Collected Works of Martin Luther

by Martin Luther

  In considering Luther’s “rhetoric,” however, our attention perforce wanders from the form to the matter, for Luther based his claim to originality on his art of bringing forward striking and effective thoughts and thus charming and captivating the reader. In his thoughts the same glaring, grotesque and contradictory element is apparent as in his literary style and outward conduct. Much is mere impressionism, useful indeed for his present purposes, but contradicted or modified by statements elsewhere. Whatever comes to his pen must needs be put on paper and worked for all it is worth. Thus in many instances his thoughts stray into the region of paradox. Thereby he seemed indeed to be rendering easier the task of opponents who wished to refute him, but as a matter of fact he only increased the difficulty of dealing with him owing to his elusiveness.

  Even down to the present day the incautious reader or historian is all too frequently exposed to the temptation of taking Luther at his word in passages where in point of fact his thoughts are the plaything of his “rhetoric.” Anybody seeking to portray Luther’s train of thought is liable to be confronted with passages, whether from the same writing or from another composed under different influences, where statements to an entirely different effect occur. Hence, when attempting to describe his views, it is essential to lay stress only on statements that are clear, devoid of any hyperbolical vesture and frequently reiterated.

  He was not, of course, serious and meant to introduce no new rule for the interpretation of Scripture when he pronounced the words so often brought up against him (“sic volo, sic iubeo”) in connection with his interpolation of the term “alone” in Rom. iii. 28; yet this sentence occupies such a position in a famous passage of his works that it will repay us to give it with its context as a typical instance:

  “If your Papist insists on making much needless ado about the word ‘alone,’ tell him smartly: Dr. Martin Luther will have it so and says: Papist and donkey is one and the same. ‘Sic volo, sic iubeo; sit pro ratione voluntas.’ For we will not be the Papists’ pupils or disciples, but their masters and judges, and, for once in a way, we shall strut, and rap these asses’ heads; and as Paul boasted to his crazy saints, so I too will boast to these my donkeys. They are Doctors? So am I. They are learned? So am I. They are preachers? So am I. They are theologians? So am I. They are disputants? So am I. They are philosophers? So am I. They are dialecticians? So am I. They are lecturers? So am I. They write books? So do I. And I will boast still further: I can expound the Psalms and the Prophets; this they can’t do. I can interpret; they, they can’t.”

  He proceeds in the same vein and finally concludes: “And if there is one amongst them who rightly understands a single preface or chapter of Aristotle, then I will allow myself to be tossed. Here I am not too generous with my words.” — And yet there is still more to follow that does not belong to the subject! Having had his say he begins again: “Give no further answer to these donkeys when they idly bray about the word ‘sola,’ but merely tell them: ‘Luther will have it so and says he is a Doctor above all the Doctors of the Papacy.’ There it shall remain; in future I will despise them utterly and have them despised, so long as they continue to be such people, I mean, donkeys. For there are unblushing scoundrels amongst them who have never even learnt their own, viz. the sophists’, art, for instance, Dr. Schmidt, Dr. Dirty Spoon [Cochlæus] and their ilk. And yet they dare to stand in my way.”

  He nevertheless seeks to give a more satisfactory answer, and admits, “that the word ‘alone’ is not found in either Latin or Greek text, ... at the letters of which our donkeys stare like cows at a new gate. They don’t see that the meaning of the text requires it.” — The last assertion may be taken for what it is worth. The principal thing, however, is that he introduced the interpolation with a meaning of his own, though he could not have held that his doctrine of a dead faith (for this was what his “faith alone” amounted to) really tallied with the Apostle’s teaching. On this point he is quite silent in his strange answers. He is far more concerned in parrying the blows with his rhetorical artifice. His appeal to the will of Dr. Martin Luther may be termed the feint of a skilful swordsman; his whole treatment of the matter is designed to surprise, to puzzle and amuse, and, as a matter of fact, could impress only the populace. It is not without reason that Adolf Harnack speaks of the “strange logic of his arguments, the faults of his exegesis and the injustice and barbarity of his polemics.”

