Posted on 06/22/2006 7:36:40 AM PDT by Pyro7480
When Henry VIII began to dally with the idea of putting away his Queen Catherine and replacing her with Anne Boleyn, it was only natural that one of his earliest bids for support should go to John Fisher, one of the most eminent men of the day. He had been a model bishop of the Diocese of Rochester for twenty-three years, in an age when the lives of many bishops were less than edifying. For the same length of time he had been Chancellor of the University of Cambridge and had guided it out of the doldrums into new learning of the Renaissance. Erasmus, whom he had brought to Cambridge to introduce the study of Greek, said of him, "He is the one man of this tune who is incomparable for uprightness of life, for learning and greatness of soul."
Fisher had years ago been a favorite of Henry's father and grandmother. He had often been a member of the king's Privy Council, was a natural leader in the House of Lords and among the clergy, and was universally recognized for piety and learning. If at the outset the king had been able to engage the support of this venerable prelate, laden with years and honors, he could reasonably expect to avoid many difficulties.
To accomplish this treachery against his wife of 18 years, Henry affected religious scruples about the validity of his marriage. In particular, Henry's piety was troubled by the possibility that Pope Julius II had erred in granting the dispensation which made possible his marriage with Catherine. If the pope had exceeded his powers, then Henry and Catherine had been living in sin—and no wonder God had cursed them with only female issue! Henry had Wolsey, the ambitious and worldly Cardinal, put the matter to Fisher in June, 1527, after swearing the saint to secrecy. In September came his opinion: Henry and Catherine were true man and wife, their daughters were legitimate, and what God had joined no man should sunder. When Henry later objected that Fisher could not be so positive on a matter which was very obscure, Fisher replied that it was obscure only to those who had not looked into it but was quite plain to those who had studied it.
If Henry's devious purposes had not been apparent to John Fisher from the beginning, the king's ruthless determination to have his way soon became apparent to all. In the proceedings against the Queen, Fisher had been appointed one of her counsellors, yet he found it difficult to get to see her. Henry attacked from other directions. He apparently encouraged the House of Commons to raise complaints about the clergy (it was easy in those days to recite valid complaints) and to demand impossible reforms. When Bishop Fisher, spokesman for the hierarchy, rejected the reforms, Henry attacked him for being whimsical and arbitrary.
Another tactic Henry used concerned a religious visionary known as the Maid of Kent. This woman, who was probably demented, denounced the king's divorce proceedings to all and sundry, including the king himself on one occasion. When Henry learned that Fisher had once heard her denunciations, he demanded to know why the bishop had failed to report these treasonable utterances. Was he in some disloyal league with the woman?
These affronts were doubtless irksome but they in no way clouded St. John Fisher's clear perception of the issues. He had had many years of experience in which God had prepared him to confront this crucial phase of the Reformation. He was a model spiritual shepherd in his diocese, despite the demands of the university and the government—visiting his parishes, examining his clergy, inspecting religious institutions, promoting the sacraments, and preaching, a practice which he was always anxious to foster. At the end of a weary day of official duties in an out-of-the-way part of his diocese, the saintly bishop would search out the hovels of the poor, bringing the sacraments to the infirm and the healing words of the Gospel to all. And he was a man of prayer. When his goods were confiscated near the end of his life, the searchers were especially anxious to open a certain chest which Fisher had never allowed anyone to see the contents of. In it to their chagrin they found a scourge and, badly worn and crudely patched, a hair shirt.
As part of his episcopal duties Fisher had also acquired a particularly solid grasp of the new heretical ideas. He had watched the quaint old Lollard ideas dissolve into the more coherent and more pernicious Lutheran ones. To the first hand experience of these things he added the careful reflection entailed in writing half a dozen books refuting the Lutheran ideas—books which, incidentally, established his reputation for learning and wisdom throughout Europe.
A character so formed and a faith so strong was not to be deflected by Henry's intimidating ploys. Nor did the king use indirection for long. He had his new Archbishop of Canterbury grant his divorce in spite of Rome. He insisted that a convocation of England's hierarchy should confer on him the title "Protector and Supreme Head of the English Church and Clergy."
Fisher led the opposition to this, almost alone. When in his sickbed Fisher heard that nearly all the prelates had signed an oath affirming Henry's supremacy and repudiating the pope's authority, he said, "The fort is betrayed," thus laying the blame more on perfidious ecclesiastics than on the willful king. The bishops and clergy who betrayed the Church at this point—about 95%—did so sheepishly and reluctantly as men violating their consciences. Only later in the century, under Elizabeth, did there develop clerics who were zealous and self-confident protestantizers, the puritans. When someone asked Fisher why he made such a commotion about the king's bed partners, he replied that Saint John the Baptist had not disdained marriage as a cause worth giving his head for.
In April, 1534, St. John Fisher, along with St. Thomas More, were summoned to take the oath and, both refusing, were confined to London Tower. While More and Fisher were of one mind and faith, their conduct was different because of their different states in life. More, a lay lawyer and politician, could refuse to speak about a subject on everyone's lips, and his silence spoke volumes. Fisher on the other hand had a duty actively to resist the annulment of ecclesiastical authority, an especially binding duty since most ecclesiastics had refused it.
The clever chicanery which finally proved Fisher to be a traitor—why do they even bother with such travesties?—was this: In May, 1535, Richard Rich came to Fisher in the Tower with a tale that the king's tender conscience was deeply troubled about whether it was sinful for him to claim to be the supreme head of the church. He was, said Rich, a troubled Christian seeking spiritual counsel of his father in God, and Fisher's advice would reach no ears but the king's. Although a recent law had made it treasonable to say so, Fisher declared that Henry could not be supreme head. Well, naturally, a few days later Fisher's advice was paraded out in public court as evidence of a malicious defiance of royal prerogative, a treason for which the court ordered him hanged, drawn and quartered.
