Chapter 5 Reformation Protestantism: Daring Noblewomen and Godly Wives

Chapter 5

Reformation Protestantism: Daring Noblewomen and Godly Wives

The sixteenth century was an era of upheaval in the Christian church. The contagious spirit of doubt and inquiry that engaged the minds of the Renaissance thinkers spilled over into the church. Indeed the sixteenth century produced a new breed of churchmen—innovators who were quick to challenge traditions and church dogma. In the process, very few facets of church life were left untouched by the ecclesiastical and theological changes that took place. These included the institution of marriage and the role of women in the church.

The question of what effect the Protestant Reformation had on women is a very significant one in regard to the history of changing perspectives on women in the church. Did the Reformation serve to liberate women or did it intensify their repression? How did the attitudes of the Reformers differ from those of their Catholic counterparts and from the leaders of the Radical Reformation? These are issues that historians have long wrestled with. To some extent the debate has been colored by denominational factors. Catholics are more likely to emphasize the negative influence the Reformers had on women, and Protestants are more likely to emphasize the positive.

As significant as the Reformation was in influencing attitudes toward women, it is important to keep in mind that La Quelle des Femmes (the dispute about women) arose before the Reformation. Certain Renaissance humanists had taken issue with the medieval view of female inferiority. Erasmus is an example. Although not outspoken on the subject, he, like many humanists, had a much higher view of women than did medieval theologians. According to Natalie Davis, he “sensed the depths of resentment accumulating in women whose efforts to think about doctrine were not taken seriously by the clergy.”¹ Likewise, his views on marriage and divorce, and the education of women is devoid of the sexual bias that was so prevalent in the medieval world.²

One of the most outspoken Renaissance humanists to hold to a feminist position was Agrippa of Nettesheim. A resident of Geneva in the 1520s, he argued that women in no way are inherently inferior to men, and that indeed women are in some respects superior to men. Jane D. Douglass sums up his line of reasoning:

women are even superior in some ways…having been made directly by God in paradise with the angels whereas Adam was created outside paradise in a field with the animals. Eve’s superiority is shown by her name, which means life, whereas the name Adam means earth. As the last of all that God created, Eve is the crowning achievement of God, the most perfect work of God. Original sin is to be traced to Adam, not Eve; and Christ, to save sinful humanity, was made human by means of a woman, not a man, in the more lowly male sex from which sin came forth.³

Renaissance women—primarily the upper-class women—had an influence on public opinion during the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. They availed themselves of educational opportunities that had previously been limited to the convent. “A certain kind of woman, the court lady, suddenly advanced to a less submissive and less confined role.”⁴ So there was a growing sense of women’s equality developing in scholarly circles prior to the Reformation.

During the sixteenth century, according to Charmarie Blaisdell, both humanists and Reformers were “departing, albeit cautiously, from the traditional misogynist themes: woman is cursed by the sin of Eve, crooked because she is made from a rib, bestial because of consorting with serpents, concupiscent and crafty because of her biology.”⁵ Indeed the theology of the Reformers excluded any understanding of women as a “necessary evil” and endowed them with a sense of worth that had not been as evident in the writings of medieval theologians. “The Protestant cry against the cloister brought a revitalized emphasis upon the dignity and spirituality of marriage,” write Julia O’Faolain and Lauro Martines. “Quite obviously women stood to gain from this change.”⁶ Thus while abandoning the option of ministry through monasticism—the only real opportunity for women to serve in the church—the Reformers bolstered women’s status in society. But even in doing that, they so often betrayed their prejudice against the female sex—a carry-over from medieval thought that was not easily laid to rest.

The Reformers’ View of Women

The role of women in the church was not an issue that figured significantly in the writing or preaching of the Reformers, and when it did surface, it generally related to the matter of celibacy among clergy. Although Martin Luther had proclaimed the priesthood of all believers, it apparently did not occur to him or to his fellow Reformers what the ramifications could actually mean for the church. Whether women themselves could hold the clerical office was not even seriously considered. Society offered women very few opportunities for leadership roles, and the Reformers were clearly not anxious to be innovators in this area.

Martin Luther

In his sermons and commentaries Luther spoke often about women and their purpose in life as wives and mothers: “As a creature of God, a woman is to be looked upon with reverence. For she was created to be around the man, to care for children and to bring them up in an honest and godly way, and to be subject to the man.”⁷ In many instances his comments about women were a reaction to what he perceived the Roman Catholic view of marriage to be: “They deter their children from marriage but entice them into priesthood and nunnery, citing the trials and troubles of married life. Thus do they bring their own children home to the devil, as we daily observe; they provide them with ease for the body and hell for the soul.”⁸

Although Luther had high regard for women who willingly fulfilled their domestic duties, he was a man of his times and held some very biased opinions about women—particularly regarding their supposed frailty and their limitations outside the domestic sphere. “Take women from their housewifery,” he quipped, “and they are good for nothing.” And on another occasion he said, “If women get tired and die of bearing, there is no harm in that; let them die as long as they bear; they are made for that.”⁹ In describing the differences between men and women, he observed, “Men have broad shoulders and narrow hips, and accordingly they possess intelligence. Women have narrow shoulders and broad hips. Women ought to stay at home; the way they were created indicates this, for they have broad hips and a wide fundament to sit upon, keep house and bear and raise children.”¹⁰

Yet, according to Ian Siggins,

within his severely limited horizons, there is no doubt he intended to enhance the respect accorded women, especially by contrast with the contemporary fashion among academic humanists of waxing eloquent about female pulchritude while scornfully and contemptuously ridiculing women as worthless. He repeatedly attacked those who disdained women as inferior or as necessary evils for blaspheming the creation of God, who made women and men equally human and noble, and equally bearers of the image of God. When his biblical text provided him an image of a strong woman, his exposition took on a special liveliness.

And though Luther disdained the medieval veneration of the Virgin Mary, he granted her “all honor, all blessedness, and a unique place in all humankind, amongst whom she has no equal.”¹¹

Likewise, Luther had a progressive view of female education. He encouraged parents to give their children (daughters as well as sons) formal schooling so that they could be trained in religion, arts, languages, and history by “well-trained schoolmasters and schoolmistresses,” so that they could “draw the proper inferences and in the fear of God take their own place in the stream of human events.”¹² His position contrasted significantly with that of Calvin who “exhibited little interest in instruction for girls beyond the catechism.” German Reformers, taking their cue from Luther, appealed to city councils to provide public education for both sexes—a farsighted gesture for the sixteenth century. Although the response by the city councils was limited, “the very existence of public schools for girls in the 1520s placed Germany far ahead of England, where humanists had done so much for women of the upper classes.”¹³

Nevertheless Luther basically considered women to be inferior. This is seen clearly in his commentary on Genesis. In reference to the creation account in 1:27—“Male and female he created them”—Luther wrote:

Moses here places the man and the woman together in order that no one might think that the woman was to be excluded from the glory of the future life. The woman certainly differs from the man, for she is weaker in body and intellect [than he]. Nevertheless, Eve was an excellent creature and equal to Adam so far as the divine image, that is, righteousness, wisdom and eternal salvation, is concerned. Still, she was only a woman. As the sun is much more glorious than the moon (though also the moon is glorious), so the woman was [created] inferior to the man both in honor and dignity, though she, too, was a very excellent work of God. So also today the woman is a partaker of eternal life, as the apostle writes (1 Pet. 3:7) that she is a coheir of [divine] grace. Therefore the woman should not be excluded from any honor which human beings enjoy, even though she is the weaker vessel.¹⁴

A little later on in his commentary, Luther seems to reverse himself on the issue of female inferiority at creation, asserting that any such inferiority came only after the Fall. In reference to Genesis 2:18, he states:

As Adam was created by premeditated counsel, so also Eve. Therefore also the woman, who is necessary for the preservation of the human, belongs the [eternal] life for which Adam waited. Had the woman not been deceived by the serpent, she would have been equal to Adam in all things. That she is now subjected to the man is a punishment which was inflicted upon her after and because of her sin, just as she has also sorrows and troubles, such as labor in travail and the like. Therefore Eve was not as women are today. She was far more excellent so that she was behind Adam in no bodily or spiritual gift.”¹⁵

In practical matters Luther’s advice to women was often entirely devoid of any sex bias. Indeed, his position allowed for women to have an amazing degree of freedom in the marriage relationship, even to the extent that their so-called rights in certain instances took precedence over actions of very questionable morality. For example, in his well-known tract “The Babylonian Captivity of the Church,” published in 1520, he prescribed radical measures that no doubt seemed as shocking to some of his fellow Reformers as they did to Catholic churchmen. He cited a case of “a woman, wed to an impotent man.” Because “she is desirous of having children or is unable to remain continent,” Luther outlines two possible courses of action: (1) “to procure a divorce from her husband in order to marry another,” and, if her husband refuses, (2) “to have intercourse with another, say her husband’s brother, but to keep this marriage secret and to ascribe the children to the so-called putative father.” She must, however, obtain the consent of her husband, “who is not really her husband, but only a dweller under the same roof with her.” Luther was well aware of the questionable morality of this arrangement:

The question is: Is such a woman saved and in a saved state? I answer: Certainly, because in this case an error, ignorance of the man’s impotence, impedes the marriage; and the tyranny of the laws permits no divorce. But the woman is free through the divine law, and cannot be compelled to remain continent. Therefore the man ought to concede her right, and give up to somebody else the wife who is his only in outward appearance.¹⁶

As to the role of women in public ministry, Luther opened up the possibility for this by suggesting that if no men were available, it might “be necessary for the women to preach.” Thus “he conceded that women might exercise the preacher’s office” in places such as convents where the male presence was restricted. For normal situations, however, he believed the Pauline injunctions against women’s teaching prevailed.¹⁷ Only men “should be allowed to preach, to baptize, to absolve, and to administer the sacraments…The Holy Spirit has excepted women, children, and incompetent people from this function, but chooses (except in emergencies) only competent males to fill this office.”¹⁸ One aspect of ministry for women that was a carry-over from medieval Catholicism involved the baptism of babies whose death was imminent. “Lutheran church orders made special provision for midwives to be instructed in baptismal procedure.”¹⁹

