Loving Luther

by Allison Pittman

  “But I’m—”

  “Not hideous?” The unaccustomed gentleness in her tone granted forgiveness. “No. Neither are you crippled, nor lacking in any womanly grace. I know you think your cousin is hiding me away here. Or that I’m hiding myself. But I’m not. It’s a welcome thing for me, a rest for my weary bones. And escape from the whispers I hear from this side.” She turned her head to point to her good ear, and I got a glimpse of her profile. She might have been quite pretty, once. “It might surprise you to know that I spend my time in prayer. For you.”

  “For me?”

  “I will pray what you cannot.”

  The final grain fell, and her good ear heard it.

  Sister Gerda reached out her hands, and following an instinct unprecedented in the ten years I’d known her, I stepped in close and bowed. She pulled me to her and planted a moist, thin-lipped kiss on the top of my head.

  God bless you.

  I answered with a kiss to her smoother cheek, and then—with a hardening of my stomach—one to the mass of pea-sized cysts on the other. She didn’t breathe, and neither did I. The next sound was that of the wooden latch sliding into place.

  CHAPTER 8

  AT THE TURN of the new year, I begged Abbess Margarete to send a letter on my behalf. One page, four lines:

  Dearest Papa,

  I shall be taking my vows thirty days past my birthday.

  With love and appreciation for your sacrifice.

  Katharina

  It had been sealed with the imprint of the Cistercian order and, as far as I knew, delivered to its intended recipient without mishap. But there had been no reply, and no one from my family arrived on the appointed day to witness the ceremony.

  In my confession that morning, I voiced none of the fear or doubt I’d spoken of so boldly with Sister Gerda. Instead, I shared the resentment I felt that not only had my father failed to acknowledge my every birthday, but he would also not be here to see his daughter pursue the life he’d so clearly intended.

  For this I was told to pray for my father to be blessed.

  I confessed to complaining about the cold.

  For this I was told to pray, giving thanks for the walls and the warmth God provided.

  After that, I confessed no more.

  My prayers complete, I was taken by the hand and led to the first empty cell in the sisters’ corridor, where Therese and Girt waited with expressions solemn enough for the occasion. Together, they took away my novice clothing and helped me don the clean, new white tunic. They tied a plain white kerchief over my hair, and each touched my cheeks with a holy kiss.

  “Serve God long and well, Sister,” Therese said, her voice with the timbre worthy of an abbess.

  Girt said only, “God bless you, Sister,” as she riffled through the fabric, looking for the hidden pocket. Finding it, she withdrew the locket and handed it to me.

  “What shall I—?”

  “I’ll keep it safe for you,” Girt said. “Until you have a place.”

  The night before, I’d slept with the treasure so tightly clasped in my hand, the filigree had worn itself into the skin of my palm. Even now, hours later, I could see the faint outlines of the pattern and thought briefly of the time the discipline of the priest had been recorded on my flesh.

  “Do you think I still need to hide it?”

  “You can’t ever hide anything from the eyes of God,” Therese said, ever the spiritual authority.

  “God would not take a child’s greatest treasure,” I replied. “He took a child’s lunch once, and multiplied it to feed thousands. But he’d never take away the one thing—”

  In the next breath, Girt dropped the chain around my neck and pulled the tunic far enough from my flesh to arrange the locket’s concealment. Therese gasped, but the combined glare from Girt and me held her silent.

  “So your mother can be with you,” Girt said. “As she should.”

  Together we walked to the chapel, and for just a moment I longed for the lighter heart of our childhood, when we would run—clattering—holding giggles tight behind our hands. It was enough that we held a secret.

  The abbess met me at the altar, where all the sisters of Marienthrone gathered, forming a semicircle of white. Though silent at my arrival, they soon joined voices in prayer, their words mingling in clouds of steam above their bowed heads.

  In the name of God, our Holy Father,

  And his Son, Jesus Christ,

  And the Holy Ghost . . .

