William Tyndale

A Very Brief History

Melvyn Bragg

• Publisher: SPCK Publishing
• Year: 2017
• Print ISBN: 9780281077137
• eBook ISBN: 9780281077151
• Edition: 1
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: Historical Biographies
• Index: History

'An enjoyably pacey read.' Times Literary Supplement

'Eloquent... brilliant and very moving.' Paul Cartledge, Emeritus Professor of Greek culture, University of Cambridge

'On the morning of 6 October 1536, a frail scholar was taken from a dungeon in the castle at Vilvoorde, just north of Brussels. Armed guards kept the crowds at bay as he was led through the streets of the small town. He was to be burned. The funeral pyre, a wigwam stack of planks surmounted by a cross, was ready. Gunpowder would be thrown on the wood to encourage the flames. He was allowed a few moments of prayer. As a priest, prayer had been the keystone of his faith. After the brief pause, he walked up the steps to be tied to the cross. As he waited for the flames, he called out, "Lord, open the King of England's eyes!'

'This was William Tyndale, the man whose translation of the New Testament and much of the Old Testament was to bring about more profound changes to the English-speaking world over the next five centuries than the works of any other man in its history.'
From Chapter 1: Innocence and genius

Part 1

THE HISTORY

1

Innocence and genius

On the morning of 6 October 1536, a frail scholar was taken from a dungeon in the castle at Vilvoorde, just north of Brussels. Armed guards kept the crowds at bay as he was led through the streets of the small town. He was to be ­strangled, then burned. The funeral pyre, a wigwam stack of planks ­surmounted by a cross, was ready. Gunpowder would be thrown on the wood to encourage the flames. He was allowed a few moments of prayer. As a priest, prayer had been the keystone of his faith. After the brief pause, he walked up the steps to be tied to the cross. As he waited for the flames, he called out, ‘Lord, open the King of England’s eyes!’

This was William Tyndale, the man whose translation of the New Testament and much of the Old Testament was to bring about more profound changes to the English-speaking world over the next five centuries than the works of any other man in its history. He was noted for his genius as a translator, for his loyalty to the English King, Henry VIII, for the unblemished purity of his life and for his combination of innocence and fearlessness. For years he had been hunted down by spies from the court of Henry VIII, from the Vatican and from the court of the Holy Roman Emperor. Finally, with the betrayal of a Judas, he was captured, imprisoned, tormented and martyred.

His crime was his unbreakable determination throughout his life, whatever it cost, to give to the English people a Bible in their own language. Against all but crushing odds, over a short adult lifetime spent in constant danger and deprivation and despite unspeakable sadistic cruelties by the English court and clergy, he succeeded.

The English language, largely based on his translation, subsequently swept around the globe. It liberated thought, seeded Protestantism and inspired books, pamphlets, art, songs, protests and poetry. There has never been anybody to match his achievement. The quiet English priest and scholar transformed the world of words. He gave his life so that ours could be lived in what he saw as the language of truth.

* * *

Like most of the greatest minds, William Tyndale set his life’s purpose when he was a boy. It is as if these people of genius – Newton, Darwin, the Brontë sisters – somehow understand their life’s work in childhood and, not wasting a minute, pursue it obsessively until death. When he was a boy, Tyndale read about the Saxon King of England, Athelstan, who had ordered parts of the Bible to be translated into the language of the proud English successors to Alfred the Great. In one of the few autobiographical notes that Tyndale left behind, he wrote of this in terms which transparently declare the origin of what would become a life bound to the renewal of that ancient English aim: English for the English.

William Tyndale of Gloucestershire, son of a family whose wealth was based on the flourishing English woollen trade, would succeed. He would rise out of the natural sculpture of the beautiful and comfortable Cotswold landscape and set out on a mission which would wholly possess his life. His aim was to overthrow the language of power as well as its structure. This was one of the most effective forces of control in the world – the Holy Roman Catholic Church.

This structure of riches and vast influence claimed to be the sole guardian of the keys to eternal life and to the fate of the soul. It laid down the fundamental rules of behaviour and the truth of God’s Word. This Word since 381 had been in Latin and, by the time of Tyndale’s birth in 1494, this Latin version, called the Vulgate, encrusted in sanctity, was never to be challenged. Its meanings were the monopoly of the Pope in Rome.

