Protestants : the faith that made the modern world / Alec Ryrie.

Enhanced descriptions from Syndetics:

On the 500th anniversary of Luther's theses, a landmark history of the revolutionary faith that shaped the modern world.

"Ryrie writes that his aim 'is to persuade you that we cannot understand the modern age without understanding the dynamic history of Protestant Christianity.' To which I reply: Mission accomplished."
-Jon Meacham, author of American Lion and Thomas Jefferson

Five hundred years ago a stubborn German monk challenged the Pope with a radical vision of what Christianity could be. The revolution he set in motion toppled governments, upended social norms and transformed millions of people's understanding of their relationship with God. In this dazzling history, Alec Ryrie makes the case that we owe many of the rights and freedoms we have cause to take for granted--from free speech to limited government--to our Protestant roots.

Fired up by their faith, Protestants have embarked on courageous journeys into the unknown like many rebels and refugees who made their way to our shores. Protestants created America and defined its special brand of entrepreneurial diligence. Some turned to their bibles to justify bold acts of political opposition, others to spurn orthodoxies and insight on their God-given rights. Above all Protestants have fought for their beliefs, establishing a tradition of principled opposition and civil disobedience that is as alive today as it was 500 years ago. In this engrossing and magisterial work, Alec Ryrie makes the case that whether or not you are yourself a Protestant, you live in a world shaped by Protestants.