  The air rustled as they made the sign of the cross in a single fluid motion, their white sleeves sounding like the ascent of so many doves. Why had I never noticed this before?

  “May the Most Holy Virgin . . .”

  May the Most Holy Virgin

  Look down upon this servant

  And clothe her in virtue,

  As we clothe her in the humble garment.

  As you have instructed us to bind ourselves with the belt of truth,

  So do we bind her.

  Here, one of the nuns—Sister Clara, she who had first greeted me here—approached with a wide white sash, which she wrapped around my waist, capturing the loose fabric of the tunic and bringing it close to my body. She tied it in a decisive knot and gave it a testing tug before returning to her place as Margarete continued the prayer.

  We clothe her with a breastplate of righteousness,

  That she might be mindful of the righteousness born within her.

  Therese emerged next with the scapular. I could only guess she had been given the responsibility because she was one of the few sisters tall enough to lift the garment high enough over my head to let it fall gently to my shoulders. A plain cross was stitched in gold thread, and instinctively I knew it was the handiwork of Therese. She who had stitched my first secret pocket had undertaken the task to stitch the identity I would wear over my heart.

  We protect her with the helmet of salvation. A sign to all that she is sanctified to you, submissive to your service.

  And the wimple, placed atop the simple kerchief. It covered my ears, immediately magnifying the sound of my own breath. The rest of the prayer sounded like it came through a drum.

  And the veil, which she now takes, a covering over all. Let it protect her from the onslaught of Satan, whom we renounce in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.

  The weight of the veil, as it sat upon my head and fell to my shoulders, brought me immediately to a stooping posture, but I stood straight soon enough and stared directly into the eyes of the woman who placed it.

  “Are you ready to speak your vows?” Margarete asked, and for a fleeting moment, she looked upon me with the affection of family rather than austere spiritual authority.

  “I am.”

  I was. Though if pressed to answer why, I’d be struck silent. I knew only that I’d left Sister Gerda’s cell with a lingering vision—a long, dark tunnel of all the years ahead. A young woman, a woman, an old woman, with no idea how to live a life outside of a wall of women. Here was my family. God, my Father. This, my life.

  These, the words that would usher it in.

  “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”

  “Amen,” my sisters echoed.

  After that, I could no longer look into the eyes of the abbess, but instead to the cross of Christ hanging from the iron chain around her neck. I felt the weight of my own necklace and pictured the lock of hair within. It had been too long since I’d opened the clasp, worried that it might dislodge and fall away, or the fragile, tiny hinge might break and leave the only token I had of my mother forever exposed.

  Is this truly what you would have me do, Mother?

  The cross rose and fell with the breath of the abbess, and I had her answer.

  “As witnessed here by the Holy Trinity, and by these, my sisters, I make my promise. I will obey the teachings of Christ and the writings of the Holy Apostles. I will live my life in reverence to the teachings of the one true Church.
I take on the honor of poverty in a world that boasts of bounty. I embrace a life of chastity, denying the sinful lust of my own flesh. I will discipline my mind with Scripture, my spirit with prayer, and my flesh with mortification that I might be a worthy vessel of God.”

  I crossed myself and repeated in chorus with my sisters, “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”

  Margarete lifted the cross to my lips, and I kissed its center. The metal was cold, but my cousin’s lips were warm as they immediately followed the embrace.

  “Now, Sister Katharina, having taken the veil of the Cistercian order, you have become, in flesh and spirit, a bride of our Savior Jesus Christ, as will be signified with this ring.”

  Margarete took my left hand and slid a golden band on the third finger. In anticipation of the moment, I said, “Ego te sponsabo.”

  I will wed thee.

  I kissed the ring, then extended it to the abbess to do the same, before kneeling again, my newly adorned hands clasped in prayer. Eyes closed, I heard a rustle of robes and felt the presence of those who would make a vow on my behalf. On one shoulder, I felt the heavy touch of Girt; on the other, the delicate hand of Therese. Finally, the warm heel of Margarete’s palm against my forehead.

