On October 17, 1521, the Mass was the subject of another disputation. While it was broadly agreed that the laity should be offered the cup, sharp disagreements broke out over whether private Masses should continue. Karlstadt—unable to find clear scriptural sanction for their abolition and worried about the tumult that could result—argued for delay. The suddenly emboldened Melanchthon disagreed. There had already been enough talk, he said—it was time to act.
With the differences over the Mass threatening to throw the town into turmoil, a commission was appointed to seek reconciliation; Karlstadt, Melanchthon, and representatives of the Castle Church were among its members. It was agreed that, in general, all abuses in the Mass should cease. The sacrament should no longer be regarded as a sacrifice or good work, and the wine as well as the bread should be administered to the laity. In a concession to Karlstadt, private Masses would be allowed to continue for a while longer so that traditionalists could be won over. On October 20, a report summarizing these points was sent to Frederick.
As always, the elector’s position was ambiguous and his motives were unclear. At tremendous risk to both his personal authority and his political fortunes, he was sheltering a man wanted by both the pope and the emperor, and he was facing tremendous pressure to hand Luther over. He would not do so, however; Luther, he felt, had been treated unfairly at the diet, and the Edict of Worms seemed unconstitutional. At the same time, he remained devoted to the Church’s traditions and rites. Now presented with proposals for dramatic change in Wittenberg, he resisted. The Mass had been a fixture of Western worship for centuries. Was it to be changed unilaterally by a group of small-town professors? As for private Masses, they helped finance the maintenance of churches and monasteries. The elector wanted the town to move more slowly, and the matter was referred to the faculty and the clergy at the Castle Church for further deliberation.
But the insurgency was proving unstoppable. With the approach of All Saints’ Day (November 1), Wittenberg again filled with pilgrims come to see the relics at the Castle Church and obtain indulgences. Four years after the posting of the Ninety-Five Theses, this practice persisted. As the new provost at the church, Justus Jonas was assigned to preach. This onetime acolyte of Erasmus denounced the relics as rubbish and sought to prove from Scripture that both indulgences and Masses for the dead were spurious. He also condemned penances and pardons as diabolical inventions and called for true penitence in their place. To dramatize the point, Jonas grabbed the money box for indulgences and threw it to the ground, scattering its contents.
At the Black Cloister, meanwhile, Gabriel Zwilling’s sermons were growing fiercer by the week. One Sunday he was so ill that he could barely stand, but he insisted on preaching. Monastic life, he declared, was so unholy and hypocritical that no amount of change could save it; whoever helped a friar or nun leave a cloister would deliver a soul from the claws of the Devil. According to one witness, “The preacher’s doctrine relative to false faith, obedience, poverty, and chastity was so edifying that many persons shed tears from devotion.” Setting an example, Zwilling became the first friar to leave the cloister. By the middle of November, half of the Wittenberg Augustinians (about fifteen) had cast off their cowls.
Helt, the prior, wrote to the elector to complain that some of the departing friars had joined forces with local citizens and students to stir up trouble against those who remained faithful. He himself was reluctant to appear on the street for fear of being attacked. On the Mass and monasticism, Communion and vows, Christian contended with Christian, and no one seemed in charge. “What a mess we are in,” Spalatin lamented, “with everybody doing something else!”
Hearing of the ferment in Wittenberg, Luther felt his own absence more acutely than ever. In a letter to Melanchthon, he raised the possibility of a secret meeting to discuss the issues at hand, but the risk remained too great. Instead, he sought to shape events with his pen. With his health fully restored—“at last my behind and my bowels have reconciled themselves to me,” he informed Spalatin in early October 1521—he resumed his furious work pace. In the deepening chill of autumn, he composed two sensational tracts that were in effect follow-ups to his three great works of 1520. Together they would help propel the reform forward—and add to the unrest building in Germany.