  The strange controversial methods of his rhetoric give, however, a true picture of his soul.

  All this inconstancy and self-contradiction, this restless upheaval of assertions, now rendered doubtful by their palpable exaggeration, now uncertain owing to the admixture of humour they contain, now questionable because already rejected elsewhere by their author, all this mirrors the unrest of his soul, the zigzag course of his thought, in short a mind unenlightened by the truth, which thrives only amidst the excitement of conflict and contradiction. Moderation in resolve and deed is as little to his taste as any consistent submission of his word to the yoke of reflection and truthfulness. He abandons his actions as well as his most powerful organ, his voice, to the impulse and the aims of the moment. He finds no difficulty, for instance, even in his early days, in soundly rating his fellow-monks even in the most insulting and haughty manner, and in assuring them in the same breath of his “peaceable heart” and his “perfect calm,” or in shifting the responsibility for his earlier outbursts of anger on God, Who so willed it and Whose action cannot be withstood. All this we find in his letter in 1514 to the Erfurt Augustinians, where his singular disposition already reveals itself. No less easy was it to him at the commencement of his struggle to protest most extravagant humility towards both Pope and Emperor, to liken himself to a “flea,” and yet to promise resistance to the uttermost. He was guilty of exaggeration in his championship of the downtrodden peasants before the war, and, when it was over, was again extravagant in his demand for their punishment. With an all too lavish hand he abandons Holy Scripture to each one’s private interpretation, even to the “miller’s maid,” and yet, as soon as anyone, without the support of “miracles,” attempted to bring forward some new doctrine differing from his own, he withdrew it with the utmost imperiousness as a treasure reserved.

  As in style, so in deed, he was a chameleon. This he was in his inmost feelings, and not less in his theology.

  In one matter only did he remain always the same, on one point only is his language always consistent and clear, viz. in his hatred and defiance of the Church of Rome. Some have praised his straightforwardness, and it must be admitted, that, in this particular, he certainly always shows his true character with entire unrestraint. This hate permeates all his thoughts, his prayer, all his exalted reflections, his good wishes for others, his sighs at the approach of death. Even in his serious illness in 1527 he was, at least according to the account of his friend Jonas, principally concerned that God should not magnify his enemies, the Papists, but exalt His name “against the enemies of His most holy Word”; he recalls to mind that John the Evangelist, too, “had written a good, strong book against the Pope” (the Apocalypse); as John did not die a martyr, he also would be content without martyrdom. Above all, he was not in the least contrite for what he had printed against the doctrines of the Pope, “even though some thought he had been too outspoken and bitter.” In his second dangerous illness, in 1537, Luther declared even more emphatically, that he had “done right” in “storming the Papacy,” and that if he could live longer he would undertake still “worse things against that beast.”

  Luther’s over-estimation of himself was partly due to the seductive effect of the exaggerated praise and admiration of his friends, amongst whom Jonas must also be reckoned. They, like Jonas, could see in him nothing but the “inspiration of the Holy Ghost.” Luther’s responsibility must appear less to those who lay due stress on the surroundings amidst which he lived. He was good-natured enough to give credence to such eulogies. Just as, moved by sympathy, he wa
s prone to lavish alms on the undeserving, so he was too apt to be influenced by the exaggerations of his admirers and the applause of the masses, though, occasionally, he did not fail to protest.

  This veneration went so far that many, in spite of his remonstrances, placed him not only on a level with but even above the Apostles. His devoted pupils usually called him Elias. He himself was not averse to the thought that he had something in common with the fiery prophet. As early as 1522 Wolfgang Rychard, his zealous assistant at Ulm, greets him in his letters as the risen Elias, and actually dates a new era from his coming. In this the physician Magenbuch imitated him, and the title was as well received by Melanchthon and the other Wittenbergers as it was by outsiders. In the Preface which Luther wrote in 1530 to a work by the theologian Johann Brenz, he contrasts the comparative calmness of the preacher to his own ways, and remarks that his own uncouth style vomited forth a chaos and torrent of words, and was stormy and fierce, because he was ever battling with countless hordes of monsters; he had received as his share of the fourfold spirit of Elias (4 Kings xix.), the “whirlwind and the fire” which “overthrew mountains and uprooted rocks”; the Heavenly Father had bestowed this upon him to use against the thick heads, and had made him a “strong wedge wherewith to split asunder hard blocks.”

