For the last couple of weeks, we–or more accurately, I along with as many of you as I could hijack–have been looking at the ingredients that went into England’s Civil Wars, but so far I’ve left out religion, which is sort of like making chicken soup without the chicken. 

And this at a time when people took their religion (which is to say, their chicken) seriously, when ideas that today might find a different form were poured into the molds religion offered.

Sorry. Metaphor overdose alert. Molds. Chicken. Let’s move on before this gets any worse.

Irrelevant photo: The north Cornish coast, although by now I can’t remember which part exactly.

Archbishop Laud

Nah, let’s not. I’ve got one more metaphor that I just have to throw into the soup. It’ll keep us from noticing the absence of chicken: If this period was a boxing match, in one corner we’d have William Laud, the Archbishop of Canturbury–it doesn’t get any higher than that in the Church of England unless you get to be god himself–and a powerful advisor the Charles I. 

In the other corner we’d have the Puritans, and we’ll get to them in a minute or three. So that’s the structure of the conflict. It’s useful.

Before we get to the Puritans, let’s talk about Laud, since he got the subhead here. And Charles. Remember him? For Pete’s sake, he was in the last paragraph. Pay attention. Charles was the king who got beheaded in the Civil Wars. I was tempted to say he got himself beheaded, but it sounded like blaming the victim. So I settled for “got beheaded,” making it sound like something that just kind of happened to him, the way it could happen to anyone.

We should pick up the story a bit earlier, though, when William Laud was a mere bishop and Charles became king. He spotted Laud, liked what he saw, and made him archbishop. Laud was bright and he was ambitious, but for Charles his appeal, at least in part, was that he argued for the Divine Right of Kings. 

Why does “Divine Right of Kings” get all those capital letters? 

Dunno. They used so many back then that it’s a wonder we haven’t run out, but we haven’t and there they sit, still clinging to the phrase. I was going to go with a lower case format  but the caps turned snappish and I lost my nerve.

Laud’s theory is pretty much self-explanatory, but let’s explain it anyway: He argued that the people who got to be kings got to be kings because god had chosen them to be kings. Ergo (which is Latin for don’t bother me with questions) Charles had been chosen by god and everybody should do what he said because that was the next best thing to god speaking. The corollary of that was that Parliament, which was being pesky, should vote Charles the money he needed–or at least wanted–and not ask for anything in return. 

No, the argument didn’t convince Parliament either, so Charles folded Parliament up, put it back in its box, and returned it, claiming it was defective, the wrong size, and not at all what he’d ordered. Amazon accepted it (Divine Right and all that) and he ruled without a Parliament for the next eleven years. That should’ve made him happy but he–have I said this before?–needed money, and raising money without a Parliament was problematic.

But that particular aspect of the conflict isn’t on today’s menu. (At last: We’re back in the vicinity of that soup metaphor. Sorry, it’s been a rough week.) We’re supposed to be talking about Laud, who having become the Archbishop of Canterbury set out to reform the Church of England, restoring it to what he held to be the most perfect form of Christianity.

Puritanism and the C. of E.

None of this makes sense unless you notice the growing number of Puritans scattered across the country. 

The Puritans had been around since the 16th century and their goal was to cleanse the Church of England of even the faintest remaining traces of Catholicism. They were intense, they were earnest, and they were certain god had chosen them to set a pattern for the world and its people. They have a reputation for being a pretty grim lot.

That said, the various strands of Puritans disagreed with each other and I can’t find a neat definition to steal. What they did agree on was that the Church of England’s hierarchy and ritual were wrong, ungodly, and in immediate need of replacement. Some wanted to do that from inside the church and some from outside. 