  “Father in heaven, we ask for your daughter to be infused with the purity of heart and strength of body like that of our Holy Mother. Let chastity and constancy ever reign within her, as with all of us. In the name of our Lord, who did expire on the cross for all mankind, may we be willing to so sacrifice our lives to your service. Amen.”

  Amen.

  In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.

  So it was done.

  PART III

  Marienthrone at Nimbschen

  1522–EASTER 1523

  CHAPTER 9

  THE EARTH WAS cool and moist, but the sun warm on my back as I knelt, my small trowel temporarily forgotten in the garden soil. Despite the imposed rule of silence, noises droned all around—the rhythm of my more industrious sisters hewing out fresh furrows, the rumble of carts and the calls from the merchants outside the convent wall. Beside me, Therese hummed, though she surely was not aware, else she would stop abruptly and offer a silent prayer of repentance. It was such a pleasant sound, no one within its hearing would call it to her attention. The notes carried with them the freshness of spring, blending with the birdsong.

  Girt should have been with us, but had been absent now for what must be a quarter of an hour, long enough for me to excavate not only my portion of the garden, but hers as well. I harbored no resentment that my friend might be shirking her share of the assigned work, but if she didn’t return by the time the bell rang for dinner, the abbess would surely require an explanation for her absence, and any acceptable one would be a lie.

  A subtle change came to Therese’s tune, alerting me to the idea that it was not, after all, an act of her subconscious. The notes took on a minor quality and increased in volume, thus attracting the attention of our fellow toilers in the garden. Soon, all eyes were on Therese, who feigned a slow realization, raised her head, and made a great, silent show of apology, begging forgiveness of each sister in turn. I, too, participated in the charade, knowing full well it was meant to divert attention from Girt, who was hurrying back to her place.

  Are you crazy? I implored with a sidelong glance.

  Sorry. Girt’s cheeks were flushed, easily attributed to the nearly noon sun. I decided my friend’s breathlessness was due to running back from . . . wherever she’d been, and the smile a result of the beauty of God’s day. Anything else, I didn’t want to know.

  At the first ringing of the bell, I stood with the others and wiped the loose dirt from my hands on the green apron I wore over my habit. I took my turn at a bucket filled with warm water and plunged them in, taking care not to stain my sleeves. A casual glance over my shoulder revealed that Girt chose not to follow, possibly because she had done too little work to actually have dirty hands, but I suspected more.

  Once inside, my sisters and I filed into the refectory and to our seats, standing until the abbess took her place at the head table. At her lead, we moved as one, making the sign of the cross, then joined hands as she led us in a lengthy blessing. By the time she reached the conclusion—“For thy bounty, we do give thanks”—I felt the slip of paper in my hand, passed along with a quick squeeze from Girt. I barely had time to secrete it up my own sleeve before joining in the chorus of amen.

  It would be a trick, to partake of the meal while keeping the note concealed. I sat patiently, allowing another sister to slice the bread, and accepted Girt’s silent offer to ladle the soup into my bowl, all the while working the page farther up my sleeve.

  This, I noticed right away, was more than the usual fragment of torn parchment Girt had been slipping to me over the past year. Had I not been far more skilled at reading, I might never have been pulled into the circle of these secret missives. By now, though, it was understood. I would wait for the opportune time and place to read, and then—this being the far more elusive aspect—find time to share, word for word, the message.

  Across the table, Therese arched one disapproving brow.

  I tilted my head, a plea for mercy, if not approval.

  Therese returned her attention to her soup.

  Dismissed from dinner, and from the service after, we were granted two hours’ time for meditation and reflection. Some sisters went to their cells, where soft snores betrayed the state of their prayers. Others would seek the warming room in winter or, as on this day, a stone bench in the sun-filled courtyard. One could work on stitchery, so long as it was nothing frivolous, or even read aloud from the prayer book to a small gathering of sisters. These were hours in which each soul was accountable to Christ for their passing.

