Collected Works of Martin Luther

by Martin Luther

  There is no doubt that William’s dislike for Luther, here displayed, played a part in his refusal to accept the formula of Concord in 1580.

  So meagre were the proofs made public of Luther’s share in the step which Philip of Hesse had taken, that, even in Hesse, the Giessen professor Michael Siricius was able to declare in a writing of 1679, entitled “Uxor una” that Luther’s supposed memorandum was an invention.

  Of the Wittenberg “advice” only one, fairly long, but quite apocryphal version, was put in circulation during Melanchthon’s lifetime; it appeared in the work of Erasmus Sarcerius, “On the holy married state,” of which the Preface is dated in 1553. It is so worded as to leave the reader under the impression that its authors had refused outright to give their consent. Out of caution, moreover, neither the authors nor the addressee are named. In this version, supposed to be Luther’s actual text, it was embodied, in 1661, in the Altenburg edition of his works, then in the Leipzig reprint of the same (1729 ff.) and again in Walch’s edition (Halle, 1740 ff.). Yet Lorenz Beger, in his work “Daphnæus Arcuarius” (1679), had supplied the real text, together with Bucer’s instructions and the marriage contract, from “a prominent Imperial Chancery.” The importance of these documents was first perceived in France. Bossuet used them in his “Histoire des variations des églises protestantes” (1688). He was also aware that Landgrave Ernest, of Hesse-Rheinfels-Rotenburg, who returned to the Catholic Church in 1652, had supplied copies of the three documents (to Elector Carl Ludwig of the Palatine). In more recent times Max Lenz’s publication of the Hessian archives has verified these documents and supplied a wealth of other material which we have duly utilised in the above.

  Opinions Old and New Regarding the Bigamy.

  As more light began to be thrown on the history of the bigamy, Protestant historians, even apart from those already mentioned, were not slow in expressing their strong condemnation, as indeed was only to be expected.

  Julius Boehmer, in outspoken language, points to “the unfortunate fact” that “Luther, in his old age, became weak, nay, flabby in his moral judgments and allowed himself to be guided by political and diplomatic considerations, and not by truth alone and an uncorruptible conscience.”

  Walter Köhler, in the “Historische Zeitschrift,” has thrown a strong light on the person and the motives of the Landgrave. Whilst admitting that Philip may have suffered from remorse of conscience and depression, he shows how these were “in great part due to his physical deterioration, his unrestrained excesses having brought on him syphilis in its worst form; sores broke out on his hands and he suffered from trouble with the throat.” His resolution to commit bigamy also sprang from the same source, “not from a sudden realisation of the wickedness of his life, but simply from the sense of his physical bankruptcy.” Besides, as Köhler points out, the Landgrave’s intention was not at first to marry Margaret, but rather to maintain her as a kept woman and so render excesses unnecessary. Philip, however, was unable to get her as a concubine, owing to the opposition of her mother, who demanded for her daughter the rank of princess and wife. Hence the idea of a bigamy.

  The following indignant reference of Onno Klopp’s must be included amongst the Protestant statements, since it was written some time before the eminent historian joined the Catholic Church: “The revolting story has left a blot on the memory of Luther and Melanchthon which oceans of sophisms will not avail to wash away. This, more than any other deed, brought to light both the waywardness of the new Church and its entire dependence on the favour of Princes.”

  As for the concealment, and the secrecy in which the sanction of the bigamy was shrouded, G. Ellinger considers, that the decision of Luther and his friends “became absolutely immoral only through the concealment enjoined by the reformers.” In consequence of the matter being made a secret of conscience, “the second wife would seem to the world a concubine”; hence not only the first wife, but also the second would suffer degradation. The second wife’s relatives had given their consent “only on the hypothesis of a real marriage”; this too was what Philip intended; yet Luther wished him to tell the Emperor that she was a mere concubine; the Landgrave, however, refused to break the word he had given, and “repudiated Luther’s suggestion that he should tell a lie.”

  Another Protestant, the historian Paul Tschackert, has recently characterised the Hessian affair as “a dirty story.” “It is, and must remain,” he says, “a shameful blot on the German Reformation and the life of our reformers. We do not wish to gloss it over, still less to excuse it.”

