The NEW Rest of the Story: The Thunder In The Pulpit (Video)

He wasn’t born into power.

In fact, the boy’s earliest days were spent in a modest household, nestled in a small village in the lowlands of what would become modern-day Scotland.  There’s no record of his precise birthdate, but somewhere around 1514, this son of a merchant entered a world already shifting beneath its feet.  The Reformation was stirring on the European mainland, and whispers of dissent from the Church echoed across the Channel.

The boy was bright. Sharp-minded.  He studied at the University of St Andrews, where he immersed himself in Catholic theology.  The Church was the path of scholars, and so he followed.

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But then came a change. Not just theological—but seismic.  You see, his world collided with a man named George Wishart, a reformer with fire in his belly and a Bible in his hand.  Our young scholar became his bodyguard—literally.  Sword in hand, he protected this preacher from those who wanted him silenced.  However, that blade could not protect Wishart forever.  In 1546, Wishart was executed for heresy by the Catholic cardinal David Beaton.

The boy, now a man, was forever changed.

Reeling from the loss, he joined a group of radicals who stormed St. Andrews Castle, assassinating the cardinal.  It was daring, and dangerous but it would not end well.  When French forces recaptured the castle, our man was taken captive, forced into slavery as a galley rower for 19 grueling months.   Chained to an oar, he endured the kind of suffering that either breaks a man—or forges him.

He was forged.

Upon release, he made his way to England, where his words caught fire.  The new Protestant government saw his passion and elevated him to royal chaplain under Edward VI, the boy-king.  But when Edward died and Mary Tudor, “Bloody Mary”, ascended the throne, the fires of reform were extinguished in blood.  He fled again, this time to the European continent.

In Geneva, he sat at the feet of John Calvin, soaking in Reformation doctrine and reshaping it for his homeland.  His pen became a sword sharper than any blade, writing tracts and treatises against tyranny—especially when worn in a skirt.  One such writing, The First Blast of the Trumpet Against the Monstrous Regiment of Women, criticized female monarchs, naming Mary of England and Mary of Guise (regent of Scotland) as illegitimate rulers under God’s law.

That pamphlet would haunt him.

When Elizabeth I took the English throne and read those words, though she was Protestant, she never forgot. He was never welcome in England again.

Still, he pressed on. He returned to Scotland in 1559 as the Reformation tides turned.  The Catholic stronghold weakened.  His sermons, fiery, thundering proclamations, called for purification of the Church.  Crowds gathered. Altars were smashed. Images were burned.  Under his influence, Scotland declared itself Protestant in 1560.

He helped draft the Scots Confession, a founding document of Scottish Reformation theology, and helped establish the Church of Scotland, a church governed not by bishops and popes, but by elders and assemblies. Presbyterianism was born.

But his life was not without heartbreak.

He lost his wife, Marjorie, and grieved deeply. He married again, later in life, to a woman 40 years his junior, Margaret Stewart, of royal blood. Together, they had children, and she would outlive him by decades.

In his later years, he preached with a voice so weak he had to be lifted into the pulpit.  Yet, when he spoke, his booming conviction silenced entire cathedrals.

He stood unshaken before monarchs, even when they threatened his life. When Queen Mary, the Catholic Queen of Scots, summoned him for his rebellious rhetoric, he stood in her royal chamber and did not flinch.  “I am not afraid,” he said, “for I have given my life to the service of truth.”

He died in 1572.  Few reformers fought so hard, or left so permanent a legacy.  His faith reshaped a nation. His courage redefined pulpit power.  His voice, thundering from Scotland’s hills, still echoes today in churches that bear his theological fingerprint.

His name?

John Knox.

And now you know the rest of the story.

Article posted with permission from Sons of Liberty Media