In 1494, England looked as if it were settling down under the first Tudor, Henry VII, after decades of wars abroad and in England itself. Its rulers were still a privileged land­owning warrior tribe largely descended from Normans since the Battle of Hastings. Its religious hierarchs were again mainly bred from Norman stock. Religion was the other side of the ruling coin. The King governed through his warriors with some influence from Parliament and the Law. From the Church, which was an arm of politics, he demanded and largely got obedience in return for allowing it exceptional privileges. And the Church controlled entry to heaven.

The monasteries and cathedrals of England were very grand. Their magnificence was never disputed. Nor was their usefulness – resting places for the poor, schools for some of the children and the biggest employer of men and women in the kingdom. Their patronage of builders, glaz­iers and skilled artisans was key to the economy. Rievaulx Abbey in Yorkshire, for instance, was a key supplier of wool to the ‘European’ market and, with its technological inventions, was well on the way to enhancing wool production radically. Above all, they were sites and silos of prayer.

Prayer was seen as the driving force of medieval life. God listened to Christians. He was available to the pure in heart. Prayers utterly dominated a monastic foundation – eight or more full services through the day and night. And the wealthy gave often spectacular sums of money, gifts of land and treasure, to these religious institutions in return for daily targeted prayers for the advance of their souls towards heaven. The unseen soul was the most vital organ in medieval Catholic life. The purpose of life was the salvation of one’s soul at death. On this rock the authorities in Rome had over many years built a stupendous edifice – including the marketing of purgatory, penitence and pilgrimage – which raked in a fortune for the Church.

In the Cotswolds, as elsewhere, there were doubts and murmurings, and some there who welcomed the Lollards. The young Tyndale, sharp and acute as he seems to have been from boyhood, must have been aware of the comings and goings of these mysterious, prohibited, admired young men. The Lollards were disciples of John Wycliffe, an Oxford philosopher who in the 1380s had organized the translation of the Bible into English. This was in some ways – especially compared with Tyndale’s – often a rather lumpen effort, but it was an enormous statement. At that time, to translate the Word of God into English was, in ecclesiastical terms, heresy – a crime against the faith and one which could lead to death. Wycliffe’s Bible was banned in the 1380s.

But Wycliffe’s legacy would not be erased. Throughout the fifteenth century and beyond, his followers – young, well-educated men, usually from Oxford – trod the lesser-­used paths and tracks through the greenwoods, valleys and hills of England. They brought copies of this illegal book to those who, like them, wanted to read or hear the words of God and of Christ, the Gospels and the Prophets in their own tongue. It was perilous. If caught, these men were tortured for further information and often as not executed. Both Church and State combined to stamp out this heresy. There is still, today, a torture chamber in the London residence of the Archbishop of Canterbury known as the Lollards’ Tower.

English was feared because the Bible had become a sacred token and taboo, an untouchable authority. It was in Latin. When Jerome translated the Bible at the end of the fourth century, Latin was generally spoken across the Roman Empire, which had by then adopted Christianity as its state religion. The translation was given the name ‘Vulgate’ because it was in the vulgar tongue – everyday Latin, not Aramaic (which the apostles spoke) or Greek (the first lang­uage of translation). Over the centuries native vernaculars had become increasingly capable of conveying all that was in the Vulgate but by then the Catholic Church’s Bible had become their cornerstone. God spoke Latin. Churchmen knew Latin. Only churchmen and women could mediate directly with God.

Common sense and the Wycliffe Lollards questioned this. A small number of the literate, well-off, cultivated men and women of the Tyndale family’s acquaintance were sympathetic to the Lollards. This must have impressed the young Tyndale.

And then there was the troubling state of the opulent, ­corrupt Roman Church. The great who held the high offices of Catholicism generally came from the same families or family webs which provided the aristocracy. The majority of clergy were poorly prepared. The general state of learning among the clergy was pitiful, but officially tolerated. It gave those in charge no unease.

There is a report from Gloucestershire from about 15 years after Tyndale’s martyrdom. Under Bishop Hooper it found ‘negligence and ungodly behaviour of the monasteries of Gloucestershire . . . inhospitable, non-resident, inefficient, drunken and evil-living incumbents found in every deanery’.

In Wotton-under-Edge alone, it was recorded that nine clergy did not know how many commandments there were, 33 did not know where they appeared in the Bible, 168 could not repeat them, ten could not remember the Creed, 39 did not know where the Lord’s Prayer appeared in the Bible, 34 did not know its author, and ten were unable to recite it.

Such maggots of negligence were fattened on what increasingly appeared to be the rotting corpse of a once vital apostolic mission to England. This was not unnoticed. To the woollen merchants, as to others, the Church was ready for clipping.

