Sam Matteson

John Smyth, ca. 1608 Puritan Separatist and founder Baptist Church Amsterdam Photo credit: Wikipedia

The world is filled with words, many of which I do not understand. In my European travels both made possible and necessitated by my career as a physicist in the international science community, I often found myself trying to be at least functional even though I definitely was illiterate in the local language and dialect. In one case, in particular, however, I experienced a strange sensation, something like that which the first century Jewish celebrants of Pentecost must have known in the New Testament when they heard the disciples speak, yet understood in their own language.

I was visiting Amsterdam on the weekend before the conference would begin in Eindhoven, up the train track and inland a little over a hundred kilometers. I had a Sunday free and decided that it would be fun to worship at a Baptist church in Amsterdam, since in 1608 John Smyth led a group of English Separatists to the tolerant nation of Holland and out of the reach of the oppression of King James I. I would later visit Bakkerstraat (Baker’s Street) where in the 1600s sat the Bake House where the Mennonite Congregation worshiped and shared their building with the English Separatists. There they also labored, baking hardtack for the sailors of the Dutch East India Company. It was there also that the first Baptist Church in history was founded according to many accounts. I resolved not to allow the chance to escape. Here was a rare opportunity to worship in the birthplace of the Separatist sect which my first American ancestor Henry Matteson would join in Rhode Island less than fifty years later. I felt a personal connection somehow to the history of the place.

A Problem

However, I encountered a big problem when I looked up “Kerken Baptisten” or searched for “Doopgezinde” (i.e. Baptist) in the telephone book in a vain attempt to find a Baptist Church. Apparently there were no “dunker” churches left in the great city of Amsterdam. Yet, as I surmised from the context and a quick check of my pocket dictionary, there was a listing for a “Tabitha,” a home for seniors managed by Dutch Baptists. I had found my opportunity! I deciphered the Dutch script to understand that there was a service at 10:00 am. A few trams stops later I arrived at the tall building and, directed by a sign in the lobby, I proceeded to the “lift” (pronounced “leeft”) and pushed the button for “vloer 10” (floor ten). When I arrived I smiled my most Dutch smile, and repeated the greeting that I had often heard: “Goedemorgen,” trying to sound as Low Country as I could even though it probably came out sounding much more like the German that I had studied in my undergraduate days. I accepted with a functional, if slightly stiff “Dank U,” the song sheet of hymns and choruses. I studied carefully the cipher on the page. I recognized every third word or so a cognate of an English word (even if slightly mangled in the spelling) and another third could have been German. I was relieved when I realized the first hymn, Een Vaste Burcht is Onze God, was Luther’s A Mighty Fortress is Our God. The service began and I sang lustily along with my Dutch brothers and sisters, pronouncing phonetically the words printed on the page as closely as I could with my slightly defective understanding of Dutch diction. Frequently the English word appeared on the page in synchrony with my inward recitation of the hymn.

What an epiphany! How must it have been to have heard alien words and sounds yet understood them inwardly as one’s own tongue? It was a glorious experience. It was if I were transported back to Jerusalem of the first century and that miraculous Pentecost. But then came the sermon. There were no subtitles, nor prepared text to follow. The spell seemed broken.

The Sermon

The kind-faced pastor took the podium and began speaking. He mentioned “Paul en Silas in Philippi.” Of course it sounded to my ears as if he said “Pah-oul en See-lahss een Feelepee.” Fortunately, I had heard the story. In fact, it was one of my favorites. I settled in to absorb what I could by letting his beautiful musical words flow over me. But he kept using a word that jarred me with its unfamiliarity. He continually said something that sounded like “Khaht.” It is hard to transliterate because the first sound was a deep clearing of the throat unheard of in English. I was distracted for many minutes thinking about what this word could be. Then I remembered seeing the sign that inevitably hung above a bicycle chained to the sign post, “geen rad plaatsen”pronounced “kheen rad plahtzen” and meaning “to be placing a wheel (that is bicycle) [here is] forbidden!”

“Ah-ha! The G in Dutch is that strange guttural sound I hear. And the final d sounds like a t to my ears. So the preacher is speaking of the central character in every Bible story: G-o-d, God,” I shouted inside. “God of course you, domkop!” That is when I began to understand his point. For the last five minutes of the sermon I struggled to put into comprehensible Dutch what I had received: “In problems God is there.” Just as when Paul and Silas saw no way out while they were imprisoned, they sang praise to God anyway. What a blessed message for the elders around me who daily faced hardship and problems. I, at last, decided that I had a sentence that I could share with my “Pentecostal” Pastor to let him know that I had been blessed by his efforts, even if I could not follow every word.

The Final Word

After the service, standing at the door, he smiled and shook hands with all the congregation as they departed to enjoy the post-service coffee and petit-fours. My turn came and he shook my hand enthusiastically as if we were long separated brothers. I touched my chest and said, “Ik been Amerikaans.” He nodded. Then I shared my well-rehearsed line, “In problemen God is er.” I was careful to pronounce the divine appellation as correctly as I could.

The Pastor replied in words that every Christian understands, whether in the Netherlands or the Bayou or the Alps—words I shall never forget. He looked me in the eye and declared with a stout voice: “Amen! Amen! Hallelujah!”

To which I replied then as I still do, “Amen, indeed!”

Bakkerstraat, Amsterdam, the Netherlands. On the short alley in the early 1600s stood the Bake House where the first Baptist Church was formed by John Smyth. Photo credit: Google maps