The first, The Misuse of the Mass, reflected the mounting anger Luther felt toward that sacrament. It was, he wrote, an instrument of greed, deceit, and exploitation. To assert that performing Masses in private could reduce a departed soul’s time in purgatory was to slander Christ; to regard the Mass as a sacrifice or good work that could be applied to salvation was to insult God. Such doctrines had been invented to enlarge the power and profits of priests. Bishoprics, monasteries, churches, and all other priestly institutions were based and built on holding Masses; “that is, on the most abominable idolatry on earth, on shameful lies, on the perverted, godless misuse of the sacrament, and a disbelief worse than that of the heathen.” The priests had persuaded the whole world that the words of consecration should be kept secret and entrusted to no one but themselves when in fact they should be known to all Christians.
As these passages suggest, Luther’s real target was the clergy, and his wrath toward them was becoming volcanic. All their money and property, he declared, “are used for nothing but vain pomp, harlotry, and gluttony.” Priests were hypocrites, blasphemers, heathens, and Jews—“an unbelieving people of perdition, for whom the wrath of God is reserved eternally.” The monks were “a new sea-monster concocted, created, and compiled by the devil himself out of all the components of treachery.” It would “be much better to be a devil and a murderer than a priest or monk.” Soon these enemies of God would “be eradicated with their prince and creator, the pope, by the coming of our Savior.”
In the entire New Testament, Luther stated, the word “priest” is not mentioned “by so much as a single letter.” It refers to no priesthood that is tonsured and set apart from the laity; this was simply “an addition of the devil.” The writings of the Fathers and the saints did contain many such references, but whereas the Fathers and saints could err in their writings and sin in their lives, the “Scriptures cannot err, and whoever believes them cannot sin in his life.” The real priesthood “is a spiritual priesthood, held in common by all Christians, through which we are all priests with Christ. That is, we are children of Christ, the high priest; we need no priest or mediator other than Christ.” Luther was here reaffirming his rejection of the hierarchy and his conviction that all believers are priests.
In place of the abomination currently performed in church, he wrote, the Mass should follow the simple example set by Christ at the Last Supper. If the people of Wittenberg adopted this approach, Christians elsewhere would surely follow. Allowing himself a moment of pride, Luther wondered how it was that God had “willed the awakening of his Word in this forgotten corner of the world.” To “us of all people it has been given to see the pure and original face of the gospel.” Since the people of Wittenberg had now become “zealots of the Spirit,” it was their duty to “spread it out and let others see it,” though without strife and with understanding for those weak in faith.
On November 11, 1521, Luther sent The Misuse of the Mass to Spalatin, accompanied by a letter in which he announced his next project: “I have decided to attack monastic vows and to free the young people from that hell of celibacy, totally unclean and condemned as it is through its burning and pollution.” Through further study, Luther had overcome his earlier doubts about abolishing the vow of celibacy for monks. In fact, he had concluded that not only the vow but the entire institution of monasticism was a human invention and hence counterfeit. With his fellow Augustinians already fleeing the cloister, Luther wanted to persuade others to follow. In a mere ten days, he completed the sixty-thousand-word Judgment of Martin Luther on Monastic Vows. It would help empty the monasteries of Germany.
By its very nature, Luther wrote, monastic life, with its tonsures and garb,
bellowing and muttering, bowing and scraping, mocked God. If an unbeliever were suddenly to find himself amid these men and hear them not preaching or praying but rather sounding like “pipe organs,” each set in a neat row with his neighbors, would he not be justified in thinking they had all gone mad? Do these men really believe that God finds delight in hearing a lot of dumb pipes blowing off into thin air?
In entering the cloister, monks sought to live not in want but in plenty. They were attracted by the granaries of the cloisters and the promise of not having to work with their hands. Monasteries thus turned men into “idlers, who, like locusts, caterpillars, and beetles, devour everyone else’s substance.” Preoccupied with their own welfare, they showed scant concern for that of others. If a monk sees someone who is hungry, thirsty, naked, or homeless, he is forbidden to leave the monastery to help. Even if a neighbor is dying, he is kept from offering comfort. What harm would come to the monastic system if a monk was allowed to leave the cloister to visit the sick or look after his parents? True obedience consists not in taking a vow to an abbot or a rule but in loving one’s parents and serving one’s neighbors. Monks love only their own kind.