Excerpt provided by Syndetics

Chapter 1 Luther and the Fanatics If God be for us, who can be against us?     -Romans 8:31 Everyone knew how it was supposed to end. The One Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church, headed on earth by the bishop of Rome, the successor of Saint Peter and vicar of Christ, had endured in Europe for over a thousand years. Nothing survives that long by accident. For Christians in the early sixteenth century who reflected on that astonishing fact, the explanation was obvious. This was no human institution. It was the visible Body of its founder, guided by the Holy Spirit. It would outlast this fading world and the carping of its critics, enduring forever to God's glory. Nowadays, we prefer more mundane explanations. Catholic Christendom was flexible and creative, a walled garden with plenty of scope for novelty and variety, and room to adapt to changing political, social, and economic climates. But it also had boundaries, marked and unmarked. Those who wandered too far would be urged, and if necessary forced, to come back. So if a professor at a small German university questioned an archbishop's fund-raising practices, there was a limited range of possible outcomes. The archbishop might ignore it or quietly concede the point. Or the professor might be induced to back down, by one means or another. If none of this happened, the matter would be contested on a bigger stage. Perhaps one party or the other in the debate would persuade his opponent to agree with him. Or, more likely, the process would be mired in procedure until the protagonists gave up or died. But if it reached an impasse, the troublesome professor would eventually be ordered to give way. In the unlikely event that he refused, the only recourse was the law, leading to the one outcome that nobody wanted: he could be executed as an impenitent heretic, in a fire that would purge Christendom of his errors and symbolize the hell to which he had willfully condemned himself. This system had worked for centuries. But in 1517, when that professor, Martin Luther, challenged Archbishop Albrecht of Mainz, his challenge instead kindled a series of increasingly uncontrollable wildfires that swept away many of the Catholic Church's ancient structures and its walls. We call this firestorm the Reformation and the new form, or forms, of Christianity that emerged from it Protestantism. This was not what Luther had intended. When he voiced his local protest, he was not trying to start a fire. He was working out the implications of his own recent spiritual breakthrough and trying to start an argument about it. It turned out that those implications reached much further than either he or his opponents initially imagined. Once the smoke began to clear, they were forced to realize that they were in a new world. The Call of Reform With hindsight, we can see that Luther's fire caught because fuel had been quietly building up for some time. The principal fuel was desire for reform of the church. Churches always need reform. They are staffed by human beings, some of whom will inevitably be fools, knaves, or merely incompetents. The church of the later Middle Ages was no more "corrupt" than usual, and in many ways much less so. Yet three problems converged to make it appear worse than it was: money, power, and high principle. The Western church was very rich. It had to be; it was responsible for a continental network of parish priests, church buildings, and monastic houses, supported by an international bureaucracy of unparalleled sophistication, and these things do not come cheap. It had to preserve its political independence in a dangerous world, which meant choosing leaders of royal and noble stock. These were men-and some women, the great abbesses-whose dignity and effectiveness in their offices depended on maintaining the high courtly style to which they had been born. Yet this was also an age that actively valued poverty, lauding it as a positive virtue like no Christian society before or since. The ideal late medieval cleric was a friar, who was forbidden even to touch money and who was supposed not even to own the rough clothes on his back. The contrast between that ideal and the church's corporate wealth was disturbing. Surely all that money must be corrupting? Once, as a rueful proverb had it, golden priests had served from wooden chalices; now wooden priests served from golden chalices. Every time the church extracted rents, tithes, or other payments from its flock, it fed a resentment that went beyond ordinary taxpayers' grumbles. And when there were real or perceived financial abuses, the gap between high ideals and sordid reality yawned dangerously wide. Martin Luther was a friar as well as a professor. When a man in his position accused the church of moneygrubbing, people were ready to listen. Then there was power. Back in the eleventh century, the popes had wriggled free from political control and established a vigilantly guarded independence. By the fifteenth century, they had quietly dropped some of their more startling claims. In theory, they were lords of Christendom, able to depose kings and demand universal obedience, but they knew not to push their luck. They had never really recovered from the ghastly schism of 1378-1417, when Europe was split between first two and then three rival popes. The schism was ended by a great reforming church council, which seemed to promise an era of renewal-a hope that slowly evaporated over the following decades, leaving a residue of bitterness. By 1500, virtually all Western Christians acknowledged the papacy, but they were not proud of it. Eye-popping tales were told about Pope Alexander VI (1492-1503), Rodrigo Borgia, who in 1501 supposedly held an orgy in the papal apartments for his son, to which he invited fifty chosen prostitutes and select senior clerics. True or not, it was widely believed. Inadequate leadership and financial corruption make a dangerous mix. All the more so in "Germany," the vast, north-central European territories that fell loosely under the so-called Holy Roman emperor. The rivalry between popes and emperors was ancient, and as the papal court became dominated almost exclusively by Italians after the schism, it seemed increasingly foreign north of the Alps. National stereotypes came into play. Germans were, in their own minds, bluff, honest, easily duped, but firm in the defense of the right. Italians, by contrast, were scheming, malevolent, effeminate, avaricious, and cowardly. So when a German friar accused Italians of extortion and tyranny, German ears were ready to hear him. There was also a matter of principle at stake. As well as some memorable popes, the Renaissance gave Western Christendom a slogan: ad fontes, "to the sources," an urge to return to the ancient, and therefore pure, founts of truth. By 1500, this fashion for antiquity was sweeping into every field of knowledge. Renaissance linguists tried to recover the glories of Cicero. Renaissance generals tried, with dubious success, to remodel their armies as Roman legions. The problem with the ancient world was that it happened a long time ago, and reconstructing it involved guesswork. But late medieval Europeans never doubted that it had been a world of pristine perfection. They measured their own age against that imagined ideal. Inevitably, it fell short. And so the most devastating critiques of the late medieval church came not from the discontented or marginalized but from within: from powerful establishment figures who believed in an ideal church and who would not hide their disappointment with the reality. They wanted to renew the church, not destroy it. Leading these critics was the