  Yet, notably in modern theological literature, some Protestants have seemed anxious to palliate the affair. An attempt is made to place the Wittenberg advice and Luther’s subsequent conduct in a more favourable light by emphasising more than heretofore the secrecy of the advice given, which Luther did not consider himself justified in revealing under any circumstances, and the publication of which the Landgrave was unjustly demanding. It is also urged, that the ecclesiastical influence of the Middle Ages played its part in Luther’s sanction of the bigamy. One author even writes: “the determining factor may have been,” that “at the critical moment the reformer made way for the priest and confessor”; elsewhere the same author says: “Thus the Reformation begins with a mediæval scene.” Another Protestant theologian thinks that “the tendency, taken over from the Catholic Church,” to treat the marriage prohibitions as aspects of the natural law was really responsible; in Luther’s evangelical morality “there was a good lump of Romish morality, worthless quartz mingled with good metal”; “Catholic scruples” had dimmed Luther’s judgment in the matter of polygamy; to us the idea of bigamy appears “simply monstrous,” “but this is a result of age-long habits”; in the 16th century people thought “very differently.”

  In the face of the detailed quotations from actual sources already given in the present chapter, all such opinions — not merely Luther’s own appeal to a “secret of confession,” invented by himself — are seen to be utterly unhistorical. Particularly so is the reference to the Catholic Middle Ages. It was just the Middle Ages, and the ecclesiastical tradition of earlier times, which excited among Luther’s contemporaries, even those of his own party, such opposition to the bigamy wherever news of the same penetrated in any shape or form.

  In the following we shall quote a few opinions of 16th-century Protestants not yet mentioned. With the historian their unanimous verdict must weigh more heavily in the scale than modern theories, which, other considerations apart, labour under the disadvantage of having been brought forward long after the event and the expressions of opinion which accompanied it, to bolster up views commonly held to-day.

  The bigamy was so strongly opposed to public opinion and thus presumably to the tradition handed down from the Middle Ages, that Nicholas von Amsdorf, Luther’s friend, declared the step taken by Philip constituted “a mockery and insult to the Holy Gospel and a scandal to the whole of Christendom.” He thought as did Justus Jonas, who exclaimed: “Oh, what a great scandal!” and, “Who is not aghast at so great and calamitous a scandal?” Erasmus Alber, preacher at Marburg, speaks of the “awful scandal” (“immane scandalum”) which must result. In a letter to the Landgrave in which the Hessian preacher, Anton Corvinus, fears a “great falling away” on account of the affair, he also says, that the world will not “in any way” hear of such a marriage being lawful; his only advice was: “Your Serene Highness must take the matter to heart and, on occasion, have recourse to lying.” To tell a deliberate untruth, as already explained (p, 53), appeared to other preachers likewise the only possible expedient with which to meet the universal reprobation of contemporaries who judged of the matter from their “mediæval” standpoint.

  Justus Menius, the Thuringian preacher, in his work against polygamy mentioned above, appealed to the universal, Divine “prohibition which forbids and restrains us,” a prohibition which applied equally to the “great ones” and allowed of no dispensation. He also pointed out the
demoralising effect of a removal of the prohibition in individual cases and the cunning of the devil who wished thereby “to brand the beloved Evangel with infamy.”

  Philip had defiled the Church with filth (“fœdissime”), so wrote Johann Brenz, the leader of the innovations in Würtemberg. After such an example he scarcely dared to raise his eyes in the presence of honourable women, seeing what an insult this was to them.

