Religious Refugees in the Early Modern World: An Alternative History of the Reformation
Cambridge University Press, 2015
353 pp., $35.99
Fear, Hospitality, and the Common Good
My family history reads like headlines: Thousands of Christians displaced from their homeland by an expansionist Islamic state seeking to set up a worldwide caliphate. That's what happened to my ancestors in the 1460s and '70s. The pressure came not from ISIS/ISIL but from the Ottoman Empire. The land they left was not Syria but Albania. And their destination was not Germany but Sicily. Still, it feels remarkably contemporary.
University of Toronto historian Nicholas Terpstra points to the late 15th century—when the same powers that welcomed my ancestors also purged Iberia of Muslims and Jews—as the beginning of the Reformation. It wasn't Luther's cheeky challenge to Rome, but mass migrations of religious exiles that changed the face of Europe.
For Terpstra, the real drama of the Reformation is not built on theological disputes but on a fear of contagion and the practice of socio-political preventive medicine. The cities of medieval Christian Europe aspired to be unified bodies of virtuous believers whose families and guilds thrived under the Virgin Mary's protection. Civic religion bound the community together by blending what we now consider life's secular aspects with religious festivals and the communal memory of local saints and martyrs. Medieval city-states made little distinction between the body politic and the body of Christ. The health of both bodies demanded a (metaphorically) medical solution: they had to protect the body from any source of contagion.
In the 15th and 16th centuries, a threatening shadow crossed this Christian landscape: the aggressive expansion of Islam, which conquered the seat of the Christian Byzantine Empire in 1453 and unsettled Europe's patchwork of kingdoms and city-states.
Alfonso the Magnanimous—king of Aragon, Sicily, and Naples—supported the Albanian general Skanderbeg, who successfully resisted the Ottoman expansion for 25 years. In return, the Albanians helped Alfonso put down armed rebellion in Naples. Alfonso and his successors prosecuted a war against Islam in their own territory. In 1492, Alfonso's nephew Ferdinand made a generous treaty with the conquered Emirate of Granada, creating a framework for coexistence. But high-handed clergy provoked a Muslim rebellion, and Ferdinand gave the Moors an ultimatum: convert to Christianity or leave.
If Muslims were a political threat, Jews were perceived as a contagion. Jews could infect the new Spain with a spiritual sickness. The right treatment was an emetic: Spain had to vomit up her poisonous Jews. And so, in the year that Ferdinand made a treaty with the Muslims, he expelled all Jews from Iberia.
Venice treated its Jews better. In 1516, it quarantined them in the first-ever Jewish ghetto. What began as a way to protect Jews from hostile soldiers soon became a means for Venetians to isolate themselves from a source of contamination. By 1621, Venice also created a Storehouse of the Turks, to quarantine merchants arriving from Ottoman lands while also serving as hostel, warehouse, and market. As a city-state devoted to art and commerce, Venice was filled with merchants and artists, printers and writers. To expel foreign élites with their foreign religions would undermine Venetian prosperity. Thus it chose quarantine over amputation.
Terpstra documents the Jewish and Muslim migrations that were triggered by Christian fears. Many Jews went to Salonika in the 1490s. Sultan Bayezid II invited them, and within a couple of decades the city's population had tripled to 30,000, with half the population being Iberian Sephardim. These Jews brought trading connections and capital that transformed Salonika into a wealthy port.
Nearly 10,000 Iberian Muslims went to Algiers in North Africa. These Iberian Moors brought with them strange customs that prevented their mixing with local Berbers and Bedouins. A large number of Muslim converts from Christianity also arrived. The converts' cultural adaptability made it possible for them to integrate and take key posts in government and the military.
These Jewish and Muslim migrations were both religious and ethnic. But the birth of Protestantism created a different reality. Both John Calvin and Martin Luther became religious refugees—victims of the same purifying impulse that had expelled Jews and Muslims. Fortunately, the shifting political realities of their time gave them shelter.
These new religious controversies created a market for polemic and for publishing. The years 1520-1529 saw "a tsunami of popular religious titles," with many of the books and pamphlets coming from the pen of Luther—and the vast majority of those were polemics. It was not so much that the printing press enabled the Reformation, as conventional wisdom has it, but that the Reformation created a market for printers, Terpstra argues.