Johan laid down his hammer and stretched his back. January in Münster was cold, but the forge he labored over was red hot and kept him warm. He had found work with the city’s best-known blacksmith, where the things his father had taught him in the farrier shop worked in his favor.
His days were long, for the city needed to build or repair much ironwork, and he was never without work. He worked hard. Isabella’s belly grew larger every day. Soon, he’d have a child to support, as well as his wife. And there was also Magda, who stayed with them to care for Isabella.
The year 1534 had rung in with uncertainty. Münster had not become the city of peace like Michael Hoffman and others had proclaimed. Instead, near-daily conflicts flared between the Anabaptists, the Protestant Reformists, the Aristocracy and the remaining Catholics. But Johan lived with that, knowing he would pay the price for freedom.
The Catholic Prince Bishop von Waldek had struck a truce by signing an edict of religious tolerance within the city limits. When he did, Rothmann and the Anabaptist elders permitted him to return to Münster, but constant conflict plagued the city. Gangs of Anabaptist youth roamed the streets, looking for Catholics and Lutherans to harass.
Rumors abounded. Some said a massive army financed by Holy Roman Emperor Charles V was marching from Koblénz to liberate the city from all Protestant sects and return the Catholics to power. Another speculation suggested a ten-thousand-man Anabaptist army had assembled in Holland was even now marching to defend the city against any attacks by armed Catholic or Reformist forces. Johan never shared the rumors with Isabella, for they frightened her, but somehow they always reached her ears. Almost every evening, he had to calm her, often taking her hands and praying with her, or holding her in his arms and comforting her.
As Johan was returning from work one day, he heard a great commotion as he was passing the cathedral square. Bernhard Rothmann’s voice rose above the din. “Quiet, quiet, all of you. Jan Bockelson, God’s messenger and the right hand of Jan Matthys, the prophet, has come from Holland to speak to you.”
The tumult quieted and a clear, strong voice rang out. Drawn by the power in the words, Johan turned his steps into the square. A tall, handsome, blonde man was standing on a butcher’s cart in front of St. Lambert’s Church. He held out his arms.
“I am Jan Bockelson from Leiden. I bring you the word of the Lord.”
A hush spread over the plaza.
“We are in a terrible age,” he said. “Sin and wickedness abound everywhere. The streets of the cities of Europe run red with the blood of true believers. The devil’s agents do their evil work everywhere. Do you want to know who those agents are?”
Someone shouted, “Tell us!”
Bockelson signaled for the crowd to move closer. “Satan’s greatest emissary in this world sits on a bloodstained throne in Rome. He calls himself Papa Clement, but his real name is Apollyon, for he has come from the abyss to turn this world to his master’s way by teaching you the Catholic Church’s false doctrine.”
“No!” cried a man. “The pope is true. He is Christ on earth. He—”
Before he could finish, Johan saw three men dressed in black clothing surround the man and strike him with clubs. In seconds, they drove the man to the ground. Johan edged close to the cart, his stomach churning. The man lay on the pavement, blood running from his nose and mouth. It was clear to Johan the Catholic was dead.
Bockelson pointed to the prone body. “The agents of Apollyon are among us,” he cried. “Besides the adherents of the Pope’s demonic church, many follow the apostate, Martin Luther. His teachings are a deception designed to keep you in what he calls the Protestant church, but it is also Satan’s church. We know Martin Luther is of the devil because he burns true believers at the stake for rejecting infant baptism. Luther, his fellow apostate, Zwingli, and the Catholics hunt us like dogs when it is we, the Anabaptists, who hold the true faith.”
He paused, leaning toward the onlookers. “But the greatest terror is right here among us—the so-called Prince Bishop, Franz von Waldek. Even now, he plots to drive all true believers from this city.”
At the clatter of hooves on cobblestones, Johan turned. A group of mounted men rode from Market Street into the square. They forced their horses through the crowd until they reached the cart where Bockelson was standing.
One man, dressed in the uniform of a Catholic commander, pointed his finger at Bockelson and shouted, “I am Berthold von Wessel. I serve the Prince Bishop. Disperse this crowd and…” He edged his horse closer to Bockelson. “Leave this city at once under punishment of death! You are disturbing the peace.”
Bockelson laughed. “And I thought you were here because you wanted the word of the Lord! This city is not at peace, but the prophet will bring peace. Jan Matthys of Haarlem is the prophet. I am the prophet’s servant.”
“Does the prophet know Prince von Waldek has forbidden preaching in the streets?”
Bockelson drew himself to his full height. “It is God who commands us to preach, and his law supersedes the blustering of the beast von Waldek. This city belongs to God, not the bishop and, despite his arrogance, he has no authority here.”
Von Wessel looked around. The people had closed in on his horsemen and Johan could see fear come on his face.
“God may own the city, but…” his voice shook… “But my men patrol it. If you continue to resist, I will have your head.” Von Wessel nodded to his men, and they urged their horses through the crowd and rode away.