  Not to show how reprehensible was the deed, but merely to demonstrate anew how little ground there was for throwing the responsibility on the earlier ages of the Church, we may recall that the Elector, Johann Frederick of Saxony, on first learning of the project through Bucer, expressed his “horror,” and two days later informed the Landgrave through Brück, that such a thing had been unheard of for ages and the law of the land and the tradition of the whole of Christendom were likewise against it. It is true that he allowed himself to be pacified and sent his representative to the wedding, but afterwards he again declared with disapproval, that the whole world, and all Christians without distinction, would declare the Emperor right should he interfere; he also instructed his minister at the Court of Dresden to deny that the Elector or the Wittenberg theologians had had any hand in the matter. Other Princes and politicians belonging to the new faith left on record strong expressions of their disapproval; for instance: Elector Joachim II of Brandenburg, Duke Ulrich of Würtemberg, King Christian III of Denmark, the Strasburg statesman Jacob Sturm and the Augsburg ambassador David Dettigkofer. To the latter the news “was frightful tidings from which would result great scandal, a hindrance to and a falling away from the Holy Evangel.”

  All there now remains to do is to illustrate, by statements made by Protestants in earlier and more recent times, two important points connected with the Hessian episode; viz. the unhappy part which politics played in Luther’s attitude, and what he said on lying. Here, again, during the last ten years there has been a movement in Luther’s favour amongst many Protestant theologians.

  Concerning the part of politics W. Rockwell, the historian of the bigamy, openly admits, that: “By his threat of seeking protection from the Emperor for his bigamy, Philip overcame the unwillingness of the Wittenbergers to grant the requested dispensation.” “It is clear,” he also says, “that political pressure was brought to bear on the Wittenbergers by the Landgrave, and that to this pressure they yielded.”

  That consideration for the effect his decision was likely to have on the attitude of the Landgrave weighed heavily in the balance with Luther in the matter of his “testimony,” it is scarcely possible to deny, after what we have seen. “The Hessian may fall away from us” (above, ), such was one of the fears which undoubtedly had something to do with his compliance. To inspire such fear was plainly the object of Philip’s threat, that, should the Wittenbergers not prove amenable, he would make advances to the Emperor and the Pope, and the repeated allusions made by Luther and his friends to their dread of such a step, and of his falling away, show how his threat continued to ring in their ears.

  Bucer declared he had himself agreed to the bigamy from fear lest Philip should otherwise be lost to the Evangelical cause, and his feelings were doubtless shared at Wittenberg. Melanchthon speaks not merely of a possible attempt on Philip’s part to obtain the Emperor’s sanction to his marriage, but of an actual threat to leave the party in the lurch. Johann Brenz, as soon as news reached him in Würtemberg of the Landgrave’s hint of an appeal to the Emperor, saw in it a threat to turn his back on the protesting party. All three probably believed that at heart the Landgrave would remain true to the new faith, but what Luther had chiefly in view was Philip’s position as head of the Schmalkalden League.

  The result was all the more tragic. The compliance wrung from the Wittenbergers failed to protect the party from the evil they were so desirous of warding off. Philip’s reconciliation with the Emperor, as already pointed out, was very detrimental to the Schmalkalden League, however insincere his motives may have been.

  On this point G. Kawerau says: “In the Landgrave’s resolution to address himself to the Emperor and the Pope, of which they were informed, they [Luther and Melanchthon] saw a ‘public scandal,’ a ‘publica offensio,’ which they sought to obviate by demanding absolute secrecy.” “But the disastrous political consequences did, in the event, make their appearance.... The zealously promoted alliance with François I, to which even the Saxon Elector was not averse, came to nothing and Denmark and Sweden’s overtures had to be repelled. The prime-mover in the Schmalkalden League was himself obliged to cripple the League. ‘The dreaded champion of the Evangel became the tool of the Imperial policy’ (v. Bezold). From that time forward his position lacked precision and his strong initiative was gone.”

  G. Ellinger, in his study on Melanchthon, writes: “It can scarcely be gainsaid that Luther and Melanchthon allowed themselves in a moment of weakness to be influenced by the weight of these considerations.” The petition, he explains, had been warmly urged upon the Wittenbergers from a political point of view by Bucer, the intermediary. “If Bucer showed himself favourable to the Landgrave’s views this was due to his wish to preserve thereby the Evangelical cause from the loss of its most doughty champion; for Philip had told him in confidence, that, in the event of the Wittenbergers and the Saxon Electorate refusing their consent, he intended to address himself directly to the Emperor and the Pope in order to obtain sanction for his bigamy.” The Landgrave already, in the summer of 1534, had entertained the idea of approaching the Emperor, and in the spring of 1535 had made proposals to this end. “It can hardly be doubted that in Bucer’s case political reasons turned the scale.” Ellinger refers both to the admission made by Melanchthon and to the significant warning against the Emperor with which the letter of Dispensation closes.