John Calvin

Calvin’s relationship with women generally had far more to do with political ties than either personal spiritual matters or matters involving their sex. He corresponded with some twenty women during his lifetime—most of them being of French nobility. It was his respect for their power and influence that prompted his correspondence, as was the case with many men with whom he corresponded. His homeland was France, and he was deeply involved in the Reformed movement there, though for most of his adult life he lived in Geneva. He was well aware of the pressures many of these noblewomen faced as supporters of the Huguenots, and thus his letters were filled with exhortations to stand strong in the face of opposition.²⁰

Calvin’s view of women in the church is not altogether clear, and a controversy has developed among historians over this issue. Most historians have seen him as a traditionalist who would deny women equality in the church. Such is the stand of Willis DeBoer, who contends that Calvin upheld the traditional view of women’s subordination to men—a position he believes is clearly taught in Calvin’s commentaries. On the other side is Jane Dempsey Douglass, who leans more heavily on the Institutes.²¹

According to Douglass, Calvin did “something quite new in systematic theology of his day [in the Institutes] by shifting Paul’s advice on women’s silence in the church from the context of eternal, divine law to the context of Christian freedom, of human law which is open to change.” She further believes that “he certainly makes clear that no eternal law of God requires women’s silence in church, and that customs which serve the edification of the church in one era can well be changed in another if they cease to serve the edification of the church.”²²

In his 1559 final edition of the Institutes Calvin wrote, “The statement…in which only the man is called by Paul the image and glory of God and woman is excluded from this degree of honor is clearly to be restricted, as the context shows, to the political order.” According to Douglass, “‘Political’ here is to be understood as the realm of human governance, the realm of human rather than divine law.”²³

In his commentaries, Calvin came to similar conclusions. He was convinced that “common sense dictates that the rule of women is defective and unseemly”; nevertheless in dealing with Paul’s restrictions on women in 1 Corinthians 14:34, he stated, “The discerning reader should come to the decision that the things which Paul is dealing with here are indifferent, i.e., neither good nor bad; and that none of them is forbidden unless it works against decorum and edification.”²⁴

If indeed these writings indicate a liberalized view of women, how does one explain Calvin’s strong position on male authority? According to Douglass,

Calvin’s personal judgment seems to be that Geneva in the sixteenth century would be as scandalized by women in public roles of authority in either church or state as Paul imagined the first-century society would be. Since Calvin regarded major social upheaval as a great danger to civilization, he was unwilling to recommend revolutionary social change of any sort unless required by the Word of God. Given his concern for the consciences of his brothers, who indeed would have been greatly offended by women in authority, he seems generally content to teach the subordination of women both in church and society as a style of decorum approved by the Bible.²⁵

Why might Calvin have been more liberal in his views toward women than other Reformers were? Douglass conjectures that through his relationships with prominent women (many of whom supported his efforts), he “could have learned what Luther and Melanchthon could not teach him about women’s subordination as part of human governance, historically conditioned and therefore open to change.”²⁶ She also suggests that he may have been influenced by the French humanists.

But was Calvin actually more open-minded toward women in ministry? To rank Calvin with the French humanists in his view of women seems to be begging the issue. Although he did view women’s role as a matter of order and decorum, which indeed has the potential for revolutionary change for women, his own reflections on women at times appear as derogatory as any of the late medieval or Reformation theologians. His comments on the women witnesses of the resurrection of Christ are an example. Rather than viewing that as a high honor bestowed on Jesus’ faithful female followers, Calvin viewed it as a stinging rebuke to the disciples for their lack of faith:

I consider this was done by way of reproach, because they had been so tardy and sluggish to believe. And, indeed, they deserve not only to have women for their teachers, but even oxen and asses; since the Son of God had been so long and laboriously employed in teaching, and yet they had made so little, or hardly any progress…Yet it pleased the Lord, by means of those weak and contemptible vessels, to give a display of his power.²⁷

John Knox

John Knox, the powerful voice of the Scottish Reformation, was an outspoken opponent of placing women in leadership positions. His intolerance stemmed in part from personal animosity against two Catholic rulers, Mary Tudor (“Bloody Mary”), queen of England, and Mary Guise, queen regent in Scotland. He and other Protestants suffered considerably under their rule, and thus his attacks on them are understandable. But he did not limit his condemnation to them. In a lengthy tract entitled “The First Blast Against the Monstrous Regiment of Women,” which first appeared anonymously in 1558, he railed against any women who would assume a position of authority in government.

Years earlier he had questioned “whether a Female can preside over and rule a kingdom by divine right,” and concluded “if women take upon them the office which God hath assigned to men, they shall not escape the Divine malediction.” The book expanded Knox’s position on the subject and, not surprisingly, offended many people. Even John Calvin, who had privately told Knox that “the Government of Women…was a deviation from the original and proper order of nature,” and that “it was to be ranked, no less than slavery, among the punishments consequent upon the fall of man,” was distressed by the publication. He wrote, “When I was informed of it…I sufficiently shewed my displeasure…but…I thought that the evil which could not now be corrected should rather be buried in oblivion than made a matter of agitation.”²⁸

The first painfully long sentence of the tract sets up Knox’s defense for what he surely realized would be a controversial position:

Wonder it is, that amongst so many pregnant wittes as the Ile of Greate Britany hath produced, so many godlie and zealous preachers as England did sometime norishe, and amongst so many learned, and men of grave judgement, as this day by Jesabel are exiled, none is found so stowte of courage, so faithful to God, nor loving to their native countrie, that they dare admonish the inhabitantes of that Ile, how abominable before God is the Empire or Rule of a wicked woman, yea, of a traiteresse and bastard; and what may a people or nation, left destitute of a lawfull head, do by the authoritie of Goddes Word in electing and appointing common rulers and magistrates.²⁹

In supporting his position, Knox used scriptural injunctions regarding women, particularly those of the apostle Paul, but he went far beyond Scripture in arguing that women were “weake, fraile, impatient, feeble and foolishe,” in addition to being “unconstant, variable, cruell and lacking the spirit of counsel and regiment.” In reflecting on creation, he reasoned that “woman in her greatest perfection was made to serve and obey man.”³⁰

In spite of these strong statements, Knox had close relationships with women and admitted his dependence on them in spiritual matters. This was especially true with Anne Locke, an outspoken Protestant woman in London who became a close personal friend and confidant. Knox praised her for nourishing and confirming him in the faith, and he confided on one occasion that he was in desperate need of her spiritual counsel.³¹

Anabaptist View of Women

Although Anabaptists were known for allowing women to have a broader role in the church than they were permitted by the followers of Luther and Calvin, most of them held a very traditional view toward women in regard to both marriage and ministry. Indeed, in some instances the Anabaptist emphasis on the patriarchalism in the Old Testament “reinforced the already common tendency to subordinate the wife.”³² And there were many among the “radicals” who feared the growing influence of women in their midst. According to John Cairncross, certain of the Anabaptist groups required the “complete subordination of women to men.” The husband was “absolute master in the home,” and wives were expected to “address their husbands as Lord, reflecting their dependence on him—analogous with man’s dependence on God.”³³

Bernard Rottman, a radical Anabaptist leader, holds the distinction of writing “the first known apology for polygamy in Europe,”—a book entitled The Restitution of Sound Christian Doctrine. Here he argued that “women have been wearing the trousers for too long. It is time for man to assert his God-given superiority.”³⁴ This superiority, he believed, was best demonstrated through the practice of polygamy.

Menno Simons much more closely represents the Anabaptist tradition than Rottman, and his position on women closely parallels that of the mainstream Reformers. “His most revolutionary thought in this area, according to Joyce Irwin, seems to have been the denial of a husband’s right to beat his wife.”³⁵ His words to women, on the other hand, were very traditional.

Remain within your houses and gates unless you have something of importance to regulate, such as to make purchases, to provide in temporal needs, to hear the Word of the Lord, or to receive the holy sacraments, etc. Attend faithfully to your charge, to your children, house, and family…³⁶

Why then were Anabaptists known for their women preachers? According to Joyce Irwin, “Radical Protestantism…enabled women to preach and prophesy, not through a willing approval of such activities but through theological loopholes.” She maintains that in the “sects where spiritual illumination might be expected to come in the form of visions and direct revelations, there was no basis for denying women such experiences.” Thus she concludes that “the male radicals might not have approved of female preachers or prophets, but their theology had left the door ajar.”³⁷

The Female Response

Early Protestant women were well aware of their unequal status in the church, and on rare occasions they spoke or wrote publicly on the issue. Marie Dentiere of Geneva wrote a short work entitled “Defense of Women” in which she underscores the role of important women in Scripture, while at the same time reminding her readers that it was a man who betrayed Christ, and it was men who devised false creeds and heresies. Dentiere did not hesitate to go on and present a contemporary application:

If God then has given graces to some good women, revealing to them by his holy scriptures something holy and good, will they not dare to write, speak, or declare it one to another?…Ah! It would be too audacious to wish to stop them from doing it. As for us, it would be too foolish to hide the talent which God has given us.³⁸

If indeed the Reformers’ view of women uplifted them in their role in the home and society, as Protestant historians have argued, did it have the same effect in the church? What did the Protestants have to offer women who desired ministry? This is truly a crucial issue regarding women in church history. Did the Reformation open the door for women to serve God, or were they more repressed under Protestantism than they had been under medieval Catholicism?

Generally Catholic scholars have emphasized the repression of female ministry under Protestantism, while Protestant scholars have questioned the value of monasticism and underscored the lay ministries of Protestant women. Roland Bainton, in his three volumes on women of the Reformation, singles out various women who made an impact on early Protestantism. His work lends credence to the idea that women did play a significant role in the movement.³⁹ Yet, while the Reformation offered men an opportunity to have meaningful full-time ministries, it offered women only the traditional role of wife and mother. Even lay ministries were severely curtailed. In her study of the women of Zwickau during the Reformation, Susan Karant-Nunn found that the Fraternity of Calends, which offered laywomen (and men) opportunities for religious ministry, was banned by the Reformers.⁴⁰ Indeed, it could be argued that at no time in church history had the opportunity for women in ministry been so limited, and on the surface that would appear to have been the case. Nevertheless, women rose above their prescribed station in Protestantism and left an indelible mark on church life. Particularly notable were women whose monastic heritage paved the way for a ministry in Reformed circles.

