[Read Part One of this essay.]

II. From Event to Memory

On 4 November 1605, Guy Fawkes and several other Roman Catholic terrorists stocked up gunpowder beneath the House of Lords. Their intent was to blow up Parliament, and thereby assassinate King James VI and I on 5 November 1605, the date of Parliament’s opening that year. They were however discovered, and 5 November, the date of the Gunpowder Plot’s failure, was consecrated as a national holy day in England. This was not the first papal attempt on an Anglican monarch’s life; in 1570, Pope Pius V declared that the queen and her supporters were heretics, and that the oath of loyalty between Elizabeth I and her subjects was henceforth dissolved – effectively inviting papal-sponsored anarchy within England, so long as it culminated with a return to Roman Catholicism and the Pope’s oversight the English Church. It is a matter of no small importance that the vast majority of English subjects refused the validity of the Pope’s declaration. Even if this cannot be interpreted as a wholesale vote for the rapidly developing Anglican church, it was indeed a vote of loyalty toward the English monarch, both over and above the Roman papacy.

In 1606, the foiling of the Gunpowder Treason (as it was now called) was celebrated throughout England, not least in the royal court. The preacher for this occasion was Lancelot Andrewes, an aged and well-respected priest in the national church whose career reached its zenith under the new king. Andrewes, a Renaissance humanist polyglot, was involved in the translation of the Authorized, or King James, version of the Bible; he became one of the forerunners of the Anglican Counter-Reformation that began under King James VI and I and continued on with King Charles I; his liturgical work helped lay the groundwork for the 1662 Book of Common Prayer, and his posthumously published private devotions remain one of the most beautiful examples of Anglican devotional writing. But above all, as T. S. Eliot noted almost a century ago, Andrewes’ sermons rank “with the finest English prose of their time, of any time” (179). This is clearly seen in Andrewes’ court sermons, where – again, borrowing from Eliot – Andrewes “was not hampered as he sometimes was in addressing more popular audiences. His erudition had full play, and his erudition is essential to his originality” (183). These orations, which are among the finest examples of Anglican preaching, are literary and theological works of art.

In his sermon for 5 November 1606, Andrewes weaves together Biblical themes, contemporary history, and a theological appreciation of holy days. He begins by citing Psalm 108:23 – 24 – “This is the Lord’s doing, and it is mervailous in our eyes. This is the Day which the Lord hath made; let us rejoyce and be glad in it” – which is then used to emphasize the miraculous deliverance England witnessed the prior year. Weaving David’s psalm with the words of Christ, Andrewes says, “This day, is this Scripture fulfilled in our eares” because “this day, He [i.e., God] saved, prospered, and fairely blessed us” (146; working off of Luke 4:21). Now living early in the third millennium, we do well to consider the deep emotional pull of Andrewes’ words. Again, and despite the risk of being repetitive, we may fruitfully compare the collective psyche of England in 1606 to America in the wake of 9/11, the only difference being that the English discovered and prevented the plot against them. If we contemplate the emotional shock of 9/11 and the sense of relief felt by many Americans on the anniversary of that date one year later, we may begin to understand Andrewes’ words.

Andrewes saw only one appropriate response to England’s deliverance, and he saw this prefigured by the Biblical commemoration of Passover. The technical theological term for this sort of reasoning is typology, an allegorical method of Biblical interpretation that understands Old Testament events as historically prefiguring later occurrences. Although rarely used today, typology was frequently utilized in Puritan and Anglican writings of the seventeenth century; the broadly Protestant emphasis upon the “plain” sense of Scripture did not discourage many persons from connecting Biblical events to those in their own day. The apocalyptic tenor of typology – especially pronounced among those who believed the Pope was the Antichrist – effectively fused the “plain” sense of Scripture to the historically determined, allegorical interpretation of later events. Thus, Andrewes’ typological reading of the Passover was probably not intentional. Because both witnessed to God’s intervention in history, Andrewes saw no substantive difference between the ancient events recorded in Exodus and those events in seventeenth century England that were still freshly inscribed upon his own mind. Typology reads the Bible both as history and as a pattern. Within Andrewes’ typological mindset, the commemoration of Passover within Scripture effectively served as a typological command for the Anglican commemoration of 5 November, and a failure to commemorate 5 November would therefore have been Biblically unfaithful.

