第06章：Burning Convictions 饶绍的罪恶（1500——1558）
亨利想从罗马教皇分离，声称自己就是英国的教皇。这导致了英国的改革。在那几十年里英国的天主教被抛弃。1536 和1538年10000名僧侣被uprooting。修道院分解，他们的财产被重新分配。 伊丽莎白成功的策划了宗教的。
英语字幕文本：
There are ghosts in this place.
You don't notice them right away.
At first glance, Binham Priory in Norfolk looks much like any other English country church - plain and simple, limestone, burning mp3limewash.
Nothing fancy, really.
But then you look around and realise something else is going on here.
That grandiose, timber-vaulted roof.
Those multi-storey arcades.
Aren't they all just a bit too big for a parish church?
And then you start to fill in the gaps, and bit by bit a lost world remakes itself, a world of monks and masses, of colour and plainsong.
A world of brilliant images.
The world of Catholic England.
For centuries, this didn't sound strained.
Catholic England was just another way of saying Christian England, really.
And then, in a generation, it stopped being a truism and started being treason.
Images of the Virgin, the apostles and the saints once cherished and glorified, were now mocked and vandalised.
Here at Binham, the saints on the rood screen were expunged, painted over with verses from an English Bible.
Today, they're restored, but the world over which they once presided is dead and gone.
We can't bring back the lost world of Binham's painted saints whole and alive again.
But just because the death of that world was so shocking, so utterly improbable, and because the Reformation and the wars of religion it triggered cut so deep a mark on the body of our country, we need to try and reassemble the fragments of that world as best we can.
Only then can we hope to answer one of the most poignant questions in our history: Whatever did happen to Catholic England?
We all grew up, even a nice Jewish boy like me, with the idea that the English Reformation was a historic inevitability, the culling of an obsolete, unpopular, fundamentally un-English faith.
But on the very eve of the Reformation, Catholicism in England was vibrant, popular and very much alive.
This is Walsingham in Norfolk, once the home of the miracle working shrine of Our Lady of Walsingham.
Along with the Becket shrine at Canterbury, Walsingham was the must-see place for all serious 16th-century pilgrims, a tradition revived this century by High Church Anglicans.
Today, you get only the faintest echoes of what Walsingham once was, a gaudy, rowdy mix of hucksterism and holiness, piety and plaster saints;
the kind of place you'd expect to find, say, in Naples or Seville, not in the depths of sober East Anglia.
But even then, as today, not everybody approved.
Erasmus, the Catholic scholar superstar of the age, came here on a mock pilgrimage and poured scorn on tales of sacred milk and chapels airmailed in from the Holy Land.
But his was the minority intellectual view, safely expressed in Latin and tolerated, though not necessarily endorsed, by members of the ruling Tudor dynasty.
The Tudors were regular and devout pilgrims.
Henry VIII, early in his reign, walked barefoot to the shrine, offering a necklace of rubies and dedicating a giant candle in thanks for the birth of his son, Henry, in 1511.
Prince Henry died within weeks, but the king's candle continued to burn at the shrine for many years to come.
What a strange world this Catholic England was.
The urge for renewal and reform side by side with the ancient, the hallowed and the occasionally fraudulent.
But it seems that all apparent contradictions could be accommodated under the capacious skirts of the Catholic Mother Church.
And what a mother she was! Come to Holy Trinity Church at Long Melford in Suffolk, and you'll see just what I mean.
This magnificent building was paid for with Suffolk wool money.
However, what you see today are just the bare bones of what it was supposed to be.
But we know what Long Melford in its splendour was really like thanks to an account left by Roger Martyn, who'd been a churchwarden here in the reign of England's last Catholic ruler, Queen Mary.
Writing in the very different times of Queen Elizabeth, Roger Martyn, with a mixture of pride and regret, set out to tell future generations exactly what they were missing.