“Can there be a more fitting pursuit in youth or a more valuable possession in old age than a knowledge of Holy Scripture? In the midst of storms it will preserve you from the dangers of shipwreck and guide you to the shore of an enchanting paradise and the everlasting bliss of the angels.” (Boniface, writing to a student in A.D. 716-719)
Trees are pivotal to God’s story. Sin arrived when the first Adam ate from a tree, and it was defeated when the last Adam died on one. The tree of life, kept from humanity since the fall, will reappear in the new creation to give eternal healing to the nations. Sitting under your own vine and fig tree was the Old Testament metaphor for peace and safety.
But mankind tends to corrupt God’s good gifts. Idolaters, blind to the beauty of the Creator, worshiped the beauty of his creation. They built altars in groves and shaped tree-pole idols known as Asherah. In this, Israel was often as guilty as her neighbors.
We all remember Gideon’s famous battle. His first assignment, however, was to destroy the family idols. Obeying orders, he went by night, destroyed his father’s Baal altar, and cut down the nearby Asherah. The next morning, when the neighbors noticed, they demanded his death. But his father told the mob that if Baal were real, he could avenge himself. Wisdom prevailed and Gideon was spared.
Two thousand years later, and a continent away, the pagan people of Germany were still playing the tree-worship game. The latest example of Romans 1, they were reminders that humanity is bent away from its Creator. These pagan men and women—blind, dead, and quite likely ancestors of some of us—needed a new Gideon.
A Monk Named Wynfrith
Around the year 675, a boy named Wynfrith was born in southern England. In his day, most of Christendom looked and believed like the church in Rome. In fact, Wynfrith himself would one day be commissioned by a pope. By the time of his death, he had become a monk, a missionary, and a medieval Gideon. And everyone should know his story—even those who might wonder what good could possibly come from Rome.
From his childhood, Wynfrith was serious-minded and hoped for a life of Christian service. Most of his first 40 years were spent as a monk, in prolonged study, physical work, and prayer. (The monastic principle of Christians living separately from the world, partly inspired by Elijah and John the Baptist, had developed around A.D. 300.) Wynfrith thrived in the monastery and could have spent his life there, but he knew of people in Europe who did not worship Jesus.
Apostle of the Germans
Wynfrith hoped to evangelize Frisia, located along the southern edge of the North Sea. His first visit, in his early 40s, did not last long due to fighting between the Christian Franks and pagan Frisians. He returned to England before visiting Rome, where Pope Gregory II appointed him to Germany and renamed him Boniface, in honor of an early Christian martyr.
Boniface spent over 30 years in what is now central Germany. During that time, he brought structure to existing churches and took Christianity to places it hadn’t yet reached. In considering his life, we should understand that he was a product of the eighth-century church, which had drifted from the apostles’ teaching in a number of doctrinal issues and would drift much further in coming centuries. (John Calvin called Gregory I, who lived a century before Boniface, “the last good pope.”) In addition, evangelism typically involved cooperating with political leaders, whose motives for spreading Christianity were mixed. (Boniface had the support of both the father and grandfather of Charlemagne.) Despite these considerations, his labors and his legacy earned him the designation of “the apostle of the Germans.”
Of his many activities, he is best known for taking an axe to Donar’s Oak. To defy paganism, Boniface set out one day toward that large and sacred tree. Named for Thor, the god of thunder, this ancient oak had been the site of many sacrifices. As cursing pagans threatened him, Boniface started swinging. He had struck the tree only a few times when (if the records are accurate) a rushing wind appeared and blew it down. Those expecting Thor to strike him dead were disappointed. For, like Baal when confronted by Gideon, this god stayed silent when his altar was destroyed, and the events of that day changed the lives of many who witnessed the event.
Years later, as Boniface neared 80, he traveled north to finish his mission to Frisia. Following some initial success, he set a special day to bring new converts into the church. But on that day, instead of friends following Christianity, Viking-like enemies appeared and attacked. Boniface instructed his companions not to fight back, and within a short time, he and 50 others were killed. Following his earlier request, survivors took his body back to Germany, where his vault can still be seen.
Taking It Home
The life of Boniface raises several questions. If he was a monk and received a commission from the pope, doesn’t that mean he was Catholic? In addition, if we read his letters, we see places where his thinking doesn’t align with Scripture. Was he a true Christian? Did he proclaim the true gospel? Why spend time looking at his life?
The answers are complicated, but consider these factors. First, regardless of the details, Boniface brought at least a form of Christianity to Germany. Largely through his efforts, people who worshiped trees and thunder gods first heard the name of Jesus. When Martin Luther arrived 700 years later, he wasn’t born into illiterate, tribal paganism. Thanks to Boniface, who established the diocese of Erfurt, there was a university in that town at which Luther could be educated, and he had centuries of Christian thinking upon which he could build.
Second, he was a man of his times. After the apostles died, the early church had much growing to do. And like a young person just starting in life, the church made mistakes. Today, we understand many doctrines clearly because earlier generations fought and wrestled through them—and sometimes got them wrong. Unlike us, Boniface had only one voice to listen to. It was the voice of Rome, and it would have been hard to see the Bible in any other way. There were few—or no—examples of the kind of teaching we hear on any given Sunday. And, what’s more, the church of A.D. 750 was not as confused or corrupt as that of A.D. 1500.
Then, as Charles Spurgeon said, “We do hope that the hearts of many are a great deal better than their heads.” Only God truly knows the heart of Boniface. Jesus has been building his church for 2,000 years, and construction sites are often messy. Despite his flaws, it’s clear that God used Boniface, a man of diligent study and conviction, and a man of zeal, as part of his plan for the German church. The lives of my ancestors, and perhaps of yours, were changed through his influence, and the ripples of his life are still reaching us today.
Editor’s Note: This article was originally published on To a Thousand Generations. Used with permission.