Andrewes' sermon fully demonstrates this.

We have therefore well done and upon good warrant, to tread in the same stepps, and by law provide, that this Day should not die, nor the memoriall thereof perish, from ourselves, or from our seed; but be consecrated to perpetuall memorie, by a yearly acknowledgement to be made of it, throughout all generations (147).

Or, as Andrewes succinctly states, “from the Day groweth the Dutie” (ibid.). As in Biblical times, so in Andrewes’ times. We should not, however, presume that typology forced a Biblical straightjacket upon Andrewes or anyone else in early modern England. Rather, typology was a springboard for the Biblical imagination. Because the Old Testament provided a historical pattern for comprehending then-contemporary events, it also invited an explanation of the differences between the events in question – in this case, Passover and 5 November. It is here that Andrewes’ sermon takes a fascinatingly unexpected and perhaps even audacious turn. He writes, “We were delivered, and from danger, that is cleere. How great? (for, that makes the odds.) Boldly I dare say, from a greater [danger] then David’s.” The Biblical prelude, composed of both the Passover narrative and David’s psalm, is only an introduction to a later symphonic movement: the history of the Christian Church, which typologically accords to the pattern of the Old Testament, even as it magnifies the odds.

Perhaps ironically, Andrewes vindicates the progression of his thought by appealing to the Psalm itself. He finds six key points of difference in detail, but these points can be mapped by a single thematic variation. According to the Psalm, David knew of his danger, and called out to God because of what he knew. England, however, knew nothing of the popish threat, and this lack of awareness makes the salvation of the English a greater salvation than that of David. “The danger never dreamt of,” Andrewes writes, “that is the danger” (151). This is only underscored by Andrewes’ sixth point. David knew that his danger was the work of men, but the work against the English was “the Devill himselfe” (ibid.). The Gunpowder Treason threatened to produce “so many baskets of heads, so many peeces of rent bodies cast up and downe, and scattered all over the face of the earth” (152). Typologically applying the Old Testament, Andrewes compares this to the “abomination of desolation” prophesied by Daniel (Dan. 9:27) and Christ (Matt. 24:15). The horror of this potential carnage nonetheless yields a historically bound symmetry in Andrewes’ eyes. He writes, “that was the Devill’s doing, and was monstrous in our eyes; so, this is God’s doing, and it is mervailous in our eyes” (156). The greater the odds, the greater the victory.

Towards the end of his sermon, and amidst the relief and celebration of England in 1606, Andrewes says that “joy hath no fault, but that it is too short, it will not last, it will be taken from us too soon” (159). Set within the cyclical practices of the liturgical year, the feast day of the Gunpowder Treason ends like every other day. As the sun sets, we are again faced with insecurity. We do not know what tomorrow will bring. Feast days are reminders of those events in the Church’s past where something of redemption was discerned breaking through. How the holy will be discerned tomorrow is unknown, even as we trust that God will act again. Given this basic fact of human experience, and given the Biblical claim that Christ is “a Saviour, yesterday and to day and the same forever,” Andrewes suggests that we offer a threefold prayer “to save, prosper, and blesse” when feast days come to a close (159). The human being, as a union of soul and body, can and should pray for its spiritual salvation and its physical prosperity. Yet, there is also more. A good Anglican, Andrewes writes that the union of salvation and prosperity are bound up with the monarchy, and that prayers for blessing should be for the monarch, the commonwealth, and its church. The Biblical acclamation, “Blessed by the King that commeth,” is not in Andrewes’ mind only about Christ. Rather, it is about all kings on earth, such as James VI and I, who stand as an icon in England of the heavenly king and the peacefulness of the heavenly kingdom (160). Even as the feast day reminds us of what was, the prayers that accompany its passing should cause us to consider, however briefly, what is yet to come.

III. From Memory to Possibility

Our study of monarchy, the Gunpowder Plot, and Lancelot Andrewes’ sermon represents more than just antiquarian interest. As Anglicans, English history is inseparably bound up with our own ecclesial being. We may – indeed, we must – use the past, however remote, as opportunities for learning, inspiration, and revival. I offer two points for further consideration. The first pertains to the role of Scripture in our church, and the meaning of authority and inspiration; the second point pertains to feast days, both past and present, as opportunities for deepening our own sense of Anglican identity. Taken together with the memory of the Gunpowder Treason, we may better move from the original event and its memory, to the possibility of a future graciously infused with the passion, conviction, and theological vision of our spiritual mothers and fathers.

