THE SEEKERS

by DANIEL J. BOORSTIN

  * * *

  So Luther short-circuited the power of the Church, the priesthood, and the sacraments. His combative theses, broadcast by the new art of printing, against the abuses of indulgence have attracted historians more than his more fundamental affirmations of religious faith, autonomy, and the priesthood of all believers. Without the printing press, Luther’s challenge might have made only a local flurry in Wittenberg. Luther himself sent copies of his theses to the ambitious archbishop of Mainz and to his own bishop. The printing press made it possible to circulate them more widely and more speedily than ever before.

  Luther would make the printing press the vehicle also for his reforming ideas. His address “To the Christian Nobility of the German Nation concerning the reformation of the Christian Commonwealth,” published in Wittenberg, offered his argument that the spiritual power of Christianity came from the whole body of true believers, all of whom had the power to read and interpret the Scriptures for themselves. He attacked the supremacy of the pope over the state, the theories of two estates (temporal and spiritual) and of two swords (pope and emperor). He called for a national German Church, abolition of the celibacy of the clergy, and reforms of schools and universities. This was his answer to the papal bull excommunicating Luther, published in Rome in June 1520, and did more than Luther ever imagined or intended. He ignited the national spirit (not only in Germany) and sparked an overwhelming movement for reform of the Church. Published in mid-August 1520, by the eighteenth of the month his address had sold four thousand copies. In the sixteenth century it reappeared in seventeen further editions.

  And Luther provided more than doctrine. He provided the treasure-house of Christian faith in a new form, which came to be called the Reformation Bible. Simply by translating the Bible into German he had committed an act of reform that translated doctrine into deed. He democratized the sources of Christian faith by putting them into the language of the marketplace. By 1522, after some two years of work, using the second edition of Erasmus’ Greek text, he had translated the whole New Testament, now illustrated by Lucas Cranach (1472-1553), whose vivid full-page woodcuts depicted dragons and the Woman of Babylon wearing papal triple crowns. From there Luther went on to the Old Testament, and the whole was published by 1534. So he made the Bible a popular cathedral. By this time some eighty editions of his New Testament had appeared and became the basis of translations into Dutch, Swedish, Danish, and Icelandic. William Tyndale (c. 1494-1536) used it along with Erasmus’ Greek New Testament for his translation, the first New Testament to be printed in English. So Luther had opened wide the gate to Scripture for all Christian Seekers, and helped destroy priestly monopoly on the sources of faith. Incidentally, he helped create a national language, for it was the eloquence of Luther’s High German that overcame the many other dialects to become eventually the language of Heine and Goethe. The democratizing of the Bible was not the only consequence of Luther’s work that far exceeded his intentions and expectations.

  Calvin’s Bridge to a Democratic World

  Of the great trinity of the Protestant Reformation in Europe—Erasmus, Luther, and Calvin—it was Calvin who provided a way of organizing churches that opened paths to the modern Western world of democracy, federalism, and representative government. For the Christian Seeker, Erasmus had focused the humanist tradition; Luther had transformed theology into a doctrine of personal faith, with the independence and priesthood of all believers. Calvin, with a remarkable talent both for dogma and for organization—for the theory and the practice of Protestantism—made the newly Reformed Church in his Geneva into a model for Protestant Christianity across Europe and into the New World.

  Born into a bourgeois family in Noyon in Picardy, France, in 1509, John Calvin (originally Jean Chauvin or Caulvin) seemed a most unlikely candidate to become intellectual leader of the Protestant Reformation. His father was secretary to the bishop and attorney for the cathedral. Calvin was raised and educated in an aristocratic family of the de Hangists who were relatives of the bishop. Intended for the Church, Calvin was sent to Paris with the de Hangist boys to study at the rigorous Collège de Montaigu. That was where Erasmus and Rabelais, too, had studied theology. After a falling-out with the bishop, Calvin’s father directed him to give up theology for the law. And just as Luther’s father had required Luther to turn to the law, the young Calvin dutifully obliged by going to the University of Orléans. When his father died excommunicate in 1531, Calvin’s struggle to obtain a Christian burial for his father embittered his relation to the Church. At twenty-two he returned to Paris and to humanist studies. The fruit of these studies was his first book, a commentary on Seneca’s De clementia. When Calvin helped his friend Nicholas Cop, rector of the University of Paris, compose an address that included ideas of the Lutheran Reformation, he and Cop were forced to flee for their lives. It was probably soon after this crisis that Calvin experienced the “sudden conversion” to Protestantism that he would later describe. He became, and remained, an exile from his native France.