Katherine von Bora

Among those monastic women was Katherine von Bora (1499–1550), the daughter of a poor aristocratic family from Saxony. She was one of forty nuns at the Cistercian Convent of Nimbschem, where seclusion from the world was strictly enforced. Even relatives who visited were separated by a latticed window from the nuns who were accompanied by an abbess. “The regulations forbade friendships between the nuns…Silence was the rule, as it had been in Luther’s monastery at Erfurt, and the nuns were required to walk with lowered heads and slow steps.”⁴¹

Katherine von Bora Luther, a Portrait. From Georges Hirth, Bilder aus der Lutherzeit (Munich and Leipzig, 1883), 19.

In spite of the strict supervision, Luther’s writings apparently managed to penetrate the walls of the convent. For some of the nuns the new ideas offered hope for a new life outside the cloister. Indeed, in 1523 Katherine and eleven other nuns secretly made arrangements to escape. Their struggle in accomplishing that end illustrates the problem nuns faced in many parts of Germany and elsewhere in Europe. Their convent was located in an area controlled by Duke George, a staunch enemy of the Reformation—a man who treated “kidnapping” nuns as a capital offense. These women sent word to Luther of their plight, and, despite the personal risk involved, he made arrangements for their escape. The story is familiar. He arranged to have a merchant who sold smoked herring to the convent make the delivery late at night and on his return trip to bring out the nuns instead of the empty herring barrels.⁴²

It was an ingenious coup, but it only added to the many frustrations already confronting Luther. What to do with the nuns was the most immediate problem facing him. Some were able to return to their families, but the rest would need more than just temporary lodging. The problem was addressed by a cynical student in Wittenburg who reported, “A wagon load of vestal virgins has just come to town all more eager for marriage than for life. May God give them husbands lest worse befall.”⁴³

Husbands were found for the nuns, except for Katherine von Bora, and after unsuccessfully attempting to pair her with another man, Luther, who had previously resolved to remain single, consented to marry her—to the dismay and disappointment of some of his close associates. Luther’s marriage, however, did not seem to affect his relationship with his close friends, several of whom observed the marriage ritual itself—one of the many indignities that a sixteenth-century female had to endure between infancy and death. Luther’s biographer Richard Friedenthal describes the ordeal:

On the evening of 13 June 1525, according to the custom of the day, he appeared with his bride before a number of his friends as witnesses. The Pomeranian [Johann] Bugenhagen blessed the couple, who consummated the marriage in front of the witnesses, [Justus] Jonas reported the next day: “Luther has taken Katharina von Bora to wife. I was present yesterday and saw the couple on their marriage bed. As I watched this spectacle I could not hold back my tears.”⁴⁴

At times Luther may have questioned that hasty decision. Katie was a strong-willed, independent, feisty redhead, who at the age of twenty-six was prepared for a far more egalitarian marriage than was the sixteenth-century norm. Although he praised her on occasion for being a submissive wife, he conceded that at times he played the role of a “willing servant” to his “lord Kathe.”⁴⁵ Indeed, Luther is said to have remarked on one occasion, “The only way to get an obedient wife is to hew her out of stone.” Yet the marriage was a good one, and Luther’s love for Katie was unquestioned.

Their marriage not surprisingly was harshly criticized by Catholics (some being convinced that the offspring of their union would certainly be the Antichrist). Some Protestants as well criticized the event, fearing it had scandalized the whole Reformed cause. Melanchthon reportedly despised Katie, remarking prior to the marriage, “Marry, yes, but for heaven’s sake not that one.”⁴⁶

Even more than her husband, Katie was singled out as a subject of scorn. A pamphlet published two years after their marriage denounced her in scathing terms:

Woe to you, poor fallen woman, not only because you have passed from light to darkness, from the cloistered holy religion into a damnable, shameful life, but also that you have gone from the grace to the disfavor of God, in that you have left the cloister in lay clothes and have gone to Wittenberg like a chorus girl. You are said to have lived with Luther in sin. Then you have married him, forsaking Christ your bridegroom. You have broken your vow and by your example have reduced many godly young women in the cloisters to a pitiable state of body and of soul, despised of all men.⁴⁷

Other nuns who fled the convent faced similar indictments. Their faith was no doubt tested as it had never been before, and many may have at times secretly longed for the life they left behind.

It is difficult to assess the influence of Katie Luther. She ever lived in the shadow of her larger-than-life husband. What her role in the Reformation would have been had she not been his wife is pure conjecture. But as the mistress of the first Protestant parsonage, she served with distinction. Indeed, she should be viewed as a model “preacher’s wife” for all times. She was a gracious hostess to hundreds of house guests over the years, not only seeing that their physical needs were cared for, but also making them feel welcome. She often joined Luther as he talked with refugees and students who had come for counsel, and her congeniality and wit were a source of encouragement. Yet she was not tied to the parsonage. Besides managing their home in Wittenberg, she operated a small farm at Zuhlsdorf, and on occasion she was away from Wittenberg for days or weeks at a time. Indeed she was highly versatile—a fact that Luther himself acknowledged in his letters to her when he spoke of her as his “gracious Miss Katharina Luther of Bora and Zuhlsdorf” and as the “preacher, brewer, gardener, and all things else.”⁴⁸

Ursula of Munsterberg

Another nun to leave German monasticism in favor of Protestantism was Ursula of Munsterberg (C. 1491–1534), who, like most other nuns, had entered the monastery as a child. She was unhappy with the rigors of monasticism—despising most the rude awakenings in the predawn hours for vigils. Likewise, the fasting took a toll on her already-weak constitution, and she derived no spiritual benefit from it. This attitude no doubt contributed to her openness to Reformation doctrine—particularly after some of Luther’s books were smuggled into the convent. She was certainly not alone in her inclination toward “heresy,” however. Of the nearly eighty nuns in the convent, fewer than twenty remained unaffected by the new teaching. This had occurred in part because of the freedom permitted the nuns in the convent at Munsterberg. Yet, Ursula felt imprisoned, and on the night of October 6, 1528, she and two other nuns quietly left, never to return.⁴⁹

In the months that followed, her escape became a matter of political controversy in Germany. Duke George wanted her back in his domain, fearing that her profane example might cause other “sisters…to embrace a godless life.” Elector John supported her, though he insisted that he “had no hand in her escape.” For her part, Ursula refused to be intimidated and published a tract defending her actions. In it she clearly enunciated her theological shift in belief:

The only hope lies in faith. By baptism we have been received into the kingdom of Christ. To say that the monastic vow is a second baptism and washes away sins, as we have heard from the pulpit, is blasphemy against God, as if the blood of Christ were not enough to wash away all sins. We are married to Christ and to seek to be saved through another is adultery. The three monastic vows are the work of men’s hands. There is only one way to relieve our consciences and that is to make a clean break. We have suffered such torments of spirit that we could no longer hold on.⁵⁰

Katherine Zell

One of the most outspoken women of the Reformation was Katherine Zell (C. 1497–1562), the wife of Matthew Zell, a Catholic priest turned Lutheran preacher. Her avid interest in spiritual matters began early in life—a decade before Luther posted his famous theses. “Ever since I was ten years old I have been a student and sort of church mother, much given to attending sermons. I have loved and frequented the company of learned men, and I conversed much with them, not about dancing, masquerades, and worldly pleasures but about the kingdom of God.”⁵¹

Matthew Zell’s marriage, like Luther’s, was highly controversial, and in 1524, the bishop suspended the clerical privileges of all married priests. The bishop’s action infuriated Katherine, who was well aware of the lifestyle of the celibate clergy, who were often accused of seducing young women and girls. She defended her own role by arguing that marriage to a priest was a ministry that uplifted the moral degradation of the clergy, and she accused the church of having financial considerations in preventing such marriages.⁵²

Katherine was not intimidated by being a woman. In fact, she lashed out against her opponents who wanted her voice silenced: “You remind me that the Apostle Paul told women to be silent in church. I would remind you of the word of this same apostle that in Christ there is no longer male nor female and of the prophecy of Joel: ‘I will pour forth my spirit on all flesh and your sons and your daughters will prophecy.’” She forcefully made her case and refused to be silenced, but she did not pursue her argument to the point of proclaiming equality for women in the church. Indeed, she was careful to couch her statement in humility—though with more than a touch of sarcasm: “I do not pretend to be John the Baptist rebuking the Pharisees. I do not claim to be Nathan upbraiding David. I aspire only to be Balaam’s ass, castigating his master.”⁵³

Katherine’s primary ministry involved hospitality and service to Protestant refugees and travelers, many of whom were well-known Reformers of the day. She thoroughly enjoyed her illustrious guests and offered them much more than food and lodging. She “conversed with them on theology so intelligently that they ranked her above many doctors.”⁵⁴

During one three-week period she provided room and board in the parsonage at Strasbourg for some sixty homeless victims of religious persecution. “Her zeal is incredible for Christ’s lowliest and afflicted,” a Protestant leader wrote of her. But even in this selfless task she became embroiled in controversy. She did not limit her kindness to those with whom she agreed on theological points, stating emphatically that “anyone who acknowledges Christ as the true Son of God and the sole Savior of mankind is welcome at my board.” This included the radical Schwenckfeld and certain of the Anabaptists. On one occasion she berated a Lutheran leader for his bigotry: “Why do you rail at Schwenckfeld? You talk as if you would have him burned like the poor Servetus at Geneva…You behave as if you had been brought up by savages in a jungle. The Anabaptists are pursued as by a hunter with dogs chasing wild boars. Yet the Anabaptists accept Christ in all the essentials as we do.”⁵⁵ In her view the need for unity was of greater import than the ideal of doctrinal conformity—a view that disturbed many of her male contemporaries.