The Bible was clearly central for Andrewes. Holy Writ is the framework in which Andrewes lives, moves, and has his theological being. It enjoins categories of thought and discernment that Andrewes, as an intellectually rich and pastorally motivated preacher, does not need to sell. Rather, by providing the dominant motifs within his sermon, the importance of Scripture is vindicated through Andrewes’ compelling application of the text to his present situation. How amazing it must have been to sit, listen, and watch, more than 400 years ago, when Andrewes’ first delivered this spectacular piece of oratory! By composing and delivering – indeed, performing – a sermon that aimed at the highest of rhetorical standards, the content of the sermon remains a clarion call still heard and felt today. Part of what this points to is that preaching ought to be of the utmost importance to the Church in all times, in all places, and among all people. Although the sermon an important opportunity for interpreting, explaining, and applying Scripture, it is also an occasion when ministers might seek out, both with and before the parish, fresh and creative spiritual ground upon which those gathered might be genuinely inspired. The sermon stands below the Scriptures and the sacraments in basic importance, but above them in terms of practical possibility. The sermon is an opportunity to encourage people on the way, and to explain why the weekly content of the liturgy really matters.

From this flows a related point. The doctrine of Biblical authority is thin spiritual gruel if it does not ultimately give way to a robust doctrine of Biblical inspiration. The Scriptures, we claim, are inspired. As inspired, they ought to also be inspiring. An effective reading of the Scriptures, like an effective explanation of them, can open the text (within the context of the liturgy, no less) in vital ways that continue to be felt long after the final benediction is liturgically pronounced. When it comes to Andrewes’ preaching, his creative engagement with Scripture takes place through typology. Undoubtedly, this seems strange to many. But there is a deeper point that should seem more familiar. In Andrewes’ hands, as with all good preachers, the inspired text helps us make sense of the world around us. The Bible thus serves as the ground for a Christian world-view, or metaphysics. This does not mean that the Bible should consume our vision – that would make it an idol. Rather, the Bible should be an icon, through which we see and perceive the world around us. Quite obviously, Christian metaphysics is not reducible to the Bible; sacraments, liturgy, tradition, etc., are all important. But as the canon of prophetic and apostolic writings, the inspired content of Scripture remains the ground upon which the Christian worldview is both constructed and reformed.

Feast days are opportunities for articulating a Biblically grounded, theological imagination. The Church’s calendar of saints, however it may vary from time to time and place to place, should constantly be made alive by those called and appointed to teach within the Church. The Church is never purely local, but always already universal, across time and space. The intentional cultivation of memory is necessary for the well-being of every community. Santayana’s oft-cited remark, “those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it,” should be reformulated within the Church as, “those who forget the past are not only doomed to repeat it, they are doomed to forget themselves.” As a historic community, the Church must keep the memory of its past alive. Feast days are records of the miraculous – the stunning and unexpected interruption of the present by God, whether through events or persons. Insofar as they are made tangible, then feast days are downright sacramental because they are like effectual signs that helps us discern God’s own redemptive acts. And so, as with Andrewes, so with us: “that was the Devill’s doing, and was monstrous in our eyes; so, this is God’s doing, and it is mervailous in our eyes.” It will be marvelous again.

Bibliography

Andrewes, Lancelot (1606). ‘A Sermon Preached before the King’s Majestie, at White-Hall, on the V. of November. A.D. MDCVI.’ in Selected Sermons and Lectures, 146 – 161. Edited by Peter McCullough (2005). Oxford University Press.
Cressy, David (1989 [2004]). Bonfires & Bells: National Memory and the Protestant Calendar in Elizabethan and Stuart England. Sutton Publishing.
Eliot, T. S. (1926). ‘Lancelot Andrewes’ in Selected Prose, 179 – 188. Edited by Frank Kermode (1975). Harcourt Brace.
Kishlansky, Mark (1996). A Monarchy Transformed: Britain, 1603 – 1714. Penguin Books.