Therefore, Calvin’s theology—unlike Luther’s—represents a historical breakthrough in the Christian apprehension of the Jews. For the first time in fifteen centuries, since Paul’s epistle to the Romans, a major Christian thinker laid the groundwork for a perception of Israel that is both positive and non-missionary. So, too, for the first time in Christian thought are Jews described as the clear and direct object of God’s love, and not as merely precursors to Christianity or a group that should be targeted for conversion.

In the centuries that followed, Calvin’s insight informed the attitudes of several churches that issued from his tradition. As his teachings spread from the French to the English-speaking world, they gave rise to the well-documented philo-Semitism of Cromwell Republicans, Scottish Presbyterians, and various non-conformist churches; later, they pervaded a large part of American Protestantism, which to this day is replete with references to the Jewish Bible. It was in France, however—the wellspring of Calvinism, and soon the site of its most brutal persecution—that Calvin’s theological philo-Semitism started a centuries-old tradition among local Protestants of emotional identification with the Jewish people.

This unsolicited adoption by a Christian tribe of Jewish history and names might perhaps be seen as somewhat offensive by the real nation of Israel, were it not for the fact that later events gave us a true taste of Jewish persecution and exile. While the Reformer was busy transforming the small Republic of Geneva into a rigid Protestant theocracy, French Protestantism was spreading quickly, creating more and more conflict with the Catholic majority.¹² During the long war that ensued (1562-1598), both camps were ruthless and bloody. This war began with the massacre of Protestant worshippers by Catholics at Vassy in March 1562. Later, with the assent of young King Charles IX, they organized a nationwide slaughter of Protestant men, women, and children on Saint Bartholomew’s Day, August 24, 1572. This date—the closest thing to a nationwide pogrom that France was to experience until the onset of World War II—is still seared in Huguenot memories in a way not unlike that of the Ninth of Av for Jews.

When the military defeat of Protestants became obvious, King Henry IV (a former Protestant who converted to Catholicism after unexpectedly becoming heir to the throne of France) declared a truce that, while limiting the number of Protestant places of worship, on the whole guaranteed tolerance towards the Huguenots (the nickname having been earned during the war¹³). This truce, the Edict of Nantes, ushered in a long era of domestic peace (with the exception of a limited resumption of arms in the 1620s, quickly concluded by another Protestant defeat). True, Huguenots were still surrounded by a hostile majority, but they were left mostly to themselves during the seventeenth century. In the countryside, they gave rise to a class of educated, Bible-reading, Psalm-singing peasants; in the cities, they prospered in industry and finance, while maintaining a secure foothold in a diminishing, yet still significant, part of the aristocracy.

All this changed, however, when Henry’s grandson, Louis XIV, assumed power in 1661.¹⁴ Soon, our fate began to look very much like that of the Jews with whom we had always identified. Viewed to this day by the majority of the French nation as a great king, Louis XIV was a patron of the arts who transformed France into the leading military power in Europe. His legacy includes such jewels as the Palace of Versailles, Racine’s poetry, and the paintings of Poussin and La Tour. Yet we Huguenots take a very different view of his reign. He was, we will tell you, a vain and power-obsessed man, one who systematically suppressed all existing checks and balances to his rule. After the death of the queen, he came under the influence of his mistress, Madame de Maintenon. Though she had been born a Protestant (she was in fact a granddaughter of the most famous Huguenot poet, Agrippa d’Aubigné), de Maintenon had since embraced the most intolerant strain of Catholicism. Under her influence, and in accordance with his own distrust for all forms of independent behavior, Louis decided that there should be “only one religion in the kingdom.” A gradual tightening of the rules placed upon the Huguenots ensued, which slowly escalated into full-blown persecution and terror.

 

For a quarter of a century, Louis kept the Edict of Nantes nominally alive, all the while ensuring that it would be implemented in an ever more restrictive way. The number of authorized parishes gradually dwindled; Huguenots were forbidden to express their religious beliefs in public by singing Psalms, and compelled to pay respects to Catholic processions; they were gradually excluded from more and more professions, such as law, tax collection, accountancy, and even watchmaking. Access to courts was restricted, even forbidden in certain areas. Worst of all, however, the conversion of Protestant children to Catholicism was actively encouraged-indeed, the age from which these conversions were considered valid was gradually lowered to just seven years old. Moreover, a “converted” child was then taken away from his parents, who were forced to pay a Catholic institution to raise him. Documents show that government officials and courts were positively enthusiastic in implementing these laws and in devising new and ever crueler torments.¹⁵

On account of the increasing persecution, some French Protestants began to leave the country. Most, however, fell victim to an illusion that has often plagued the Jews in their long history of galut, or exile: The Huguenots refused to admit that their Catholic neighbors, with whom they lived, worked, ate, and conversed daily, were in fact plotting to eliminate them. They instead preferred to believe the false reassurances of the courts that, for instance, the destruction of Protestant churches was merely the regrettable, yet necessary, application of the edict, and “not in any way destined to inconvenience the believers.” And so they stayed.

We should, of course, have learned from the fate of Europe’s Jews. Limiting access to courts and prohibiting religious celebrations; barring the way to influential professions; extorting religious conversions—all these measures had often preceded the full-fledged slaughter or forced exile of the Jews. Most Huguenots, however, could not believe that they were about to experience the same fate. We were, after all, as “French” as our persecutors. We did not claim, as did the Jews, to be members of a separate nation, nor did we yearn after a Jerusalem. Our two religions, Protestantism and Catholicism, lived side by side in peace.

In 1685, Louis’ gradual tightening of the screw came to its inevitable conclusion. The king—to near-unanimous applause from the greatest minds in France—revoked the Edict of Nantes, and with it all those freedoms that his grandfather had allowed us to enjoy. All Protestant religious services were banned, and our churches—which we call, not coincidentally, “Temples”—were destroyed. Preachers were enjoined to convert or leave France. Believers were in an even more impossible situation, having been forbidden to practice their religion yet at the same time forbidden to leave. A large number did leave, however, probably between a hundred and two hundred thousand Protestants, most of them members of the social elite: Those who enjoyed protections, could bribe officials, or had business ties abroad that could be used as a pretext to cross the border. They left for England, Switzerland, Holland, Germany, America, and as far away as Guyana and South Africa. Their descendants—my distant cousins—are still there, sporting French names and occasionally curious about the fate of the country from where their ancestors came. To Jews, this will sound all too familiar. It is, after all, largely reminiscent of the worldwide Jewish diaspora.