  When, in 1532, his great victory over the Sacramentarians was discussed in the circle of his friends, the words of the Magdeburg Chancellor, Laurentius Zoch, recurred to him: “After reading my books against the Sacramentarians he said of me: ‘Now I see that this man is enlightened by the Holy Ghost; such a thing as this no Papist could ever have achieved,’” and so, Luther adds in corroboration, “he was won over to the Evangel; what I say is, that all the Papists together, with all their strength, would not have been able to refute the Sacramentarians, either by authority [the Fathers] or from Scripture. Yet I get no thanks!”

  Not his admirers only, but even his literary opponents contributed, at least indirectly, to inflate his rhetoric and his assurance; his sense of his own superiority grew in the measure that he saw his foes lagging far behind him both in language and in vigour.

  Amongst the Catholic theologians of Germany there were too few able to compete with him in point of literary dexterity. Luther stood on a pinnacle and carried away the multitude by the war-cry he hurled over the heads of the Catholic polemists and apologists who bore witness to the ancient truths, some well and creditably, others more humbly and awkwardly. The apparent disadvantage under which the Catholic writers laboured, was, that they were not so relentless in treading under foot considerations of charity and decency; unlike him, they could not address fiery appeals to the passions in order to enlist them as their allies, though traces far too many of the violence of the conflict are found even in their polemics. Amongst them were men of high culture and refinement, who stood far above the turmoils of the day and knew how to estimate them at their true worth. They felt themselves supported by the Catholics throughout the world, whose most sacred possessions were being so unjustly attacked.

  CHAPTER XXVII

  VOICES FROM THE CAMP OF THE DEFENDERS OF THE CHURCH

  1. Luther’s “demoniacal” storming. A man “possessed”

  We have plenty descriptions of Luther from the pen of literary opponents, and they have a perfect right to be taken into account, for they are so many voices courageously raised in defence of the heirloom of the faith. What has led to this being so often passed over is the fear lest their censure should be taken as prejudice, and, needless to say, what they tell us must be carefully weighed. Much depends on the circumstances in which they wrote, on the character of the writers, on the content of their statements and on how far they differ from or agree with other witnesses and the known facts. Several striking passages from their writings, in so far as they are confirmed either by Luther himself or by his followers, have already been utilised in the present work and have served to complete our picture of Luther’s mind.

  Catholic polemists all agree on one point, viz. that the bitter and unkindly ways of their adversary were a clear proof that he had no Divine call. Like Erasmus, they too contend that no man who excited such great commotion and was so insatiable in abuse and vituperation could be honestly furthering God’s cause. Like Erasmus, they too question whether such unheard-of presumption could “be combined with an apostolic spirit or did not rather denote madness.” They compare his inconstancy, his passion and his fickleness to a “restless, stormy sea.” His slanderous tongue, which so unsparingly lashed the olden Church and its doctrines, reminds them of the “roaring lion,” who, according to St. Peter, “goeth about seeking whom he may devour,” or of the “fiery darts” of the wicked one against whom St. Paul utters a warning. With pain and horror they call to mind the seven-headed beast of the Apocalypse, that rises out of the deep, bearing names of blasphemy and with a “mouth that speaks great things and profanities.”

  Their strictures cannot be examined in detail here, but we may instance a trait which is common to many of these writers and which, though kept in the background as not altogether relevant to the discussion, yet deserves consideration as a proof of the effect that Luther’s unbounded hate, his abuse and his arrogance had on the feelings and judgment of contemporaries. Their keen sense of religion made them ascribe his behaviour to the devil, and to assume, or at least to suspect, that he was in some way possessed. It is curious to note how many unhesitatingly have recourse to this explanation.

