It is possible to have a number of reactions whilst reading Foxe’s Book of Martyrs, which I will adumbrate (non-exhaustively) here - the great thing is that it is very easy to slide seamlessly from one attitude to another, or perhaps even feel the validity of multiple viewpoints simultaneously. (As a side note I‘d like to just let it be known that I’m writing this during a real stomach-churning attack of vertigo, so please consider this sloppily cobbled together list/review as being a very poor first draft).
1. A dire sense of melancholy - From considerations based purely out of humanitarian interest the sheer loss of life amassed over mere squabbles concerning religious dogma is just somewhat overwhelming, to be willing to sacrifice one’s life (hell, even the prospect of being put in the position of having to sacrifice one’s life in the first place) over an opinion/assertion as seemingly inane as “Christ is not physically incarnated/present during the Eucharist” is just, very simply put, difficult to contend with. This feeling comes about in a cyclical fashion, as the waxing and waning of these micro-biographies, from mere beginnings to execrable ends, continually punish the reader with a sense of unnecessary, that isn’t to say meaningless, suffering. Secular neoliberalism may have its fair share of issues, but surely being chained to the stake and burnt to a crisp in front of all and sundry over minor religious differences makes them pale hugely in comparison. To have to stand in the face of this malevolent history whose major sites are mere miles away from where I write, whose cruelty is embedded within the very fabric of this country, fills one with a strange kind of trepidation, a sort of haunting sense of absence and shame.
2. Alex DeLargean glee - Careening wildly to the other side of this binary, adorned in either Roman or Tudor garb, you revel in the sadism, deriving a shameful pleasure from the executions. Foxe’s specific detailing of unjustifiable murders, his relishing in discussing the manner in which these people faced death, their ecstasies, their dripping molten flesh, the clutched gunpowder satchels under their arms, is all supposedly meant for the benefit and spiritual edification of his readers. But who can deny his fascination with the moment of death? The way his prose swells when he gets a chance to revel in all the gory details, before ever so quickly succumbing to a kind of apology (albeit an implicit one which manifests itself in his tone and sentiment) where he redresses the balance of his perverse enjoyment - one cannot say his interest is pure of heart, or that he doesn’t, at the very least, betray himself in the very choice to compile and catalogue such a collection of ugly human tragedy. “Look how valiant and stolidly this man took to being committed to the flames! Admire and emulate his devotion to God! Witness, via my language, the peace and serenity of these martyrs as they reunite with their maker! Watch the flesh recede from his bones, watch the flames fail to ignite, watch him suffer!” We can also, like Foxe, delight in the reckless expenditure with which these men and women dispense of their lives, throwing them away in order to allow their flesh to stand as a testimony of their faith, to sublate the material toward the spiritual with the greatest possible barbarity. One quote will have to suffice for the moment, uttered by a certain George Carpenter when asked about the value of his family and the possibility of a recantation/pardon as he faced execution,
“My wife and my children are so dearly beloved unto me, that they cannot be brought from me for all the riches and possessions of the Duke of Bavaria; but for the love of my Lord God, I will willingly forsake them.”
Chuck the whole body away, the whole family away, relish their fearsome destruction and abandonment like some parlour trick, offered up as part of a gambit to a carnivalesque God who demands sacrifice, whose sense of appreciation has a direct correlation with the amount of theatricality displayed.
3. A languid indifference - So many dead, all of their tales seemingly bleed into one, in their sheer mass they become anonymous, each undergoes an erasure as they enter the ranks of one great infernal genocide which transpired over the course of centuries. The eye glazes over the many pages. Minute details concerning the steadfastness of their dedication to Christ, their many hours spent pouring over the Bible, their spotless attendance of mass, all becomes flat and meaningless. They are rendered null by death. We know where their story ends, we know where it goes, and there is nothing to be said for salvation. There is no redemption to be found in the quiet meals they share with their loved ones, nor is there vindication or a sense of resolution once they bravely withstand the outcomes of successful conspiracies brought about by scheming chancellors and bishops. There is only the silence of ashes. No final hurrah. If there is any kind of justification we will not know of it, at least not while we live. Instead we have ambiguity and the fatigue brought about by an alluring cynicism. The repetition of anecdotes doesn’t bring about a sense of difference or reinforced meaning but one of boredom, a droning litany that numbs rather than stirs.
4. A latent or perhaps simply jealous faith - You take in the beauty of the curt proclamations of faith uttered from the stake, the principled martyrdom of these victims, their unwillingness to capitulate to proffered worldly goods and pardons. If only you had such conviction… you begin to identify and feel as if it too is your struggle, you feel the glory of Christ and his message, you cling parasitically on to long-dead exemplars of heroism. Maybe the Scriptures are worth a whirl after all. The gestures of the martyrs are sublime, the man who claps and exalts God whilst consumed in fire, the prayers he continues to whisper as his tongue melts, the kissing of his fellow man and pleasantries given to his torturers, the final gifts and alms given to the poor and solemn spectators. Their fidelity and commitment is a thing to behold, truly beautiful.
I’m not sure if my edition of the book is similar to others, perhaps it is hugely truncated, but I would emphasise reading the martyrdom of the earliest Christians in this collection first and then surveying the landscape from there. Maybe just reading the small section of anecdotes and quotes at the end would suffice.