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As, one by one, the quislings attempted to thrust Norway's police, schools and courts into the Nazi mold, the voice of the Church was lifted again & again in protest. Then, shortly before Christmas 1940, the quisling Ministry of Police issued an order revoking the clergy's oath of silence. This oath, guaranteeing the Lutheran clergy's right to preserve their parishioners' confidences, as Catholic priests preserve the secrets of the confessional, was Norway's "Magna Carta" of conscience. The seven bishops of Norway prepared to act. In a letter addressed to Minister of Church and Education Ragnar Skancke, they denounced the reign of terror by the Storm Troopers, the attack on schools and students, the forced resignation of the Supreme Court, and demanded to know whether the Norwegian State was still Christian.
Heinrich Himmler was in town, and the weaseling Skancke, anxious to preserve an appearance of harmony, quietly shelved the letter. The bishops waited several weeks for an answer. Then three of them paid Skancke a call, armed with a document that forthrightly proclaimed, "The Church can never remain silent where God's word is ignored. . . ." Skancke replied that "thoughtless action now may result in serious consequences for the Church." Promptly the bishops wrote a pastoral letter to be read before every congregation in Norway. "When the government tolerates violence and injustice and brings pressure to bear on the souls of men," said they, "then the Church is the guardian of conscience. . . ."'
"The Great Forest" was afire with indignation, and its flames licked into every corner of the land. From pulpit after pulpit the letter was read, in defiance of police on hand to prevent it. Printing presses throughout Norway ran off copies by thousands. Said Bishop Berggrav: "When the truth becomes something sacred for us, it is then that it can create martyrs." Abashed by the Church's readiness for martyrdom and fearful of popular uprisings in its defense, the puppet government eased its campaign of terror and suppression.
In the summer of 1941. with the declaration of Hitler's holy war against the godless Bolsheviks, Minister Skancke looked hopefully to the Church for support. What he got instead was a cool remark from Berggrav that at the bishops' meeting "the war-political question . . . naturally was not among the matters discussed." The puppet press broke into a rash of vilification and Vidkun Quisling screamed: "Religion is outdated." The final break was near.