Other things about Katherine disturbed her contemporaries as well. She was apparently so much a threat to the Protestant establishment in Strasbourg that she felt obligated to speak at her husband’s funeral assuring her listeners that she did not seek to become “Doctor Katrina,” as rumor had it. “I am not usurping the office of preacher or apostle,” she insisted. “I am like the dear Mary Magdalene, who with no thought of being an apostle, came to tell the disciples that she had encountered the risen Lord.”⁵⁶

Some years later she was again forced to defend her ministry—this time against charges of disturbing the peace:

A disturber of the peace am I? Yes indeed, of my own peace. Do you call this disturbing the peace that instead of spending my time in frivolous amusements I have visited the plague infested and carried out the dead? I have visited those in prison and under sentence of death. Often for three days and three nights I have neither eaten nor slept. I have never mounted the pulpit, but I have done more than any minister in visiting those in misery. Is this disturbing the peace of the church?⁵⁷

Katherine Zell, Singing Hymns in the Home. From Georges Hirth, Les Grands Illustrateurs (Munich: Knorr & Hirth, 2nd ed., n.d.), 1:41.

Katherine’s ministry involved more than charitable work for the needy. She also compiled hymns and published them in pamphlet form in an effort to more effectively focus the minds of laypeople on God. Her motivation illustrates the depth of her own spiritual maturity:

When I read these hymns I felt that the writer had the whole Bible in his heart. This is not just a hymn book but a lesson book of prayer and praise. When so many filthy songs are on the lips of men and women and even children I think it well that folk should with lusty zeal and clear voice sing the songs of their salvation. God is glad when the craftsman at his bench, the maid at the sink, the farmer at the plough, the dresser at the vines, the mother at the cradle break forth in hymns of prayer, praise and instruction.”⁵⁸

One of her final acts of selfless service was conducting a funeral service for a woman disciple of Schwenckfeld. A Lutheran minister had agreed to conduct the funeral but only with the stipulation that he publicly renounce her for denying the faith. Her husband refused and instead called upon Katherine, now old and feeble, to conduct a graveside service at dawn, so as to avoid the authorities. Later the city council voted that if she recovered from her illness they would duly reprimand her. She did not recover.⁵⁹

Katherine Zell stood out among the Reformers’ wives in her very active ministry, but she was certainly not unique in seeing herself as a partner with her husband in the ministry. The role of a minister’s wife very early in the Reformation was associated with expectations far above and beyond that of an ordinary layman’s wife. Because of these expectations and the peculiar problems related to their ministries, there was a certain amount of networking among them. Wibrandis, wife of the German reformer Oecolampadius, corresponded with a number of other ministers’ wives, including Anna Zwingli, Elisabeth Butzer, and Agnes Capito. They saw themselves as women of God in the tradition of biblical heroines. Indeed, Agnes Capito sent Wibrandis a prayer book that featured the great women in Scripture.⁶⁰

Argula von Grumback

Although women were restricted in entering ministries on their own, their identity was not exclusively limited to that of being clerical wives. Some women—particularly highborn women—made a significant impact on the Reformation in their own right. This was especially true in France and to a lesser extent in Germany. In some instances the influence of these women involved little more than being a “thorn in the flesh” to Catholic leaders, but even in this capacity their presence was often deeply felt. This was true of Argula von Grumback (C. 1492–1563). She had a claim to Bavarian nobility both by birth and by marriage, and her education and critical mind allowed her to become a force to be reckoned with.

She first came to the attention of the Catholic leaders when she wrote a letter in support of a young instructor and colleague of John Eck who had been forced to recant his “Lutheran” theology. She sought to buttress her position by assuring the “honorable, worthy, highborn, erudite, noble, stalwart Rector and all the Faculty of the University of Ingolstadt” that her words were “not a woman’s ranting, but the Word of God.” Such a defense, however, did not make her letter any more palatable to her Catholic opponents. According to one, she was “an insolent daughter of Eve, a heretical bitch and confounded rogue.”⁶¹

What kind of heresy could her letter have contained for her to have merited such a scathing attack? Actually, her letter, interspersed with Scripture references, was well reasoned and mild compared to much of the rhetoric of the Reformation period. Her emotionally charged first sentence is followed by penetrating questions and pithy answers:

When I heard what you had done to Arsacius Seehofer under terror of imprisonment and the stake, my heart trembled and my bones quaked. What have Luther and Melanchthon taught save the Word of God? You have condemned them. You have not refuted them…You seek to destroy all of Luther’s works. In that case you will have to destroy the New Testament, which he has translated…Even if Luther should recant, what he has said would still be the Word of God.⁶²

So convinced was Argula of her position that she challenged these learned university administrators and professors to a debate, offering to base the debate on a translation of the Bible published some decades earlier. What kind of woman was it who would make such a challenge? Was she a feminist demanding an equal place for women in the church? Apparently not. Indeed, she did not presume that her bold activities should be the norm for women: “I am not unacquainted with the word of Paul that women should be silent in church…but, when no man will or can speak, I am driven by the word of the Lord when he said, ‘He who confesses me on earth, him will I confess and he who denies me, him will I deny.’”⁶³ It is interesting to note, however, that Seehofer, the young instructor she was defending, was accused of being a heretic in part because he had allegedly argued that women and laypeople in general were not excluded from being theologians—a profession always presumed to be exclusively for males.⁶⁴

Incredible as it may seem, considering the spirit of the times, Argula was permitted to present her position in 1523 in Nurnberg before the diet of the Empire. It was hardly a victory, though. The princes were unmoved by her appeal and were apparently far more interested in indulging their appetites in food and drink. “I am distressed,” she wrote, “that our princes take the Word of God no more seriously than a cow does a game of chess.”⁶⁵

Argula suffered for her courageous stand—not so much from the authorities as from her own husband. To her cousin she wrote, “I hear you have heard that my husband has locked me up. Not that, but he does much persecute Christ in me. At this point I cannot obey him.” She did not take this disobedience lightly. And truly there was reason for her husband to be upset with her stand, for she also wrote “I understand that my husband will be deposed from his office. I can’t help it. God will feed my children as he feeds the birds and will clothe them as the lilies of the field.”⁶⁶ Indeed it was a heavy price that this woman of faith paid for her Christian witness. She was not, however, without recognition—and from the highest quarters. Luther spoke of her in glowing terms. In a letter to a friend he wrote:

The Duke of Bavaria rages above measure, killing, crushing and persecuting the gospel with all his might. That most noble woman, Argula von Stauffer, is there making a valiant fight with great spirit, boldness of speech and knowledge of Christ. She deserves that all pray for Christ’s victory in her…Her husband, who treats her tyrannically, has been deposed from his prefecture. What he will do you can imagine. She alone, among these monsters, carries on with firm faith, though, she admits, not without inner trembling. She is a singular instrument of Christ.⁶⁷

Yet despite such encouragement and support, Argula continued to suffer for her faith. In fact at the age of seventy she was still being hounded by Bavarian authorities. The Duke had incarcerated the “old Staufferin” for the second time—and for good reason. In the words of Roland Bainton, she “had incited the people to disobedience by circulating books contrary to the Catholic religion. She had seduced them from the services of the church and had conducted private conventicles in her home. She had gone to the cemetery and had officiated at funerals.”⁶⁸ Because of her age and health she was released, and later that year she died.

Marguerite of Navarre and Jeanne d'Albert

It was in France that noblewomen had the most profound influence on the Reformation. Without the benefit of their political might, the Huguenots would have been far less successful in establishing a solid base for the Reformed faith during most of the sixteenth century. The first powerful French noblewoman to take up the cause of reform was Marguerite of Navarre (1492–1549), the sister of King Francis I. She had been influenced by Jacques Lefevre, a biblical scholar whose commentary on the Pauline epistles espoused the doctrine of justification by faith several years before Luther posted his theses in Wittenburg.⁶⁹ Despite such influence, Marguerite remained at heart a Catholic. Although she was sympathetic to Reformed theology and denounced persecution of the Huguenots, she often took the side of the Catholics. Neither side fully trusted her. “Our greatest hope is in the Queen of Navarre,” wrote Calvin, “but we cannot place on her too great reliance.”⁷⁰

Although Marguerite could hardly be categorized as a feminist, she was well aware of the power of her sex as a noblewoman, and she was not afraid to address women’s issues in her writing. An example of this is found in her novel Heptameron. In the midst of a discussion of the virtues of women, one of her female characters responds to a derogatory remark by saying:

You would like to follow…the opinion of wicked men who take a passage of Scripture for themselves and leave behind the one which is the opposite of it. If you have read St. Paul all the way to the end, you will find that he recommends himself to the ladies who have worked very hard with him in the Gospel.⁷¹

It was her mysticism that most separated Marguerite from the Reformers. In many ways her ideology more closely resembled that of the mystics of the Catholic Reformation than that of the theologians of the Protestant Reformation. Although some of her poetry bore the markings of Reformation doctrine—particularly in their titles (“Justification by Faith,” “The Primacy of Scripture,” and “The Doctrine of Election”)—her theology was experience-oriented, and her mysticism at times bordered on heresy. According to Bainton, she believed she would “be made divine” and she called herself “the mother of God.” She “felt herself to be a bearer of God. At the same time she was the sister and the bride of Christ.”⁷²

It was Jeanne d’Albert (1528-1572), the daughter of Marguerite, who is best remembered among the French noblewomen for taking a strong stand in support of the Reformed cause. She made a public profession of her Protestant faith on Christmas Day in 1560—a decision that was influenced by Beza, Calvin’s successor at Geneva. “His visit to her court at Nerac in the summer of 1560 was certainly an important factor in her announced conversion later that year, and thereafter she always sought his advice in important matters such as the choice of a tutor for her son or the means of stamping out ‘idolatry’ in her domains.”⁷³