Laughing, Bockelson pointed at the retreating soldiers’ backs. “See how the minions of the devil fear the Most High God! He has locked their swords in their scabbards and filled their hearts with terror.”
He turned to his listeners. “This is our city, the city of the living God. No more will the Catholics and the Reformists slay the true believers. The only blood that shall run in the streets of Münster will be theirs!”
A great shout went up from the crowd.
“You must choose,” Bockelson shouted. “Will you be a citizen of the world, a world that has come under God’s judgment and will soon experience his terrible wrath, or will you choose the Kingdom of God? No middle ground is available—you cannot halt between two opinions. Serve the Lord or serve the devil. Which will it be?”
“We will serve the Lord!” the onlookers yelled. “We will serve the Lord!”
Bockelson looked down and beckoned to someone. Out of the crowd stepped a tall man wearing a long black coat and a black hat. Taking Bockelson’s hand, he climbed onto the cart and turned to the audience. A dark curling beard adorned his face and, even from a distance, Johan could see he had piercing blue eyes.
Lifting the man’s hand high, Bockelson exclaimed, “Here is the prophet, Jan Matthys. He will tell you the word of the Lord for these times.” With that short introduction, Bockelson leaped off the cart.
The onlookers clapped, but Matthys’s stern face brought them to silence. “In a vision, God’s holy angels carried me down from heaven. I saw this city, Münster, ringed with fire. Outside were the troops of Satan and inside, standing on the walls, filling the streets, were the saints of God, the true believers. I stood on the wall and looked out on the armies that surrounded this place, and fear gripped me.
“But then a mighty angel came as I stood alone on the wall, and he said, ‘Do not fear, for I will open your eyes.’ And he opened them…” Matthys’s voice rose. “And I saw the armies of the Lord camped round about this city. The troops blazed with light. Each one stood twelve-feet tall, and the demon horde cowered before them.”
Along with the others, Johan pressed closer, hanging on the man’s every word. “Then the angel said, ‘Look into the city and tell me what you see there.’ I looked and the saints of the city stood clothed in shining garments. They shone like the sun, and in the hand of every saint…” Matthys paused... “In the hand of every saint was—a sword!”
The throng screamed. People shouted, clapped their hands, and jumped up and down.
Arms high, Matthys proclaimed, “And the gates of the city swung open and the army of the saints rode out. The ground ran red with the blood of the enemies of God, and the Lord himself came down and trod the winepress of his wrath. He dipped his garments in the blood of those who served the devil. And the King of kings dwelt in the New Jerusalem, the city that men once called Münster!”
Men and women alike screamed and cried out like tortured animals. Many fell to the ground, writhing and twisting. Women rushed to touch the prophet and his messenger, shouting, “Hallelujah! Praise God! May his kingdom come! Come, Lord Jesus!”
Filled with emotion, Johan called out, “Amen, brother, amen, brother,” again and again. The prophet’s words stirred him as preaching had never stirred him in his life.
Matthys waved his hands back and forth over the people. “Hold, brothers and sisters, silence!”
When the spectators had regained their composure, he said, “The weight of suffering of the saints has piled up before God. We will never again stand mute while the flames lick around us, or the torturer applies the knife. The priests will no longer rip our babies from our arms and force them to accept the devil’s baptism. We are the army of God. He fights for us, he goes before us, and he is our rear guard. Do you want to be in this army, or do you want to be outside the gates of this city, cast into outer darkness?”
A man yelled, “What must we do, Prophet?”
Though he did not shout, Matthys’s voice carried to the back of the square. “Brother Rothmann baptized many of you, but most of you have not received the true baptism. Come now. Receive the true baptism.”
There was a stir and then a group of Catholic nuns made their way out of the press and knelt before the prophet.
Matthys lowered to one knee. “What do you desire, my sisters?”
“We wish to be free,” one nun said. “We wish to take the true baptism.”
Matthys jumped off the wagon and signaled the people to move back so that all could see. “Then take off your habits and uncover your heads.”
The nuns hesitated and looked at each other.
“Take off your habits!”
The nuns obeyed. They stood before the people with shorn heads lowered.
Matthys embraced each one then turned to the crowd and pointed at the women. “See how the Catholics violated these dear sisters. The glory of a woman is her long hair, but the beast von Waldek forced them to look like men. It is a travesty.”
He spoke to the nuns. “God calls you out of the cold convent prison, where you wear out your knees kneeling before the icons and symbols of a demonic religion. Come now and rejoin humanity. Become a true believer. Accept baptism and join our movement.”
He turned and motioned to waiting men who lifted huge urns of water and carried them onto the church steps. The nuns fell to their knees. As the prophet called out, “We baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit,” the men held the urns aloft and poured the water over each woman. Matthys laid his hand on each head. “Rise in freedom and newness of life.”
The nuns leaped to their feet, their soaked black robes clinging to their bodies, laughing and praising God. The onlookers laughed and cried and clapped. Soon, dancing men and women filled the cathedral square. Many knelt beneath the urns to receive baptism. Johan remained by the cart watching in wonder.
Maybe we have found heaven on earth…