fall upon him and his Protestant teachings if he remained in England.
Oh! It is hard to be in a foreign city knowing no one and feeling no one’s care. And this especially when the stranger thinks back to a home where weak and needy loved ones wish for his presence, and nearly die because they do not have it! Yet our stout friend Knox set his face like a flint, and carrying his sorrows with a cheerful face went straight forward into the path of duty. In the stern delight of self-sacrifice for the testimony of Jesus, which is the essence of martyrdom, Knox experienced a joy that overcame the anguish of his solitude and separation from Marjory.
So will it be with you, dear reader, if you will go forward in the path that God opens before you. Whether it is a path of suffering or of love, you shall not be forsaken nor ever totally alone.