According to Bainton, her conversion seemed to be simply “the conviction that Calvin’s teaching was God’s teaching as set forth in the Bible.” As the queen of Navarre, she wielded a powerful influence over French politics, but her efforts to establish the Reformed faith permanently among her countrymen were thwarted by her husband. Her unreserved support of the Huguenots created marital disharmony, and for a time her husband kept her locked up and threatened divorce in order to prevent her from giving further aid to the Protestants. Their eight-year-old son, Henry, was torn between them in a bitter custody battle. Jeanne forbade him to ever attend Mass, while his father forced him to study under Catholic tutors.⁷⁴

In addition to opposition from her royal family, Jeanne met strong resistance from church officials. Her cousin, Cardinal d’Armagnac accused her of “being misled by evil counselors who seek to plant a new religion” and of inciting “subjects to

Jeanne D’Albret. She is pictured here riding out to battle to give support to the Huguenot Army.

take up arms against kings and princes.” Her response shows the depth of her religious convictions: “I am not planting a new religion but restoring an old one.” And regarding her “evil counselors,” she retorted, “I follow Beza, Calvin and others only in so far as they follow Scripture.”⁷⁵

Unlike her mother, Jeanne did not seek to establish an atmosphere of religious toleration. Rather, she imposed restrictions on the Roman Catholics that served to deepen the tensions between the two sides. In 1566, she issued decrees that curtailed Roman Catholicism in the region of Navarre. Her aim was mainly to restrict the use of the crucifix and other religious paraphernalia that she believed constituted idolatry; she did so in order to prevent the judgment of God on her domain. Revolts broke out, and bloody battles between Catholic and Protestant forces ensued. When the Huguenot general was killed, Jeanne rode out and rallied the troops—a move that contributed to a military victory. Partly because of her powerful influence, the Huguenot faith continued to grow in France. But hard times lay ahead. She died in 1572, and later that year Protestants were slaughtered en masse in what became known as the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre. Although her son Henry IV was raised in the Protestant faith, after he ascended the throne he yielded to Catholic demands and switched his religious allegiance. Yet, he is remembered for signing the Edict of Nantes, which granted religious toleration to the Huguenots for most of a century.⁷⁶

Renée of Ferrara

Another noblewoman who served the cause of the Reformation well was Renée of Ferrara (1510–1575). She was the daughter of King Louis XII of France, and as a young woman she agreed to an arranged marriage to an Italian prince in an effort to forge a political alliance. Influenced by Marguerite of Navarre, she quickly became a Protestant sympathizer. “Her court at Ferrara became a known refuge for both French and Italian religious fugitives and a center for secret Protestant preaching.”⁷⁷ Like Marguerite and Jeanne, she was courted by prominent Reformers. Calvin corresponded with her for nearly three decades, and he assigned one of his most trusted preachers, Morel, to serve as her private pastor at her court at Montargis.⁷⁸

Like Argula, she was harassed by her husband, who complained that she had been “seduced by some Lutheran rascals” and had “refused to go to confession and Mass, and when one of her servants was dying, she refused him extreme unction.”⁷⁹ Her husband called on the Jesuits for help in bringing her back into line, and as a result she was “forced to attend Mass openly and publicly.”⁸⁰ That she submitted to the pressures was a bitter disappointment to Calvin and other French Reformers, and they sought more diligently to persuade her to commit herself to the side of reform. She continued, however, to waver, “caught between the forces of French Protestantism and Jesuit militancy,” but outwardly bowing to the pressure of the Catholic officials.⁸¹

In some respects Renée was similar to Katherine Zell who manifested a spirit of toleration far broader than the Reformers were known for. After she returned to France, she was harshly criticized for her refusal to dispose of the “nest of heretics” in her domain, but she stood her ground and instituted freedom of religion and offered charitable services not only to Huguenots but also to needy Catholics—including some impoverished monks. She renounced Morel and other Reformers for the vengeance they wrought on their enemies—“sacking of the shops of the Catholics.” She pled with Calvin to use his influence to stop the carnage: “Monsieur Calvin, I am distressed that you do not know how the half in this realm behave. They even exhort the simple to kill and strangle. This is not the rule of Christ. I say this out of the great affection which I hold for the Reformed religion.”⁸²

Although she was recognized as a very influential woman of the Reformation, Renée was unable to have the meaningful role she desired in the church. Morel wrote to Calvin concerning this issue: “Renée wants to attend the meetings of the synod…But if Paul thought that women should be silent in church, how much more should they not participate in the making of decisions! How will the Papists and the Anabaptists scoff to see us run by women!” Renée also wrote to Calvin, pointing out Morel’s inconsistency—his selectivity in permitting certain women a role in church affairs while denying other women the right to have any part in the leadership of the church. She wrote, “At first he invited me to attend the consistory of elders chosen by himself. Then he told me that women should not attend, although the Queen of Navarre, the wife of the Admiral [Coligny] and the queen herself attend such assemblies. But I did not press the point.”⁸³

Women of the English Reformation

In England the Reformation was even more politicized than it was in France, and powerful female rulers played a significant role in both sides of the long struggle. Mary Tudor, the daughter of Henry VIII, sought to bring the church back under the domination of Rome and to rid the country of “heresy”—a policy that resulted in the martyrdom of Thomas Cranmer, Hugh Latimer, and Nicholas Ridley. She died in 1558 and was succeeded by her sister Elizabeth, who steered the church away from Rome to a position more closely identified with Protestantism, while at the same time persecuting those religious groups who refused to conform to the prescribed patterns of worship.

But while the faith of the monarchs was often politicized, the faith of the commoners sometimes manifested deep religious conviction. Both women and men were forced to face the bitter consequences of following their personal convictions in religious matters. Joyce Lewes is an example. She was converted after witnessing the deep faith of Lawrence Saunders while he was being burned at the stake—a sentence pronounced on him during the reign of Queen Mary for not attending Mass. His gripping testimony prompted Mrs. Lewes to question her own participation in the rituals of the Mass and soon after that she demonstrated her disapproval by refusing to face the altar during the ceremonies and subsequently avoiding Mass altogether. For these acts of religious defiance she was sent to prison for a year, after which she was burned at the stake. According to John Foxe, the torture was mercifully brief: “When the fire was lighted, she neither struggled nor stirred, but only lifted up her hands toward heaven, and was dead very speedily; for the under-sheriff, at the request of her friends, had provided such a quantity of dry wood and straw that she was very quickly despatched out of this evil world.”⁸⁴

The Martyrdom of Joice Lewes in Lichfield in 1557. From Walter Walsh, The Women Martyrs of the Reformation (London: Religious Tract Society, n.d.).

Foxe records the suffering of several other women who held firm to their faith in the face of severe persecution during the reign of Queen Mary. In one instance in Smithfield, England, three women—Catherine Hut, Joan Hornes, and Elizabeth Thackvill—were charged with adhering to the Reformed “heresy.” Because they refused to recant they were thrown into prison and were finally executed. They were tied to one stake and burned together. Another instance involved the burning of a blind woman, one Joan Waste of Derby. So eager was she to learn the Scriptures after her conversion to the Reformed faith that she purchased a copy of the New Testament and hired an old man to come and read it to her daily. She memorized large portions of it, and for this crime and for refusing to attend Mass she was imprisoned and later burned at the stake, in August 1556.⁸⁵

The most famous of the female martyrs during the Reformation in England is Anne Askew (C. 1521–46). She was in her mid-twenties when she was burned at the stake in 1546 during the reign of Henry VIII. Her personal testimony of the torture she endured has been preserved, and it sheds light on the active—though often secretive—role women played in the English Reformation. Her first arrest and imprisonment came to an end after her relatives made an appeal for her release and, according to Foxe, after she “was persuaded to sign a paper, upon which had been written a formal promise to return to the Romish church.” There is some debate concerning the latter point, but at any rate, she was shortly arrested again and brought before an examiner who interrogated her concerning others involved in her “sect.” “They asked me of lady Suffolk, lady Sussex, lady Hertford, lady Denny, and lady Fitzwilliams. To this I answered, ‘If I should pronounce anything against them, I would not be able to prove it.’”⁸⁶

Ann Askew Pleading Her Innocence Before the Lord Chancellor. From Walter Walsh. The Women Martyrs of the Reformation (London: Religious Tract Society, n.d.).

From there the line of questioning moved to the issue of the gifts of food and money she had received while in prison—the implication being that they had come from women supporters who belonged to her “sect.” Her answers were vague and resulted in torture and finally death.

Then did they put me on the rack, because I confessed no ladies or gentlewomen to be of my opinion, and thereon they kept me a long time, and because I lay still and did not cry, my lord chancellor and Mr. Rich took pains to rack me with their own hands till I was nigh dead…Then was I brought to a house and laid in a bed, with as weary and painful bones as ever had patient Job. My lord chancellor sent me word, if I would change my opinions I should want for nothing; if I would not, I should forthwith to Newgate, and so be burned. I sent him again word, that I would rather die than break my faith.⁸⁷

This passive acceptance of persecution was only one side of Askew’s response. Indeed, while she was undergoing examination by authorities, she exhibited a bold and at times audacious manner. She defended herself with Scripture, citing the stoning of Stephen as an analogy to her own persecution. And she had a ready answer when she did not wish to respond: “I answered I would not throwe pearles amonge swine.” She was caustic in her criticism of Catholicism: “I said that I had rather to reade five leaves in the Bible, than to hear five Masses in the temple…because the one did greater edify me and the other nothing at all.”⁸⁸

It was clear that the authorities did not wish to go through with the death sentence of Anne Askew, for even on the day of her burning letters were brought to her, offering her a pardon if she would recant. They realized all too well that her unbending faith in the face of torture and death only served the cause of the Reformers. Women were active on both sides of the religious struggle during the Reformation in England. When Catholicism was outlawed under the reign of Elizabeth, the authorities discovered very quickly that exterminating a religion was a complicated ordeal and that “one of the greatest obstacles…lay in the wives of the gentry who harbored the priests.”⁸⁹

Women in Sectarian Movements

Traditionally, most historians have maintained that women had considerably more freedom for ministry in the radical sects than in the institutionalized churches. This, they contend, was due in part to the fact that the sects generally had a “preponderance of women.” Roland Bainton, among others, holds this position and suggests that this may be due to the fact that the sects “placed more stress on piety than on dogma” and that this stance was congenial to women.⁹⁰ In recent years, however, this thesis has been challenged. Certain scholars have argued that there is no evidence that the sects contained a larger percentage of women than did established churches. Yet there is abundant evidence that women were permitted a wider range of ministry in the various sects. Indeed, women preachers were not uncommon among the sects.

