Sola Scriptura and Smashing Things: The Gospel of William Farel

He was Geneva's wild man, and he scared John Calvin almost to death.

If John Calvin was the architect of Reformed theology, William Farel was the wrecking ball that cleared the ground with thunderous force. A man consumed not by madness, but by the white-hot rage of holy zeal, Farel was the spiritual demolition expert who didn’t simply nudge the Reformation forward—he detonated it in places too cowardly for even Luther to tread. He was the flaming-bearded preacher who screamed Scripture in the face of armed mobs, the unrelenting scourge of popish superstition, and the man who strongarmed Calvin into greatness by threatening him with a divine curse. He was not soft, not polite, and certainly not respectable. But he was God’s man, and when the battle called, he showed up with fire in his mouth and thunder in his lungs.

FROM PAPIST FANATIC TO PROPHET OF WRATH

Farel was born in 1489 in the rugged French Alps and raised on the milk of Catholic piety so intense that he once wept with joy over relics, participated in processions with fanatical devotion, and imagined sainthood would be earned by groveling piety and Rome’s gaudy rituals. He was, by his own later admission, a “mad papist.” He idolized the saints, revered the Pope, and clung to every vestment and Latin chant as if they were keys to heaven. But then, like all true Reformers, Farel was ambushed by the Scriptures. Through the influence of Jacques Lefèvre, a French forerunner of Reformed thought, Farel came to see the rot at the core of Roman religion. The Word of God shattered his illusions. No longer a trembling relic-kisser, he became a prophet with a sledgehammer in his soul, denouncing priests, mocking the Mass, and warning whole cities that the Pope’s throne was the seat of the Antichrist. His transition was not slow or polite—it was explosive. He didn’t wander out of Rome; he stormed out, slashing and burning every idol on his way to the door.

He was nearly lynched in Paris after preaching against the Mass in public. He lost family, friends, patronage, and position. Still, he pressed forward. He took refuge in Switzerland and began preaching in French-speaking regions like Vaud and Neuchâtel. In these smaller towns, long before Geneva made him infamous, Farel learned the rhythm of Reformation warfare—preach until they throw stones, shake the dust off, and then preach louder at the next village. He became a spiritual fugitive, hunted by bishops, hated by monks, and feared by anyone who clung to the safety of religious tradition. He was fearless because he had been made to fear God alone.

THE CITY THAT COULDN’T SHUT HIM UP

Farel’s gospel was not gentle. He didn’t negotiate with error. He was thrown out of Meaux for preaching too boldly, driven from Basel for rebuking Erasmus to his face, and called “mad” in almost every city he visited. But he was not mad. He was clear-eyed and furious, and it was that fury that Geneva needed. When he arrived there in 1532, the city was steeped in dead tradition and priestly corruption. He immediately began preaching in homes, on street corners, and in chapels, without any invitation or official sanction. He stormed into churches and shouted down the priests, declaring their Masses to be idolatrous blasphemies. He wasn’t a polite guest in Geneva; he was an invading army of one, armed with a French Bible and an unrelenting hatred of false worship.

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