age's intellectual colossus, Erasmus of Rotterdam, a brilliant, sharp-tongued, penny-pinching, peripatetic monk who combined a deliberately simple piety, an acid wit, and a finely judged sense of when and with whom to pick a fight. The wit was displayed in his satire The Praise of Folly (1509), which told his readers that almost every aspect of the world they lived in was ridiculous. The piety and shrewdness were seen in his pathbreaking 1516 Latin translation of the New Testament from the original Greek. Its preface recommended that the Bible be made available in all languages so that it could be read even by those on the very extremes of Christian civilization: the wild Scots, the Irish, even-he strained himself-women. Characteristically, he wrote that dangerous preface in Latin. He knew what he could get away with. He also knew that the content of his New Testament mattered less than the fact of its existence. He was offering the chance to use the Bible to judge the church. The church's old guard was duly provoked. Erasmus himself always stayed on the right side of trouble, but others were less careful and more vulnerable. The great cause cZlbre of early sixteenth-century Germany was Johannes Reuchlin, a pioneer of Christian Hebrew scholarship. Unfortunately, the only people who could teach Christians Hebrew were Jews, and late medieval Christians generally hated and despised Jews. Reuchlin, however, both was openly friendly with certain Jews and acknowledged his debt to Jewish biblical scholarship. Inevitably, he was denounced for crypto-Judaism, which the church regarded as heresy. His denouncer, with grim irony, was a Jewish convert to Christianity. German Renaissance scholars rallied to his defense, viciously mocking his opponents as self-serving obscurantists. For them, this was a war between fearless, cutting-edge German scholarship and corrupt, ignorant Italian power politics. The court case dragged on until 1516, and even then it was merely suspended; Reuchlin was never formally cleared. In the court of public opinion, however, the new scholarship was triumphantly vindicated, and the brethren sharpened their pens in readiness for the next skirmish. Enter Martin Luther. An Accidental Revolutionary Martin Luther was the Reformation's indispensable firestarter. Would there have been a Reformation if young Martin had followed his father's wishes and become a lawyer? Who knows, but the Reformation as it actually happened is unimaginable without him. Luther does not fit the stereotype of a great Christian revolutionary. He never held high office, and he remained a professor of theology at the University of Wittenberg to the end of his life, squeezing his revolution in between his regular lectures. He was not a man of heroic virtues. He was grouchy, obstinate, and an unabashed sensualist, from his boisterous, flirtatious, and deeply affectionate marriage to his well-documented fondness for Saxon beer. In later life, he was frankly fat, and for most of his life he struggled with constipation. Fittingly enough, his religion was a matter less of the mind than of the heart and the gut. Spiritually as well as physically, he was larger than life. Even his flaws were outsized. His piercing insights, his raw honesty, and the shattering spiritual experiences that drove his life still leap off the page five centuries later. They do so because they resonate with the modern age, an age that he made. Luther was born in 1483 or 1484, the eldest son of a family that was newly prosperous from copper mining. He became a monk in 1505, against his father's wishes, and remembered those early years in the monastery as a torment. He felt imprisoned in his own sin, whose grip on him grew stronger the more he struggled against it. Seemingly trivial sins tortured him. His exasperated confessor told him to go and commit some real sins, but his superior, more constructively, packed him off to the new university at Wittenberg for further study in 1507. He drank in his studies. Over the following dozen years, as he rose rapidly in both the monastic and the academic hierarchies, he gradually came to understand the Christian Gospel in a way that seemed to him completely new, authentically ancient, and utterly life changing. Luther was not a systematic theologian, trading in logical definitions or philosophical consistency. The systematizers who followed in his wake picked out two key principles in his thought: sola fide and sola scriptura, "faith alone" and "Scripture alone." But this risks missing the point. Luther's theology was not a doctrine; it was a love affair. Consuming love for God has been part of Christian experience since the beginning, but Luther's passion had a reckless extravagance that set it apart, and which has echoed down Protestantism's history. He pursued his love for God with blithe disregard for the bounds set by church and tradition. It was an intense, desolating, intoxicating passion, sparked by his life-upending glimpse of God's incomprehensible, terrible, beautiful love for him. Like any lover, he found it incredible that his beloved should love him, unworthy as he was. And yet he discovered over the long years of prayer and study that God loved him wildly, irresponsibly, and beyond all reason. God, in Christ, had laid down his life for him. This was not, as the medievals' subtle theology had taught, a transaction, or a process by which believers had to do whatever was in their power to pursue holiness. It was a sheer gift. All that mattered was accepting it. This went beyond anything Erasmus had imagined. Erasmus wanted to free Christians from superstition, not to interfere with Christianity's basic theological framework. Indeed, he thought that too much attention to theology was a futile distraction from the pursuit of holiness. He called Luther doctor hyperbolicus, the "doctor of overstatement." But for Luther, it was impossible to overstate God's grace. He too wanted a radically simplified Christian life, but he wanted it because the flood of God's grace had swept everything else away. All the structures that the medieval church had provided for the Christian life, from pious works through sacraments to the church itself, mediating between sinners and their Savior-all of this was now so much clutter. Or worse, a blasphemous attempt to buy and sell what God gives us for free. This talk of grace and free forgiveness was dangerous. If grace is free and all we need do is believe, surely that would lead to moral anarchy? The fact that free forgiveness can look like a license to sin has plagued Protestantism for centuries. But for Luther, even to ask this question was blockheaded. What kind of lover needs rules about how to love? What kind of lover has to be bribed or threatened into loving? God loves us unreservedly. If we recognize that love, we will love him unreservedly in return. Luther's breakthrough had a dazzling, corrosive simplicity to it. The power of those twin principles, "faith alone" and "Scripture alone," lay in the word "alone." There is nothing and no one else other than God incarnate in Jesus Christ worth attending to. Being a Christian means throwing yourself abjectly, unreservedly, on Christ's mercy. Living a Christian life means living Christ's life-that is, abandoning all security and worldly ambitions to follow him "through penalties, deaths and hell." It is only then that we may find peace. That ravishing paradox is at the heart of Protestantism. It is a further paradox that such a profoundly personal insight should have such an impact on the outside world. Excerpted from Protestants: The Faith That Made the Modern World by Alec Ryrie All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