Anabaptists

Among the Anabaptists the “sisters” were “referred to as being on the same level as the brethren,” according to George Williams, in his massive work entitled The Radical Reformation. Speaking of the Anabaptists, he states, “Nowhere else in the Reformation Era were women so nearly the peers and companions in

The Martyrdom of Anneken Heyndricks, an Anabaptist. From Martyrs’ Mirror.

the faith, and mates in missionary enterprise and readiness for martyrdom, as among those for whom believers’ baptism was an equalizing covenant.” Williams further contends that “the extension of the priesthood of the Christophorus laity to women constituted a major breach in patriarchalism and a momentous step in the western emancipation of women.” He also points out that “besides numerous patronesses, protectresses, and martyrs, the Radical Reformation acknowledged several prophetesses, at least two women apostles, and one redemptress (William Postel’s Venetian virgin).”⁹¹

It was inevitable that controversy would rage over the issue of women in positions of spiritual authority. Criticism came from all sides, from both within and without the ranks of the Anabaptists. Sometimes this criticism was fostered by the bizarre charismatic ministry and conduct of the women leaders themselves. Johannes Kessler, a Reformer of St. Gall, made no attempt to disguise his disdain for one Margarita Hattinger, an Anabaptist who “came to the point that she said she was God.” According to Kessler, she “asserted that whoever prays is sinning,” and “she undertook to say things that no one could understand, as if she were so deeply immersed in God that no one but she in God could understand her tongue and speech.”⁹²

Kessler related another scornful account of one Magdalena Muller, who allegedly professed to be Christ. She had two disciples, Frena and Barbara, whose religious fervor was considered as scandalous as her own. On one occasion, according to Kessler, one of them “began to speak with a frightful voice and to shake and foam at the mouth,” while rebuking the other for her sin.

After she had spoken these words with great fury, Barbara fell down and cried wailingly in a loud voice…her body swelling up, her face burning as bright as a rose, sweating drop after drop. So her belt and all her clothes were undone so that she wouldn’t suffocate. After she had lain there two hours, she came to herself again.⁹³

This sort of behavior continued, and apparently many people believed the women to be insane. Whatever their condition was, Kessler and others used the bizarre episodes to discredit women in ministry.

Zwickau Prophets

Among the Zwickau Prophets there were a number of women who were recognized as religious leaders—especially “in the wake of the Muntzerian and Storchian outbursts.” Indeed, there were a number of prominent women who had been “infected” with heresy. One of those was Soff Teucher, who apparently ignored the city council’s admonitions to stop preaching and conducting private religious meetings. In 1521 the council gave this order: “She and her husband are to be sent for and told that the wife is henceforth to cease her doings.” Yet eight years later after repeated efforts to silence her, the council was still being frustrated by her tenacity. Her name and description was listed along with other female troublemakers: “Soff Teucher, who can never keep quiet, her influence must also be removed.”⁹⁴

Polish Brethren

Women were also prominent among the Polish Brethren, a sixteenth-century utopian community that emphasized pacifism and unitarianism. According to the testimony of critics, in this group women enjoyed equal rights with men. Roman Catholics held the community up as an example of decadent Protestantism, where women were “unstable, flitting like Salome from opinion to opinion.” Bona Sforza, the queen of Poland, abhorred the spread of such heresy, lamenting that “every crucifix in Cracow has been smashed…and even women, I hear, are preaching. While my husband was alive I would have taught them what it is to preach. I’m a Christian queen and I won’t stand for any of this nonsense.”⁹⁵

Francisca Hernandez

Reformation sects developed not only on the fringe of Protestantism, but also on the fringe of Catholicism, and even though representatives of such “heresies” often differed very little from individuals in good standing in the church, their independence and individualized “leading of the Spirit” made them targets for official condemnation, persecution, and martyrdom. Many such individuals were women who, like the Beguines of an earlier age, believed they could follow their own consciences and be faithful to the Catholic church at the same time. But that was often idle fantasy. Yet there was often a fine line between those who were condemned to death and those who were canonized. It came as a shock to many of these women when they suddenly realized they were suspected of heresy.

Francisca Hernandez was one such woman. A Catholic laywoman, she was known for her healing miracles. Many Franciscan friars held her in high regard, including one Francisco Ortiz, a popular preacher of his day. Like others, he sought out Francisca for healing. Bainton describes his apparent desperation: “During a period of four years he had been so tormented by erotic dreams and frequent emissions that he made an attempt at suicide. Word reached him that through her miraculous power others had been delivered from a like affliction”—apparently a not uncommon malady among celibate friars.⁹⁶

Francisca initially shunned his efforts to see her, but he persisted and was given an audience. “In the very first conversation she divined all my thoughts. I recognized by a marvelous light that to seek and find God I had no need of any greater truth than that which fell from her lips and that this was the pure grain and substance of the gospel.” Indeed, he became convinced that this unlettered woman understood the Scriptures more clearly than did the best theologians. So grateful was Ortiz for being delivered from his “debilitating temptations” that he paid her the highest tribute he could conceive: “She can be compared to the Mother of God.”⁹⁷

When word of this “miracle” reached Catholic authorities, there was immediate suspicion of Francisca, and no doubt some concern that a woman—a mere laywoman—would be the recipient of such honor and praise. The Inquisition stepped in and Francisca was imprisoned. Soon after that Ortiz, too, was thrown into a dungeon. The precise crimes they were accused of were not specified, but it was intimated that the alleged cure may have been affected by their having had sexual relations. It was a trumped-up charge that had been used by the Inquisition against many other female “heretics”—and perhaps a charge Francisca feared when she initially refused to see Ortiz. In the end, with no reliable witnesses to counteract their testimony of their innocence, both were released, though Ortiz was placed under a form of probation at a monastery and Francisca was kept under surveillance.⁹⁸

Many women who were brought before the Inquisition fared far worse than did Francisca. Maria Cazalla was one. She was a Spanish mystic and an admirer of Erasmus, who was a brilliant Renaissance humanist and a critic of the church whose books were banned by Catholic authorities. “I hold what Erasmus holds,” she asserted, “because Erasmus holds what Holy Mother Church holds.” The inquisitors pressed her for further clarification of her views, asking her if she had been critical of the church’s holy days, if she had downplayed the importance of the sacraments, and what she thought of Luther. Although she sought desperately to avoid incriminating herself, the inquisitors were not satisfied with her answers. They suspected

Maria Cazalla, a Sixteenth-Century Woman Undergoing Water Torture. From S. G. Pozhniskii, Istornia Inhvizitsii, 1914 (in Russian), 54.

that she was denying her beliefs to avoid condemnation. That in itself would not have been so serious had she not also been accused of preaching—preaching at private meetings without church authorization. So, the obvious solution in the minds of the inquisitors was to torture her.⁹⁹

They first tortured her by stripping her and then “tying cords around the thighs and arms with a belt around the waist from which in front cords went up over the shoulders and down to the belt in the back. Tourniquets dug the cords into the flesh at any point of the body.” Still she refused to admit to heresy. They then gave her the water torture, by forcing water into her mouth and nostrils until she nearly suffocated. But it was to no avail. Without the hard evidence they needed to give the death sentence, the inquisitors freed her with the stipulation that she do public penance, limit her travel, and pay a large fine.¹⁰⁰ Although she was one of the fortunate ones who faced the inquisitors’ tortures and lived to tell about it, it is safe to say that her own experience was a deterrent to other Catholic women who were inclined to function in a spiritual capacity outside the official sanction of the church.

Deterrent or not, Catholic women continued to be involved in ministry, and when their ministry did not conform to the prescribed standard established by the Inquisition, their very lives were in danger. According to Bainton, the number of women brought before the Inquisition was on a par with the number of men. Many of these, however, were simply laypeople who were accused of supporting or sympathizing with the Protestant cause.

Women in Catholicism

The Protestant Reformation involved far more than the struggle to

Reformation Woman Enduring Torture by the Wheel. From S. G. Pozhniskii, Istornia Inhvizitsii, 1914 (in Russian), 580.

worship God freely in accordance with a Reformed theological position. It also involved an effort to eradicate Roman Catholicism—either by persuasion or by coercion. In some instances Protestant women were actively involved in this effort—particularly in persuading nuns to leave the convent. A Catholic nun from Geneva wrote in the early decades of the sixteenth century of two Protestant women who came to a local convent uninvited. One of them was Marie Dentiere, a former abbess who became a Protestant pastor’s wife. She allegedly “meddled with preaching…perverting people of devotion.” On another occasion Claudine Levet came to the convent under the protection of a group of Protestant men who defended her ministry, saying she was enlightened by God, a fact demonstrated by her preaching and teaching that had brought many people to the truth of the gospel. From another contemporary account, it becomes clear that Madame Levet did not confine her preaching to nuns in the convent. She explained the Scriptures at public gatherings where men as well as women were among her listeners.¹⁰¹

The Reformers themselves were also actively involved in persuading nuns to forsake the convents. Calvin corresponded with a number of women, including nuns. One of the nuns to whom he wrote was Abbess Philippe Chasteigner, who after her conversion in 1557 fled to Geneva with eight of her nuns from the monastery of St. Jean de Bonneval.¹⁰²

The widespread voluntary exodus of nuns from their convents clearly confirms that many nuns welcomed the new ideas associated with the Reformation. With the onslaught of publishing initiated by the Gutenburg Revolution, Protestant books—particularly Luther’s—were found in the most unlikely places, including Roman Catholic convents and monasteries. Behind those seemingly inpenetrable walls individuals were being transformed by the biblical injunction “The just shall live by faith” and other long-ignored truths of the New Testament. Many laywomen, too, welcomed the Protestant Reformation. Because of the Protestant emphasis on personalized faith, there was a corresponding emphasis on female literacy—a “conviction that women…should be able to read the Bible and other devotional literature.”¹⁰³ This may have been a fulfilling alternative to the popular religious superstition that was so much a part of female spirituality in the Middle Ages.