  The strongest reprobation of the evil influence exerted over Luther by politics comes, however, from Adolf Hausrath. He makes it clear, that, at Wittenberg, they were aware that Protestantism “would assume quite another aspect were the mighty Protestant leader to go over to the Pope or the Emperor”; never has “the demoralising character of all politics” been more shamefully revealed; “eternal principles were sacrificed to the needs of the moment”; “Philip had to be retained at any cost.” Hence came the “great moral defeat” and Luther’s “fall.”

  This indignant language on the part of the Heidelberg historian of the Church has recently been described by a learned theologian on the Protestant side as both “offensive” and uncalled for. Considering Luther’s bold character it is surely very improbable, that an attempt to intimidate him would have had any effect except “to arouse his spirit of defiance”; not under the influence of mere “opportunism” did he act, but, rather, after having, as a confessor, heard “the cry of deep distress” he sought to come to “the aid of a suffering conscience.” — In answer to this we must refer the reader to what has gone before, where this view, which seems a favourite with some moderns, has already sufficiently been dealt with. It need only be added, that the learned author says of the bigamy, that “a fatal blunder” was made by Luther ... but only because the mediæval confessor intervened. “The reformer was not able in every season and situation to assert the new religious principle which we owe to him; hence we have merely one of many instances of failure, though one that may well be termed grotesque and is scarcely to be matched.” “Nothing did more to hinder the triumphal progress of the Reformation than the Landgrave’s ‘Turkish marriage.’” As to the argument drawn from Luther’s boldness and defiance, a Protestant has pointed out, that we are not compelled to regard any compliance from motives of policy as “absolutely precluded”; to say that “political expediency played no part whatever in Luther’s case” is “going a little too far.” “Did then Luther never allow any room to political considerations? Even, for instance, in the question of armed resistance to the Emperor?”

  Referring to Luther’s notorious utterance on lying, G. Ellinger, the Protestant biographer of Melan
chthon, says: Luther’s readiness to deny what had taken place is “one of the most unpleasing episodes in his life and bears sad testimony to the frailty of human nature.” His statements at the Eisenach Conference “show how even a great man was driven from the path of rectitude by the blending of politics with religion. He advised a ‘good, downright lie’ that the world might be saved from a scandal.... It is sad to see a great man thus led astray, though at the same time we must remember, that, from the very start, the whole transaction had been falsified by the proposal to conceal it.”

  Th. Kolde says in a similar strain, in a work which is otherwise decidedly favourable to Luther, “Greater offence than that given by the ‘advice’ itself is given by the attitude which the reformers took up towards it at a later date.”

  “The most immoral part of the whole business,” so Frederick von Bezold says in his “Geschichte der deutschen Reformation,” “lay in the advice given by the theologians that the world should be imposed upon.... A man [Luther] who once had been determined to sacrifice himself and the whole world rather than the truth, is now satisfied with a petty justification for his falling away from his own principles.” And, to conclude with the most recent biographer of Luther, Adolf Hausrath thus criticises the invitation to tell a “downright lie”: “It is indeed sad to see the position into which the ecclesiastical leaders had brought themselves, and how, with devilish logic, one false step induced them to take another which was yet worse.”

  This notwithstanding, the following opinion of a defender of Luther (1909) has not failed to find supporters in the Protestant world: “The number of those who in the reformation-period had already outgrown the lax mediæval view regarding the requirements of the love of truth was probably not very great. One man, however, towers in this respect above all his contemporaries, viz. Luther. He it was who first taught us what truthfulness really is. The Catholic Church, which repudiated his teaching, knows it not even to this day.” “A truthfulness which disregards all else,” nay, a “positive horror for all duplicity” is, according to this writer, the distinguishing mark of Luther’s life.