The Voice That Burned So Others Could Read

William Tyndale spent twelve years in hiding across Europe, translating the New Testament into English from the original Greek. He worked in cold rooms in Cologne, Worms, and Antwerp, smuggling pages into England in bales of cloth. In October 1536, executioners strangled and burned him at Vilvoorde Castle in Belgium. His final prayer was simple: "Lord, open the King of England's eyes."

Within two years, Henry VIII authorized the Great Bible — built largely on Tyndale's translation. Tyndale never held a copy. He was, in the truest sense, a forerunner.

In Acts 13, Paul traces a long line of forerunners. David, though deeply flawed, was "a man after God's own heart" — chosen not for perfection but for his willingness to follow wherever the Almighty led. Then John the Baptist came preaching repentance and stepped aside: "I am not the one you think I am. But after me, one is coming whose sandals I am not worthy to untie." Each carried the message forward, then yielded the stage.

Tyndale understood this. He did not translate Scripture to make his own name great. He burned so that ordinary plowboys could read the words of life — the very message of salvation Paul proclaimed in that Antioch synagogue.