This popular superstition was often a critical issue for women—especially laywomen—who were pressured to convert to Protestantism. Women, more than men, seemed to rely on prayer to the saints—particularly to Saint Margaret, “the patroness of women in childbirth,” and Saint Anne, “the patroness of widows,” who, like Saint Margaret, also protected women in childbirth or women who were suffering from menstrual problems.¹⁰⁴ Under Protestantism, however, dependence on the saints was denounced.

Pressure for Catholic laywomen to convert to Protestantism came in some instances from their husbands. Sister Jeanne de Jussie, a nun from the Order of St. Claire who lived in Geneva, recorded a number of instances of “good Catholic women” whose husbands had become Protestant “heretics.” One woman allegedly died of a broken heart when she realized that her infant had been baptized by William Farel, the famous Genevan Reformer. Sister Jeanne described many of these women as “more than martyrs” because they had to endure physical and mental abuse from their husbands and from Protestant authorities. In one instance when three women refused to participate in the Reformed Easter service, they were locked together in a room only to escape and sneak away to a Catholic Mass. On other occasions Sister Jeanne claimed that it was the Catholic women who fought the most bravely to preserve artwork and relics that were being vandalized by the Protestants.¹⁰⁵

During the mid-sixteenth century when Protestants were at war with Catholics in Switzerland, Catholic women joined their husbands in the battles. According to Sister Jeanne de Jussie:

The wives of the Christians assembled, saying that if it happens that our husbands fight against those infidels, let us also make war and kill their heretic wives, so that the race may be exterminated. In this assembly of women there were a good seven hundred children of twelve to fifteen years of age, firmly decided to do a good deed with their mothers: the women carried stones in their laps, and most of the children carried little rapiers…others stones in their breast, hat and bonnet.¹⁰⁶

Nuns During the Reformation

Virtually every aspect of church life was profoundly affected by the sudden emergence of the Protestant Reformation. Women in ministry were no exception. The medieval church had offered education and careers for women comparable to no other institution in society. Although monasticism cism had its obvious limitations, women in large numbers found fulfillment through its varied opportunities and lifestyles. By the sixteenth century, monasticism was rapidly declining, and with the advent of the Reformation, the institution was challenged as never before. It was viewed as corrupt, and monks and nuns were admonished to forsake its evil influence.

While many nuns such as Katherine von Bora willingly joined the Protestant cause, others wavered, unsure of what to do in the face of mounting pressures. But most clung tenaciously to their Catholic faith, stoically suffering the consequences. While the Protestants had no such organized tool of repression comparable to the Inquisition, they were not without their own means of harassing and brutalizing individuals and groups who did not quickly convert to the prescribed patterns of belief and action. Indeed, one of the unfortunate results of the Reformation was the often brutal displacement of nuns—the forced removal of them from their convents. In the words of Melanchthon, “The preachers scream, swear, and storm, and do everything in their power to rouse the hatred of the masses against the poor nuns; they openly say that, as words were of no avail, recourse should be had to force.”¹⁰⁷

In some instances the Reformers showed more charity than in others, but too often the end result was the same. In Zwickau, Germany, for example, the city council forced the nine elderly nuns of that town to sell their convent house and move into a boardinghouse, where they were put to work mending clothing. Although they had initially fought the move, they apparently conformed to the dictates of the council outwardly, fearing their punishment would be worse. A report to the city council stated that they were no longer following the rule of Saint Francis.¹⁰⁸

Charitas Pirckheimer

One of the most interesting documents relating to Roman Catholic nuns during the Reformation is a memoir by Charitas Pirckheimer. Charitas was a German abbess who ruled a convent of St. Clara at Nurnberg during the turbulent decade following Luther’s posting of his Ninety-five Theses. Unlike the nuns of Helfa a few centuries earlier, who were known for their mysticism, the nuns of St. Clara were known for their intellectual pursuits—so much so, that they were viewed with suspicion by their male monastic leaders. Indeed the Franciscan friars permitted Charitas to become abbess only under the condition that she discontinue her Latin correspondence with various intellectuals whose friendship she had enjoyed. Her brother denounced “those soft-footed men” who “have forbidden her to write Latin for the future,” characterizing their actions as “roguery.” But the love of learning was not stifled in the convent, and when Erasmus’ New Testament appeared, the nuns avidly read it, and according to Charitas’ brother, had more understanding of it than many scholarly men.¹⁰⁹

Although Charitas was very close to her brother, she did not join him in his strong initial support of Luther. To the contrary, she deplored what was taking place in the church, and she strongly defended the role of women in monasticism against growing and virulent criticism. It was a very difficult time for nuns, as her account clearly illustrates:

Many powerful and evil-minded persons came to see the friends they had in our cloister, and argued with them and told them of the new teaching, how the religious profession was a thing of evil and temptation in which it was not possible to keep holy, and that we were all of the devil. Some would take their children, sisters and relatives out of the cloister by force and by the help of admonitions and promises of which they doubtless would not have kept half. This arguing and disputing went on for a long time and was often accompanied by great anger and abuse. But since none of the nuns by God’s grace was moved to go, the fault was laid on the Franciscans, and everyone said they encouraged us, so that it would be impossible to convince us of the new belief while we had them as preachers and confessors.¹¹⁰

The conflict was not resolved peacefully. Great pressure was put on Charitas to submit peacefully to the Reformers’ insistence on her disbanding the convent in order to avoid bloodshed. This was meant not only for her own convent but also for many others, which, it was believed, would follow her example. The fear of bloodshed was real. The peasants’ uprising was gaining momentum, and many were convinced that the nuns were easy targets for vengeful mobs. But more was at stake than safety. The new Protestant leaders were concerned about the spiritual well-being of the nuns as well, and if the nuns would not willingly listen to the followers of Luther, they would listen by force. Reformed preachers took the place of the Franciscan friars in the convent church. Despite this “spiritual poison,” as Charitas described it, none of the nuns asked to leave. In other convents, however, the situation was different. Many of them disbanded for fear of being taken by force, and some of the nuns, with no other place to go, took refuge with Charitas. But even there they were not safe. In some instances family members brutally dragged young women out against their will.¹¹¹

In the end it was Philip Melanchthon, not surprisingly, who helped bring about a peaceable solution. His presence was welcomed by Charitas. “I am glad to hear Melanchthon is coming,” she wrote; “since I have heard he is an irreproachable, upright and justice-loving man, I do not suppose he can approve of what has been done here.” He did not approve, and through his mediation, it was agreed that there would be one further effort to convince the nuns to leave the convent, and after that they would be left alone.¹¹²

Women of the Catholic Reformation

The name most closely associated with the Catholic Reformation is that of Ignatius of Loyola, the founder of the Society of Jesus, better known as the Jesuits. Ignatius has been criticized for his adamant refusal to found a female branch of the Society of Jesus, and sometimes his role is viewed as that of “fending off the attentions of these women, protecting his colleagues from their zealous desire to be associated too intimately with the Order.”¹¹³

Ignatius, however, had a deep concern for women. It is true that his ministry was primarily to men, but with good reason. The Jesuits were highly visible and were the brunt of widespread criticism—some justified and some not. Ignatius was deeply concerned about the reputation of his society, and he was well aware that any involvement with women, even the founding of a female order, would be controversial. He continually warned his followers to avoid even the appearance of wrongdoing with the opposite sex. In a letter to Jesuits in Portugal, he wrote, “I would not enter upon spiritual conversations with women who are young or belong to the lower classes of the people, except in church or in places which are visible to all.” But his fears also related to contact with upperclass women—particularly women who sought out Jesuits to be their confessors. Individual Jesuits, including the order’s most illustrious missionary, Xavier, were on occasion accused of scandal involving women, and the House of St. Martha was said by some to be a Jesuit brothel.¹¹⁴

Yet, Ignatius’ concern for women—particularly “fallen” women—was deeply felt and prompted him to donate money for the establishment of the House of St. Martha. Others before him had sought to establish convents where prostitutes were welcome if they were willing to devote their lives to service for God, but Ignatius wanted more of a “half-way” house where such women would stay until they were ready to go back into the world and live a moral life. Many of the prostitutes plying their trade were married, and it was his goal that they be reunited with their husbands, through the assistance of the religious house. Ignatius’ chief concern was to reform prostitutes, not to fill up convents: “The unmarried women shall be quite free either to marry or to take the veil.” According to Hugo Rahner, “the House of St. Martha flourished. Ignatius was proud of it…At the end of 1543 there were already nearly eighty inmates; but in May 1545 there were only thirty-eight, for many had been sent forth, completely transformed, to lead respectable lives in the world.”¹¹⁵

Women themselves were not entirely successful in founding religious orders during the Reformation period. Some sought to open the doors of the cloister and involve themselves in service to the poor and needy, but they confronted strong opposition from the church. Angela Merici initially received papal approval for her new order, the Ursulines, to minister in homes to women and children, but she and her nuns were later instructed to maintain full cloister. This was a lesson for other would-be founders of female religious orders. “The Daughters of Charity, founded by Vincent de Paul and Louise de Marillac, learned from this pattern and never became nuns.” Instead, they carried out social services without formal vows and uniform dress. “Ironically, then,” writes Denise Carmody, “the only religious women who could do active works of mercy were those who did not profess their religious status officially. So strong were the controls of the Catholic reform initiated at the Council of Trent in the sixteenth century that not until 1900 were nuns officially granted the right to an active life.”¹¹⁶

Teresa of Avila

The best-known woman of the Roman Catholic Reformation was Teresa of Avila (1515–82), a Carmelite reformer and mystic. Like the beliefs of many other Spanish mystics, hers did not always conform to strict Catholic dogma, and, like so many others, she was viewed with deep suspicion by certain church officials. Even so, very shortly after her death her reputation for saintliness was elevated to the point that she was canonized.