Reviews provided by Syndetics

Library Journal Review

Ryrie (history of Christianity, Durham Univ.; Being Protestant in Reformation Britain) effectively surveys 500 years of church history while illuminating the breadth and impact of the protestant faith. The first section traces the impact of the Protestant Reformation of the 1600s on Europe and America. The author also focuses on the transformation of global Protestantism during the 19th and 20th century by highlighting areas such as the millenarian movements, liberalism, slavery, and how the two World Wars affected and were impacted by the protestant churches. Later chapters cover the global nature of Protestantism by examining racial struggles in South Africa, the movement's influence in South Korea and China, and the global Pentecostal experience. Some of the unique themes and sections within this book are those that explain the pietism movement in England, the rise of Adventist movements including the Jehovah's Witnesses and Christian Science, the struggle over the slave trade, the German Church in World War I and II, South African apartheid, and Korean Christianity. VERDICT This multifaceted work will appeal to readers of both history and theology. Recommended for all libraries. [See Prepub Alert, 10/17/16.]-Ray -Arnett, -Fremont Area Dist. Lib., MI © Copyright 2017. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

Publishers Weekly Review

This volume is an excellent addition to the publishing lists for the 500th anniversary of the beginning of the Lutheran reformation. Ryrie (Being Protestant in Reformation Britain), an expert on the Reformation and winner of the Society of Renaissance Studies' 2014 book prize, aims for a biography of Protestantism itself, rather than any particular Protestant figure or sect. In pursuit of this, Ryrie divides his work into three sections: reformation, the historical roots and early years of Protestantism; transformation, the philosophical development and geographic spread of the Reformation; and globalization, the most recent stages in the development and international adoption of Protestantism. The sections and chapters are thematic rather than strictly chronological; one chapter, for example, follows the fortunes of Protestantism in Nazi Germany. The next chapter then goes backward, chronologically speaking, to move the story to 19th-century America, the rise of evangelical fundamentalism, and the civil rights movement. Ryrie is careful to anchor the reader throughout; even non-specialists will never get lost in the tangle. He also provides a glossary of "types of Protestant" for easy reference as well as an excellent set of endnotes. (Apr.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

CHOICE Review

Ryrie (Durham Univ., UK), a Reformation historian, narrates Protestant Christianity's story from the Reformation to today, arguing that a love affair with the felt experience of God underlies the diverse forms of Protestantism. This central conviction has allowed Protestantism to adapt to numerous social, geographic, and historical contexts in ways that have been both liberating and oppressive. Chapters cover everything from the birth of Protestantism with Martin Luther and later John Calvin to the spread of the movement to North America in several eras. Ryrie returns to look at Protestantism in Nazi Germany, and then the church's later 20th-century incarnations in Korea and China, and global Pentecostalism. The engaging narrative will allow general readers to see, in very broad outlines, the different ways in which Protestantism has changed, adapted, and shaped and been shaped by various cultures. Specialists will be frustrated by the author's broad sweep, which ignores theological and historiographic nuances. The story of Protestantism is about a lot of little stories as much as broad sweeps. Still, general readers will learn much from this volume, which might be a springboard to further discussions in lower-level general Christianity classes as well. Summing Up: Highly recommended. General, public, and undergraduate collections. --Aaron Wesley Klink, Duke University

Booklist Review

*Starred Review* Believers, not institutions, constitute Protestantism, and Protestants will argue . . . about almost anything. Over the course of centuries, Ryrie maintains in this engaging overview, such contention produced three great gifts for the modern world: free inquiry, democracy, and apoliticism. None were Protestant principles at first but emerged as the movement continued. Luther's stress on the authority of the individual conscience led to a permanent openness to new ideas. That openness licensed toleration, at first, and eventually, free speech and religious difference to every person. If those egalitarian principles led, as they did, to revolts against intolerant rulers, the development of a desire to be left alone tempered rebellion by insisting on limited government, which explains why some Protestants accept some tyranny. The book's three parts cover successive ages: The Reformation Age, from Luther, Calvin, and Henry VIII to Pietism in Germany, Methodism in England, and revivalism in British North America; The Age of Transformation, on slavery under Protestantism, the proliferation of sects, religious liberalism, and the fracturings of Protestantism in Hitler's Germany and in the U.S. after WWII; and The Global Age, on massive Protestant growth and influence in South Africa, Korea, and China as well as around the world by means of modern Pentecostalism. Closing with cautious glimpses into futurity, this sweeping and thought-provoking book may prove a bible of the Protestant quincentenary.--Olson, Ray Copyright 2017 Booklist

Author notes provided by Syndetics

Alec Ryrie was born in London and grew up in Washington DC. He graduated from Cambridge University with a double First in History and received a doctorate in Theology from Oxford University. He is now Professor of the History of Christianity at Durham University and a licensed minister in his local church. An expert on the Reformation in England and Scotland, he is the author of the prizewinning Being Protestant in Reformation Britain and The Sorcerer's Tale: Faith and Fraud in Tudor England and is co-editor of the Journal of Ecclesiastical History.