In 1506, when he was 12, William Tyndale (or Hychyns as he was sometimes recorded in the general confusion of surname certainties at the time) was sent to Magdalen College School in Oxford. He would have had private tuition up to that age. From his phrases and usages he appears to have developed a lifelong affection for his county as he did for his country.

Magdalen was, alongside Winchester and Eton, one of the three most influential schools in England. The school was distinguished by its adoption of newer methods of teaching. But the common medieval educational structure remained. In the first form, they learned the eight parts of speech and pronunciation of Latin; in the second, to speak Latin, and on to grammar, then on further to the classic­al authors, Terence, Virgil, later Cicero, Sallust and Caesar; then on to Ovid and turning verse into prose and back again, and Aesop, whose ease seems to have influenced the boy Tyndale.

School hours were 6 a.m. to 9 a.m., followed by breakfast; 9.45 to 11 a.m., then dinner; and 1 p.m. to 5 p.m. – possibly four or five days a week. He was well grounded in the habit and demands of hard study.

At that time Oxford was thought to have surpassed Paris to become the leading university in Europe. There were 12 colleges, and the architectural masterpiece of the School of Divinity had just been built, as had Magdalen Tower. As he roved around the school and college, the young Tyndale must have felt the excitement of this place: the ruling seat of learning in all England.

And yet. Already Tyndale is critical and, characteristically, it is on one specific point: Scripture. Throughout his life he was to criticize the Oxford curriculum. The insistence on drumming in a knowledge of Latin by way of classical authors at school and at university left what in Tyndale’s view was the crux of learning, the Scriptures, far too late. The classical ‘pagan’ authors received far more attention than the Scriptures.

He never ceased to maintain that the essential study had to be the Scriptures. Only in the Scriptures could the truths of life through God and Christ be discovered and acted on. Oxford, he thought, wasted valuable time on Roman literature which was useful for fluency in Latin but irrelevant to the main purpose.

He received his BA in 1512, his MA in 1515, and by then he was already writing. And defining himself – turning the boyhood intoxication with the Saxon English Christian King Athelstan into a vision which only strengthened year on year. It was a profound and, it was to prove, life-­draining, life-threatening, lifelong vision.

He was already working on his translation when he moved to Cambridge some time between 1517 and 1521.

Two mighty forces dominated his intellectual, spiritual and essential landscape at that time. The first was his discovery of the translation of the New Testament into Greek by the celebrated Dutch humanist and scholar Erasmus: a eureka moment for Tyndale. The second was the Ninety-Five Theses of Luther of 1517 condemning the Catholic Church, the eruption of centuries of deeply entrenched and, as Luther saw it, decaying and diseased Roman Catholicism.

Tyndale embraced both men yet steered his own course through the turbulence. It was a vicious period of ideo­logic­al conflict whose consequences are still with us.

2

A prophet without honour

William Tyndale wrote little about himself in the revealing personal way of a diary or a contemporary memoir. It was rarely done in his day and he was a man of modesty. Foxe (who wrote at enormous length about these times, especially in his contested but invaluable Book of Martyrs) describes him as ‘a man of most virtuous disposition and of life unspotted’. A young Thomas More wrote of him as ‘a man of right good living, studious and well learned in scripture and in divers places in England . . . very well liked and did a great good with preaching’. We are told, again by Foxe, of his ever-increasing ‘knowledge of tongues’ and of the Scriptures ‘whereunto his mind was singularly addicted’.

There are gaps which can be sketched in with sensible speculation, although evidence is scarce. It is likely, for instance, that he stayed on at Oxford after 1515 when he got his MA, teaching as well as continuing his own studies. It is all but certain that in 1512 he read the short and extremely influential book De Copia by Erasmus, which outlined the devices of rhetoric, or the art of persuasion. This, taught in schools throughout the century, according to the historian David Daniell, led to the later emergence of the rich fluidity of English prose and poetry for the next one and a half centuries.

De Copia taught variety and encouraged subtlety. One famous practice lesson illustrated 150 different ways of writing ‘your letter delighted me very much’. Erasmus’s work fed and aided an intensifying excavation of the depths and the potential of an English language which had been for so long degraded and oppressed. Chaucer, Malory, Langland and a few others had come through, and Wycliffe with his banned Bible, but Tyndale seized on the language as capable of expressing all that needed to be said on any subject and went on to prove his conviction. The influence of De Copia in the schools of England was such that it was said, ‘without Erasmus, no Shakespeare’ (equally, ‘without Tyndale, no Shake...

Table of contents

• William Tyndale
• THE HISTORY
• The legacy