Prague in the Shadow of Jan Hus
Prague’s Old Town Square had come to life at dusk. The Christmas tree was a towering volcano bursting with light in the center of the plaza, surrounded by the smaller points of the Christmas market booths, and, from the angle I approached it, shadowed by the fractal-like spires of the Cathedral of Our Lady of Tyn. Even the star on top of the tree was echoed in the central facade of the church with its golden Madonna and Child motif crowned with a cross. The twinkling lights flashed in a downward pattern, making the scene look as if it were dripping with light. In a single instant, I went from being unaware that it was Christmastime to longing to hang out my stocking.
Photo by Karel Kulhavy
I was supposed to be traveling out of Turkey for the Muslim sacrifice holiday, a commemoration of Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice his own son at God’s command, and God’s mercy in providing a sheep to kill instead. Every head of household who can afford it sacrifices a sheep, giving most of the meat to poor neighbors, or donates money towards a sheep to a charitable organization. Women are generally not welcome at the sacrificial ceremony and spend most of the holiday in the kitchen butchering sheep carcases, so I used vegetarianism as an excuse to beg off and flew west. I had completely forgotten about Christmas until my plane began playing carols upon landing in Prague.
Even the familiar Christmas carols didn’t immediately refresh my memory to the time of year. Since I had gone to Prague to look for the traces of Jan Hus, the little known pre-protestant reformer, the first sound of these familial tunes made me think about how the Hussites, as his followers were known, used songs to teach the illiterate population bible stories, encouraging the wide distribution of religious knowledge in the same way the printing press would for Martin Luther. Caught up in my own train of thought, it wasn’t until the unmistakable decorations in the square jolted me out of my single-mindedness that I realized the season.
Jan Hus
After the best roasted chestnuts I’ve ever enjoyed and a cup of mulled wine that was stronger than it was tasty, I continued on my quest. In the square itself was the caricature-like statue of Jan Hus turning his back to the excesses of the Catholic church. I went on to Saint Martin in the Wall, the first church where full communion was served to the laity. Previously, only bread was given to the common people, and wine only to the clergy, so this marked a protest against traditional theological thought.
I saw a couple passing by and called out to them, reaching in my purse for my camera.
“Take my photograph, please?” I requested, handing it over.
“Where?” asked the man, looking around.
“At the church.”
He looked blank. I dashed over the front of the building. He turned to his companion and muttered in a Romance language, asking why I wanted my picture taken here. In fairness, the church didn’t look like much. Bethlehem Chapel, Hus’ own church was even plainer, just two white triangles beside each other, but I did spot a small sculpture of the man inside. Charles University has some lovely features, but it hadn’t meant anything to me before I could identify Hus as an influential professor. The only important Hussite church that looked like anything was Saint Giles, a Catholic church that had converted.
Like the Protestant movement that would follow 200 years later, the Hussites didn’t place much importance on impressive buildings, which explains why, on my previous visits to the city, I had never even noticed them. There are some things you just don’t see unless you look for them, while some things, you don’t know about until you see.
Comments (1)
You give us a history lesson along with the story of your travels. After having recently been in Prague I am disappointed i missed some of the sites you mention.
Thank you for sharing you travel stories and helping us to learn some of the history we missed in school