One of their arguments with the Church of England was over the question of whether people were saved by good works or by predestination, but that’s best explained by someone who takes it all seriously. I can manage that for minutes at a time, but then my real self takes over and I’m overwhelmed by a need to clean the kitchen, sort out my filing system, or repair the stone wall I built so badly 15 years ago, and before you know it there goes the day. What I will say about predestination is that I’ve never understood how the Puritans could tell people that living a good life wouldn’t help them get into heaven and then expect them to live a good life anyway. Especially if the good life was no fun. If you won the game by getting into heaven and good works didn’t help–

You see my problem here. But then, see above. I’m not your best guide through this. 

Whatever problems their publicity department had with all that, the Puritans were a powerful and growing political force, possibly because the alternative–Charles and Archbishop Laud–were so unappealing. I doubt it’ll take you long to come up with a contemporary political parallel. Or an easy half dozen.

At any rate, either the Puritans or someone else–if it’s clear to historians, it’s not to me–pulled off an amazing organizational feat by presenting Parliament with what’s called the Root and Branch petition, which was against the bishops’ involvement in government (and a great deal more). That was an incredibly radical step. An MP who spoke against it summed it up neatly: “I do not think a King can put down Bishops totally with Safety to the Monarchy.” Church and state, bishops and king, were all hitched together. They all floated together or they all sank.

The petition was originally circulated in London and gathered 15,000 signatures (give or take; the counts vary). Then it spread to other cities. Given that you couldn’t sign online with a single click and that circulating it meant carrying copies from person to person, it was a hefty number of signatures. And it speaks to an impressive organization driving it. So no, Laud wasn’t hallucinating enemies. The forces that worried him were real.

Just as the Puritans believed the Church was riddled with the woodworms of Catholicism, Laud was convinced the Church was infested with Puritanism, so when he became archbishop he rolled up his voluminous sleeves and set about fixing it. Kind of like me with that stone wall, only my sleeves are less impressive and more practical. 

What Laud wanted were ritual, hierarchy, aesthetics not far removed from Catholic ones, and he wanted everyone to do them all the same way. He was against the wooden communion table and in favor of a high altar made of stone, thank you, which had to be set at the east end of the church and surrounded by railing to keep the riffraff at arm’s length. 

Yeah, kind of a micro-manager. We’ll let that stand in for everything else he wanted done. He visited parish churches to make sure they’d implemented his changes. He must’ve been as welcome as the king’s tax collectors.

In 1637, he had two Puritan writers branded and imprisoned and for good measure had their ears cut off because they’d published works that criticized him. He succeeded in turning them into earless martyrs.

He redrafted the Book of Common Prayer, and since he and Charles agreed that religious conformity was a necessity, they imposed the new draft on the whole kingdom. And on Scotland, which had the same king but was a separate kingdom.

Sorry, make that “tried to impose” his new draft. It led to war with Scotland, which led to Charles calling Parliament back into session so he could demand money, which led to Parliament dumping a heap of complaints in his lap, which led to him dissolving it, which led to a good part of northern England being occupied by Scotland, which led to Charles recalling Parliament, which led to Laud being tried for treason. 

Did you follow that? It’s a slight oversimplification.

It also led–or helped lead–to the Civil Wars.

Laud was beheaded in 1645. 

Didn’t manage to memorize that? Don’t worry. If you’re reading about the Civil Wars and Laud’s name comes up, you can now nod gravely and almost understand what they’re talking about.

*

Isn’t it interesting that I’m drawn to write about the overthrow of a king just at a time when the US is flirting with monarchy? I will say in defense of Charles I that unlike Donald Trump he didn’t demand to have New York’s Penn Station and Virginia’s Dulles Airport named after himself. Of course they hadn’t been built yet, but still–

A friend with a practical turn of  mind suggests that everything should be named after Trump. Penn Station, Dulles Airport, every other airport and train station, New York’s Fifth Avenue, Sixth Avenue, and Seventh Avenues. Denver; International Falls, Minnesota. Everything. Then people can call ICE to report a sighting of illegal immigrants at the corner of Trump Street and Trump Avenue in Trumpistan and wait while they go looking.