Teresa had entered the convent of the Incarnation at the age of twenty and the following year took her vows as a Carmelite nun. Soon after this she became very ill, and, after she recovered, she credited St. Joseph with her miraculous healing. But although she was physically healed, she continued to struggle spiritually. Of her first ten years as a nun she wrote, “I went through a life of the greatest conflict. On the one hand, God called me; on the other, I followed the world.” Throughout that time she had held herself up to an impossible standard. She felt so guilty after talking “‘even briefly with a visitor at the screen’ (a barrier installed after the Council of Trent), she withdrew at once to her cell and ‘lashed herself with the utmost cruelty.’” Another account tells how she whipped herself “until the walls of her cell dripped with gore.” Her life changed suddenly after she read Augustine’s Confessions. “When I started reading the Confessions it seemed to me that I was seeing my own self right there. When I got as far as his conversion and read how he heard that voice in the garden, it was just as if the Lord gave it to me, too.”¹¹⁷

Following her conversion and more debilitating illnesses, Teresa began to experience ecstacies. These voices, visions, and levitations persisted during periods throughout her lifetime and contributed considerably to her reputation as a saint. Her first rapture came unexpectedly: “Having spent a day in prayer and begging the Lord to help me, I began the hymn [Veni Creator]; and while I was reciting it, a rapture came on me, so sudden that it snatched me out of myself…It was the first time the Lord had given me the grace of raptures. I heard these words: ‘Now I want you to talk no longer with men, but with angels.’”¹¹⁸

The admission of having visions and raptures was not entirely safe during the sixteenth century. The inquisitors eagerly sought out those they deemed to be heretics or possessed—some of whom resembled Teresa all too closely. Time had not yet forgotten the “notorious Magdalen of the Cross who, ten years before, had enthralled the royal family with her ecstacies and her reception of the stigmata before she was exposed.”¹¹⁹ Some of Teresa’s friends believed that she was demon-possessed; they advised that she be exorcised, and her confessor instructed her to snap her fingers (apparently to bring her out of the trance) whenever she felt a rapture coming on. “Others advised her to spit.”¹²⁰

Unlike many visionaries, Teresa did not equate ecstatic experiences with sanctity. She believed that women were more prone to have visionary experiences, but warned that they should not seek them, lest they fall prey to “spiritual gluttony.” She herself often viewed her raptures as “the recurrence of some troublesome disease, saying that she was praying to be delivered from them.”¹²¹

Teresa’s mysticism focused on communing with God through meditation. “Enter into yourself” was her motto, but her goal was not mere inward reflection, but bringing God inside oneself. Such deep communion, she believed, did not come automatically. After years of experimenting, she concluded that it could best be accomplished through four stages: “First the inner self must be stilled. Next comes concentration on spiritual meditation. The repose of the soul…and perfect union of the soul with God are the final stages. Its four degrees may be described as tranquillity, union, ecstasy and, finally, spiritual marriage.”¹²²

In her most well-known mystical trance, Teresa experienced her heart being pierced by a spear of divine love. Nevertheless, her mysticism had its practical side also. Loving God resulted in service for Him. She wrote, “Let everyone understand that real love of God does not consist in tear-shedding, nor in that sweetness and tenderness for which we usually long, just because they console us, but in serving God in justice, fortitude of soul and humility.”¹²³

Teresa’s most enduring work was the reform and establishment of Carmelite houses all over Spain. She founded her first convent in Avila when she was in her mid-forties, after she had undergone an intense religious experience. It was this experience that caused her to see the desperate need for reform within the church, and she believed that a reorganization and expansion of the Carmelites was the best way to accomplish this task. The Carmelites, like other Catholic religious orders, had deviated from their original purpose, and she sought to return the order to the austere and comtemplative character that it had once known. So powerful was her appeal that she established fifteen additional houses in less than a twenty-year period, during which time she suffered two heart attacks.¹²⁴

Like other Catholic women who sought to make changes in the church, Teresa met with strong opposition. Sega, the papal nuncio, came to Spain to investigate her activities and to make certain of her absolute allegiance to the church. The very fact that the religious houses needed reform reflected poorly on the church, and Sega was obviously threatened by Teresa’s ministry. He described her as “a restless gadabout, disobedient, contumacious woman who promulgates pernicious doctrine under pretense of devotion.” As to her reforming activities, he wrote, “She leaves her cloisters against the orders of her superiors contrary to the decrees of the Council of Trent. She is ambitious and teaches theology as if she were a doctor of the Church in spite of St. Paul’s prohibition.”¹²⁵

Teresa’s assessment of her work was quite different. She considered herself and her nuns to be in the very midst of the battle to rid the countryside of the “mischief and ravages those Lutherans had wrought in France.” Indeed, she wrote, “Had I a thousand lives, it seemed to me I would give them all to save a single one of the many souls which were going to perdition.” Yet she recognized her handicap:

Since I was only a woman, and a base one at that,…I resolved to do the little that was in me: namely, follow the evangelical precepts as fully as I could, and endeavor that those few nuns who were with me should do likewise,…dedicating ourselves to prayer for the preachers and learned men who are defending the Church.¹²⁶

How did Teresa avoid torture and imprisonment after receiving such a reference from the pope’s emissary? She hid. Her close associate, John of the Cross, was not so fortunate. He was confined in a dungeon for most of a year. But more than torture and imprisonment, Teresa feared that all her efforts for reform would be reversed by the Catholic authorities. In the end, however, the pope ruled in favor of Teresa by permitting her reformed convents to continue functioning.¹²⁷

Teresa’s commitment to God and to the reformation of the Catholic church is perhaps best summed up in a verse that she penned:

Thine am I, I was born for thee,

What wouldst thou, Master, make of me?

Give me death or give me life

Give health or give infirmity

Give honor or give obliquy

Give peace profound or daily strife,

Weakness or strength add to my life;

Yes, Lord, my answer still shall be

What wilt Thou, Master, have of me?

‘Tis Thou alone dost live in me.

What wilt Thou I should do for thee?¹²⁸

Jacoba Bartolini

Teresa was only one of many itinerant female “preachers” of the Catholic Reformation. Indeed, there were a number of them who enjoyed a wide reputation during the sixteenth century, but whose names have since become obscure. One such woman was Jacoba Bartolini. Her story has been preserved in the diary of the Portuguese priest Father da Camara:

It was about the year 1544 that there arose in Italy a woman, a native of Bologna, who lived in the reputation of great spiritual gifts and holiness. After long exercise in the contemplative life, during which extraordinary things occurred, she withdrew to the mountains near Bologna, in order that, remote from the world she might give herself entirely to the life of perfection. There she converted many highway robbers, murderers, and other outcasts who came to her, and brought them to repentance, confession, and the Sacrament of the Altar, which was administered by some priests of irreproachable reputation who lived nearby for this purpose.¹²⁹

This type of evangelistic ministry was in itself unique for a woman, but it is not the reason for her popularity. That was due largely to her claim of having “an open wound in her right side” from which blood flowed. This stigmatic condition outshone even that of the great Saint Francis, and according to Camara, “this wonder became so well known, that people flocked to see it.”¹³⁰

The story of Jacoba Bartolini illustrates the considerable religious influence that a woman was able to have during the Reformation period even though she was at the same time restricted by severe limitations. As was true during the Middle Ages, the source of a woman’s power was usually her charismatic qualities, and the scope of her ministry was outside the institutionalized church. The security a woman was able to have depended heavily on her relationship with local clerics. In Jacoba’s case, she was able to bolster the work of the nearby parishes. For women in sectarian movements, the situation was similar. They also depended on charismatic qualities to authenticate their public ministries. In Reformed circles, a woman’s religious influence generally was more closely related to her social standing, and even then she confronted strict limitations.

What is significant about the Protestant Reformation in regard to women is that while there was a change in viewpoint toward women as wives and their worth as human beings, the theological perspective on their role in the church had changed very little from the perspective that pervaded the medieval Catholic church. The concept of the priesthood of believers raised the status of the laity in their direct responsibility to God, but it did not open the door for equality of men and women in the church. Women were excluded from leadership positions and office holding. Male clerics—were they Catholic, Reformed, or sectarian—held tenaciously to the traditional view that restricted their ministry.

A Century of Reaffirming Tradition

What did the Reformation era have to offer women in the church—women who desired meaningful ministry? On the spiritual level, it certainly was a period of time that offered women (like men) a fresh look at Scripture, with an emphasis on personal salvation through faith in Christ. But beyond the realm of personal faith, there was no significant place for women in religion. Public professional ministry was a male domain. Indeed, on that subject, tradition reigned. The Council of Trent reaffirmed tight restrictions on Catholic women who sought public ministry, and Protestants boldly condemned convent life—the only “professional” ministry that was available to women. Anabaptists permitted women to engage in charismatic ministries, but probably no more than medieval sectarian movements had.

Even the symbolism of womanhood suffered a reverse. In his book The Woman Shall Conquer, Don Sharkey laments “one of the most tragic events of history,” which he defines as “the Protestant Revolt.” It was then “that millions of people turned away from their heavenly Mother.”¹³¹

It is true that the Mariology of the Middle Ages did not provide a realistic role model for women, but the deemphasis of the “heavenly Mother” does reflect the Reformation mind-set.

Some would argue that the Protestants uplifted the view of woman as a human being. That may very well be true, but in doing so, they put woman “in her place.” She would henceforth be regarded more highly for her domestic duties, but the stage was set for a spiritual climate that would discourage professional female ministry. Ministry would be redefined by the Reformers as marriage and motherhood. To be sure, women rose above their prescribed role. Through political, social, or personal prestige, they often wielded considerable power, but in religious matters their influence was achieved in spite of the Reformation mentality, certainly not because of it.

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