  And Calvin would spend his life expounding the theory and developing the practice of the Protestant Reformation. Few figures in history have shown such a talent to combine theory and practice in building institutions. Few have been so adept at combining opposites. Calvin’s concept of the Church was both the most dogmatic, and the most practical; the most local, and the most universal. He preached the dogma of predestination, yet insisted that the participation of all believers was what God expected of his Church. Before he was thirty he had written Christianae religionis Institutio (translated as Institutes of the Christian Religion), the most important and comprehensive systematic statement of the Protestant cause (1536; definitive Latin edition 1559). It was in 1536, too, that he happened on his travels to pass through Geneva, where he encountered the fire-eating Guillaume Farel (1489-1565), whom he had known in Paris. Farel was now arousing the Geneva populace into an anti-Catholic fervor that resulted in image-breaking riots. And it was there, Calvin later said, that God “thrust him into the fray.” Under Farel’s influence, Geneva had revolted against its bishop, forbade the Catholic sacraments, and expelled all priests and members of religious orders who were not willing to conform to the Protestant faith. Since the Protestant rituals and system of education had not yet been established, Farel challenged Calvin to stay and help organize Geneva as a city in the biblical model. He threatened Calvin with the wrath of God if he refused.

  Though Calvin had never intended to settle in Geneva, he was persuaded. Eventually his remarkable energy and courage would make Geneva famous as “the Protestant Rome.” City and Church were to be a single community, both enforcing the model of a biblical commonwealth. Many of the rules of morality declared by Farel and Calvin had been in the city’s code since the Middle Ages, but now the community feared they would be enforced. In 1538 a newly elected city council expelled both Farel and Calvin from the city. Calvin went to Strassburg, where he ministered to French refugees. Three years of chaos in Geneva, without the leadership of Farel or Calvin, led the citizens then in 1541 to recall Calvin, whom they provided with a comfortable house (including a wine cellar) and a good salary.

  Calvin could now build the Reformed Church of Geneva in enduring form. He drafted ecclesiastical ordinances that would remain substantially the constitution of the Church of Geneva and be a model for Reformed Churches in Europe and the New World. He established four orders of the ministry: (1) teaching doctors (at first Calvin was the only one); (2) preaching pastors; (3) disciplining elders; and (4) deacons, charged with the works of charity. Morality would be strictly enforced, while Protestant doctrine would be expounded at the new University of Geneva, which he established. The program also included responsibility for a missionary effort to spread Calvinism abroad, which made it the only Protestant sect with universalist aspirations. While Calvin delivered regular biblical commentaries as public lectures, religious instruction was under a Company of Pastors, whose members were screened under Calvin’s
direction. The elders acted as “policemen” of the Reformation morality, and met with the pastors in a Consistory where, too, Calvin’s voice was heard. They had the power to excommunicate, and were responsible for Geneva’s reputed “reign of terror,” which might have been called the reign of biblical morality. It was this regime that came to be called “Puritan.” The deacons in a “Hospital-general” administered the orphanage, the distribution of free bread, and works for the poor, where also Calvin was active.

  Calvin’s energetic oversight of this ecclesiastical system did not go unchallenged. The melodramatic climax came when a Spanish doctor, Michael Servetus (c. 1511-1553), who had written a book attacking the doctrine of the Trinity, came to Geneva. Calvin had Servetus arrested and convicted of heresy, for which crime he had Servetus burned at the stake. And so Calvin obliged later Catholic partisans (including Lord Acton) with a spectacle of Protestant intolerance. After 1555, when Calvin was in full control in Geneva, he devoted his fierce energies to spreading Reformed Protestantism. He trained French refugees to serve as Reformed pastors and smuggled them back to France. Congregations on the Geneva model would be founded in Scotland and America, in England and the Netherlands.

  While Calvin wielded dogmatic and dictatorial powers in Geneva and in some of the successor communities, the enduring influence of Calvinism on Christian religious and political institutions was quite otherwise. The presbyterian form of church government, of which Calvin was a founder, was very much in the spirit of modern Western representative political institutions. Calvin’s theory of church government declared that only Christ was the head of the community, with all members being equal under him. The ministry then belonged to the entire church, though responsibilities might be distributed among several officers. All who held church offices would be elected by the members of the congregation, whom they represented. The church, then, was to be governed not by clergy but by persons (including officeholders, pastors, and elders) who represented the whole church. This too provided a federal relation among the local churches drawn together in an elected presbytery, or national or general assembly.

  Calvinist doctrine centered on the local church. The power that resided in the membership as a whole created a decentralized form of organization that gave the Calvinist churches great strength and power to resist and defy persecution. If Calvinism was to be defeated, every one of the congregations had to be eradicated in turn. To arrest the minister would not silence the church, for the community itself was what survived, and could always elect new ministers. Based on the principle of representation, not of authority or dictation, Calvinism satisfied the modern need for participation—in church as well as state. And the transplantation of Calvinism to New England in a New World would nourish and encourage the dignity and participation of separate congregations and the independent faithful, out of which a new society would arise in North America.

  BOOK TWO

  COMMUNAL SEARCH

  As you set out for Ithaka

  hope the voyage is a long one,

  full of adventure, full of discovery.