The king in his mercy remitted the sentence to beheading. Accordingly, on June 22, 1535, Saint John Fisher was led under powerful armed guard from the Tower to nearby Tower Hill. He was seventy-one years old, marvelously emaciated, hardly able to walk. An early biographer reports that upon the scaffold he spoke: I am come here to die for Christ's Catholic Church. And I thank God…”
"These words, or words to like effect, he then spoke with a cheerful countenance and with such a stout and constant courage as one no wit afraid but glad to suffer death. And these words spoke he so distinctly and perceivably and also with such a strong and loud voice that it made all the people astonished, and noted it in a manner as a miracle to hear so plain, strong and loud a voice come out of so old, weak and sickly a carcass.
"[When his sermon and prayers were done] he laid him down on his belly, flat on the floor of the scaffold, and laid his lean neck upon a little block....And then came quickly the executioner with a sharp and heavy ax cut asunder his neck, and so severed the head from the body, his holy soul departing to the bliss of heaven.
"Then the executioner took away his bishop's clothes and his shirt and left his headless body lying there naked upon the scaffold almost all day after. Yet one at last for pity and for humanity cast a little straw upon the dead man's privities."
His body was buried, finally, without ceremony, coffin or shroud, in the bare earth, but it soon had to be removed because of the crowds which came to venerate him.
The head was parboiled and mounted on a pole on London Bridge. There it remained for two weeks "very fresh and lively " until it was thrown into the river and its place taken by the head of St. Thomas More.
St. John Fisher was beatified on 9 December 1886 and canonized on 19 April 1935.
Sancte Johannes, ora pro nobis.
That wasn't the only reason he died. He died for the cause of the Catholic Church.
To "bow to some stupid city, say praise allah, " is to do something unspeakably evil, and by my actions encourage others to do so. God forbid that I should do such a thing! The Truth is more important than my remaining in this world. Any act of martyrdom (witness) is a testament to that fact.
How is saying something you don't mean, and going through some gestures, evil? Do you really think God wants us to die for that? If so, then why are there so many different religious beliefs?
I don't think I will ever understand someone dying for a religious belief. Thanks
You don't even know if this guy went to heaven or not.
1) It's 500 years later ... some folks still care.
2) What does it mean, to be dead? I think that, perhaps, your idea of death is rather different from that of the Catholic Church.
500yrs later, and people get divorced left and right, what was accomplished by his death?
True, I can honestly say that I have no idea what really happens after death.
From John Fisher
"The bishop's head was stuck upon a pole on London Bridge, but its ruddy and lifelike appearance excited so much attention that, after a fortnight, it was thrown into the Thames, its place being taken by that of Sir Thomas More, whose martyrdom occurred on July 6."
As you know, human flesh usually starts to decay almost immediately after death. Why do you think his head remained "lifelike" for a fortnight (two weeks)? It was a miracle.
I don't believe in miracles, I think they put something in the water, when they par-boiled his head. Besides, records, back then, were probably as subject to the writers bias, as they are today.
You can see the difference between Christian martyrdom, and Islamic martyrdom. One is based on love and peace, the other is based on selfishness and violence.
What, exactly, did this death accomplish?
His death illustrates the difference between right and wrong, and that one's principals should never be compromised. It was basically a testament to faith.
That's the best way that I can explain it.
Explain it away that way, if you must.
Unfortunately, that truth can never be validated, especially after the person is dead. Why die for something you believe is the truth, when the guy next to you can say, no, that's not the truth, and you can't prove it is....
I don't understand anyone's martyrdom.
The difference between right and wrong, are completely dependent on the individuals involved.
Do you really think God wants us to die, for a belief?
OK, I will...prove the miracle if you can.
It's all just a matter of belief, ours differ....neither of us can prove anything.
No! That is completely false. One would figure that after being on FR for about 7 years, you would have figured that one out.
Logically, it would make no sense for someone to do that, but rather to give up and submit to his adversary, thus betraying everything he believes in and believes is worth fighting for. It really comes down to love, love of something you feel is greater than your own life, and believe that your death to some degree will help to preserve it, or demonstrate it's truth. It is the ultimate act of love and truth for the martyr.
I think the movie, The Chronicles of Narnia demonstrates this very well towards the end, where the 2 knights (one is a rhino) charge headlong into an overwhelming force to save Peter from death. They laid down their lives for their friend because they loved him, because they believed in him.
I believe that God wants me to conduct my actions and beliefs in the way that he outlined though his son, Jesus, and through the scriptures, as I am taught by my Catholic tradition. So, yes, I believe that the Lord would rather have me die for my way of belief in him (that I believe is 100% correct), than to live in denial of him, and therefor submit to his enemy, Satan, the embodiment of evil.
In the end it is a matter of faith, and if one does not have that, they won't understand.
Look, one guy says this is the truth, another says no, this is the truth. Neither one can prove anything. How can this not be dependent upon the individual?
Do you have anyway of proving what you believe, is the truth....without requiring a belief in something else, which cannot be proven?
No, it doesn't hit on the same chord as defending one's family or friends, against harm. That is entirely different than dying because someone said to worship a rock, or something. What a person believes, is inside of them.....what they say, can be anything.
Your tradition teaches you one thing, another's tradition teaches them something else....neither can be proven as right or wrong. You believe God wants you to die for Him, others believe differently...how do you know you are right?....It's a belief, something intangible, while protecting your family from physical harm, is something real. That is the difference I see.
John 15:13
Greater love than this no man hath, that a man lay down his life for his friends.
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