  “The Lord is in his holy temple,” Abbess Margarete would intone before our dismissal. “The Lord’s throne is in heaven: his eyes behold; his eyelids try the children of men.”

  I headed straight for the sanctuary, knowing no other place in the expanse of the convent would offer as much light. I stopped before the altar, knelt, and prayed.

  “Blessed be the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Grant me wisdom to understand the words I am about to see, and discernment to find your truth within. I pledge to you my heart, unceasing in its devotion to your will. Pray, find my spirit to be obedient, though my flesh may waver.”

  I offered the same prayer every time I undertook this mission. After, I took my usual place in the center of the fourth pew, hoping to discourage any other sister from sitting right next to me, and opened my prayer book. With one hand I turned its pages, while the other slipped up my sleeve to dislodge the note hidden there. Once it was brought into view, I surmised that it was no note, but a full page—torn from something greater. A book, maybe, or at the very least a pamphlet.

  The Freedom of a Christian.

  The title alone held no significance, but when I noticed the author, a familiar sense of excitement ignited at my very core.

  Martin Luther.

  I knew of him, of course. As much as Marienthrone tried to maintain holy sequestration, ideas seeped in. Literally, in this case, handed over bit by bit, written on scraps of parchment and on the back pages of old ledger books. Simple Bible verses at first: For by grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God: Not of works, lest any man should boast. Ephesians ii, 8-9. And others from the Gospels and the Psalms—each with a governing message of faith. All given to me from Girt’s soft hand, having been delivered to her by another work-worn, stronger one.

  “Where did you get this?” I had asked the first time, when a painstakingly copied verse from the Gospel of John was slipped into my palm.

  Jesus saith unto him, I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father, but by me.

  My eyes had taken in the words, hearing them in Latin, but seeing them in German—the words of my Savior written i
n my own tongue.

  “Hans says that someday Luther will translate the whole of Scripture,” Girt had whispered over her shoulder, her voice filled with equal awe for the messenger as the scholar. “Not only that, but have it printed in books, available to everyone.”

  Mere knowledge of the plan made us all conspirators, and one secret after another passed from Hans to Girt to my own hand. And then, over the course of two years—from my twenty-first birthday until this spring—thin scraps, torn from a single printed page. It took months before the message of the numbered lines came clear. Luther, speaking out against the corruption of the priests. Of the pope, even, in the selling of indulgences—fees paid to the clergy by family members in mourning, hoping to pay a price on earth to purchase an eternity in heaven for loved ones who died without repentance for their sins.

  “Like my mother,” Therese said that night in the darkness when we three huddled together, reunited in a common cell, the strips carefully laid out in sequence on the floor between us. “He’s saying there’s nothing to be done, no hope to bring her soul to God?”

  “He means her soul can’t be bought,” I said, working the complication of the teaching out in my head even as I spoke. “He’s saying that all of us—every person—we’re responsible for our own repentance. If we confess our sins, Christ forgives us. But nobody can confess for us, and once life is ended, the time for confession has ended.”

  “I can’t believe that,” Therese said. She took herself to her narrow bed, disturbing the neat assembly of Luther’s words in her wake. Ever since, when the occasion came to study some new message, Therese had lain in resolute silence, facing the wall, feigning sleep.

  Since then, new chambers of belief were unlocked with each message. Fresh clarity to Scriptures I had heard from infancy, read by the priests, intoned in Latin.

  If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness. With a special notation that it is he—Christ himself, our Savior—who cleanses us. A truth recorded centuries before the inception of the Church, the ordinance of confession, and the priesthood established to enforce it. Such power in those little slips of paper. Ancient writing forged with new ideas—messages I’d never heard before in a lifetime of sermons and lessons.