  “We must regard it as a sure sign of demoniacal possession,” wrote Johann Hoffmeister, Prior of the Colmar Augustinians, “that Luther should thus persistently enjoin on preachers as a duty to go on cursing and denouncing from the pulpit, though he himself sees and bewails the fact, that contempt for religion, godlessness and every vice is steadily gaining ground in Germany. What can we expect unfortunate youths to learn from such abuse and reviling in the churches?”

  “Luther is the devil’s own bellows,” wrote Paul Bachmann, Abbot of Altzelle, in 1534, “with which the devil blows up a whirlwind of error, scandal and heresy.” He goes even further and appeals to what he had heard from Luther’s brother monks concerning the scene in choir, when, falling into a fit, Luther had frantically protested that he was not the man possessed (vol. i., ).

  Bachmann adds: “Luther is the cruel monster that John the Apostle saw rising out of the deep, with open jaws to utter abuse and blasphemy.” “This is no mere mistaken man, but the wicked devil himself to whom no lying, deceit or falsehood is too much.”

  Even from men who had long sided with Luther we hear similar things; for instance, Willibald Pirkheimer of Nüremberg says bluntly: “Luther, with his impudent and defiant tongue, betrays plainly enough what is in his heart; he seems to have gone quite mad, or to be agitated by some wicked demon.”

  Erasmus declared that people, rather than credit his calumnies, would say that he was steeped in vengefulness, mentally deranged, or possessed by some sinister spirit.

  Even Luther’s brother monk at Erfurt, Johann Nathin, who had been struck with wonder at the young monk’s sudden conversion, remarked later, when the two had gone different ways, that “a spirit of apostasy had entered him,” which was corrupting all the clergy.

  Johann Cochlæus thinks that Luther’s unholy doctrine resembles a dragon with seven heads; such a monster hailed, not from God, but from the devil. He allows himself to be carried so far away by his conviction that Luther was possessed, as to scorn all caution and to take literally a certain rhetorical statement of Luther’s, where he tells us that he had eaten more than a bushel of salt with the devil, and that he had held a disputation with him on the Mass. Cochlæus here lays great stress on the views and reports of Luther’s former associates in the monastery.

  Under the impression made on him by the vehemence of Luther’s language and his whole conduct, Hieronymus Emser declared subsequently to Luther’s so-called “great Reformation Writings”: “This monk who has gone astray differs from the devil only in th
at he carries out what the wicked one inspires him with.” Emser, too, appeals to Luther’s former associates in the monastery: Luther “was possessed by the evil spirit from his youth upwards,” he says, “as is well known in his monastery at Erfurt, where he made his profession.”

  Kilian Leib, a contemporary defender of the Church in the Eichstätt district, tells in his Annals of the impression made upon those present by Luther’s behaviour at the Diet of Worms: He displayed such pride in his manner and conduct that we seemed to have before us the image of the enemy of mankind. The latter must have dwelt within him and instructed him, if indeed he does not still do so. He quotes with approval Emser’s first statement, and, from Cochlæus, the passage where Luther speaks of his eating salt with the devil.

  Hieronymus Dungersheim, the opponent to whom we owe Nathin’s remark, given above, upbraids Luther, the “child of Belial,” for his “devilish writings” “whereby he, and Satan through him, blasphemes Christ.”

  Aleander the Nuncio reported on April 17, 1521, from the Diet of Worms, that some regarded Luther as mad, others as “possessed”; he also mentions on the testimony of others how Luther, on his arrival, “had gazed about him with the eyes of a demon.”

  The Reichstagsabschied of Worms speaks of Luther as “led by the evil spirit,” nay, “as the wicked enemy himself clad in human form.”

  In the tract against a pamphlet of Luther’s published by Duke George of Saxony, in 1531 under Franz Arnoldi’s name, we read at the very commencement, that Luther was losing many of his adherents because he showed his hand “so clearly and plainly in his writings, that, as they said, Luther must certainly be possessed of the devil, indeed of the whole legion that Christ drove out of the man possessed and into the herd of swine who forthwith went raving mad and ran headlong into the sea”: “By the fruits [of his words] we may recognise the spirit.”