  —C. P. CAVAFY (1910)

  The great shift in the direction of seeking, which marked the opening of the modern mind, was the turn to experience. This was the turn from the upward reach of the Hebrew Prophets and the inward search of the Greek philosophers to the thrust outward and all around. This new way of seeking would bring Seekers back to community—not for orthodox dogma, but as a way of making the search continual, renewed in each generation. Modern liberal society would be a way of organizing for unending search. When the dyspeptic Thomas Carlyle (1795-1881) noted “the three great elements of modern civilization, gunpowder, printing and the Protestant religion,” he was not far off the mark. Gunpowder expanded warfare—between nations and would-be nations. Printing endlessly widened the community of current and past experiences. The Protestant Reformation made personal experience the authentic avenue to religious faith. Discoverers in science—Galileo, Vesalius, Harvey, Newton, Malpighi, and others—were revealing how boundless were the still-uncharted areas of nature, while Columbus, Magellan, and Balboa awakened Europeans to how limited had been their experience of the earth and the seas. As science went public, societies pooled experience in parliaments of scientists. The growth of cities and the rising commerce of great colonial empires in America, Africa, and Asia widened European experience of exotic peoples and products. At every turn, enlarged experience revealed unimagined possibilities, there for the finding. And kept alive the Seekers’ quest for meaning and purpose.

  PART FOUR

  WAYS OF DISCOVERY: IN SEARCH OF EXPERIENCE

  If the Past has been an obstacle and a burden,

  knowledge of the Past is the safest and surest

  emancipation.

  —LORD ACTON

  16

  The Legacy of Homer: Myth and the Heroic Past

  In the past—the first universal source of experience—Seekers hoped to find clues to life’s meaning and purpose. And in the Old Testament the ancient Hebrews left the most influential interpretation of the past ever to come to the West. Though it was the book of human destiny, the story belonged to God, His works of creation, His mercy, or His wrath. The story of God’s covenant with His chosen people told how He rewarded or punished their response to His commands. And so affirmed Jewish national identity, confronting the powerful empire of Assyria, suffering exile and captivity in Babylon, and returning to the Promised Land. Though a work of many authors, it told a single theme—God’s purposes.

  The ancient Greek view of the past—the next great tradition for interpreting history—offered a stark contrast. Their heroic epics were tales of human deeds, despite the whims of gods and goddesses. In this, as in everything else, the Greeks found their own way, and marked new paths that we still follow. For the ancient Hebrews there was no doubt of how or by whom future events would be governed. The ancient Greeks explored the uncertainty of man’s moral purposes. We think of the future as what lies before us, and the past as behind us. But the ancient Greeks, as Bernard Knox observes, took an opposite view. For them “behind” or “back” (opiso in Greek) referred not to the past but to the future. They saw their past (and their present) so plainly and vividly in front of them that it is no wonder they thought of the unknown and invisible future as behind them. In the Odyssey, Homer describes a wise old man as “the only one who sees what is in front and what is behind.” Naturally, then, they saw themselves “backing into the future.”

  Long before they began writing what we call history, they had found their own vivid and persuasive way of organizing and interpreting the past. Their heroic myths, no mere tales of long-past happenings, became sacred texts of morality and religion. And long before they invented the writing of history, they had a confident and traditional view of the past that they could see plainly before them.

  For the ancient Greeks it was myth—the heroic epic—that gave their past real and memorable form and filled it with meaning. In the reach for experience the first universal source is tradition: what grandparents told parents and what parents tell children. But for their tradition the Greeks did not rely on the casual spoken word heard at the mother’s knee. In heroic myths, perpetuated in deathless poetry, they gave their past an enduring charm and what would seem an endless resource of meaning. While we see their myths as the realm of fantasy, for classic Greeks these were the treasured record of their past. Myth gave tradition its memorable drama. In myths all people learn of ancient times beyond everyday experience, of superhuman creatures and miraculous events. Unlike historical events, these need no proof. Their survival in the sacred word makes myths the first authentic story of purpose, of first causes and origins.

  While our own modern Western society has not been fertile of myth, fortunately we have inherited the myths of ancient Greece. Familiar in our education, they brighten our lives. In them we can see how myths, serving our own need to know origins and purpose, sometimes frustrate our sear
ch for the true past. Their authority comes from being traditional and having no known author. They survive in the tradition of the spoken—or sung—word. So they dramatize our need to know why and our willingness to take poetry for truth.

  The English word “myth” derives from the Greek mythos, which meant “word” in the sense of a final pronouncement. Its special meaning appears by contrast with the Greek logos, which meant “word” in the sense of a truth that can be argued and demonstrated. So myths are traditional statements of truths. Their anonymous source somehow added to their authenticity.

  Greek myths, then, were an ancient “vulgate,” a popular way of making the past known, as widespread a way of creating belief as journalism is today. And their “vulgate” was validated by the consensus of the ages. Just as the journalist nowadays expects the reader to take his word for the truth of the story, so did the ancient bards. Like modern journalists, they too were commonly silent on their “sources.” Time itself gave authority to their utterances. “History is born as tradition,” Paul Veyne observes, “not built up from source materials.” Like the bard, the historian, when he begins to appear, also treats himself as a source. But he will have other purposes and find new paths in his search for the true past.