Of monasticism’s many faults, it was the vow of celibacy that Luther found most offensive. “Almost everything about it is befouled,” he wrote, “if not by unclean seminal emissions, then by the continual searing of lust which never dies out.” For all but a rare few, keeping it is impossible. If an incontinent person is compelled to be continent, “how many uncleannesses, how many fornications, how many adulteries and other evils will you provoke?” Going on at length about lust, Luther wrote that the “inward and intrinsic tyrant in our members” is no more within our power to control than the “ill will of an external tyrant.” A man under the influence of sexual desire is like a person impaired by a severe illness, except that the tyranny of the flesh is more violent and harsh than any physical ailment. For this vow more than any other, there were compelling reasons for the Church to grant dispensations, yet it was precisely here that dispensations were most stubbornly withheld.
For these monstrous abuses, Luther held one person responsible: Jerome. More than anyone else, he fumed, this Father had warped Christianity by implanting in it the ideals of celibacy and asceticism. Of his letter to Eustochium, Luther wrote: “How I wish that this praise of virginity had never been spoken, especially by such an authoritative person.” On this matter, the words of Jerome had come to have more weight than those of the New Testament itself, which, Luther wrote, contained no passage where God commanded celibacy. Since this vow had nothing to do with faith, celibacy should be regarded as a matter of free choice.
In the millennium since Jerome had beaten his breast in the Syrian Desert over the dancing girls of Rome, no one had so bluntly challenged his exaltation of virginity as Luther did in On Monastic Vows. A piercing protest against the whole ecclesiastical regimen of sexual denial, this tract would lay the foundation for Protestants’ rejection of celibacy and support for clerical marriage.
Throughout this work, Erasmus’s influence is palpable. Luther’s fierce put-downs of the monastic orders echo Erasmus’s droll send-ups of the potbellied and sandal-shod. A clear line can be drawn from Erasmus’s modest observation in the Enchiridion, Monachatus non est pietas—“Monasticism is not piety”—to Luther’s tirades against the entire institution. But Luther’s assault was characteristically more furious. “I want the whole idea of the monastery rooted out, wiped out, and abolished,” he roared in one passage. God should treat the monasteries like Sodom and Gomorrah, “so that not even their members should be left.” Isolated in his hilltop fortress, Luther seemed heedless of the inciting effect such pronouncements could have at a time of rising anticlericalism.
Luther dedicated On Monastic Vows to his father, Hans. In an emotional prefatory letter, he sought to repair their strained relations. Nearly sixteen years had passed since he had become a monk, and had he known of his father’s unwavering disapproval, Luther wrote, he would never have followed through, but he now urged Hans to see how much good had come of his decision. It was God’s will that he personally experience the impieties of monastic life so that no one could accuse him of condemning something of which he was ignorant. He could now show with authority how mad the papists were in holding up continence and virginity as values above all others. In any case, his ultimate allegiance was not to his earthly father but to Christ. He is “my immediate bishop, abbot, prior, lord, father, and teacher; I know no other. Thus I hope that he has taken from you one son in order that he may begin to help the sons of many others through me.”
Even as he was attacking monasticism and the Mass, Luther opened a third front. At the beginning of September 1521, Archbishop Albrecht of Mainz—in dire need of funds to maintain his court—published a papal bull promising an indulgence to those visiting his relics collection at the cathedral in Halle, where he resided. The collection’s nearly nine thousand items included a container of the mud from which God created Adam, branches from the burning bush, manna from Sinai, and wine from the wedding at Cana. As was the custom, visitors were expected to make a contribution in return for the indulgence. This was the same type of abuse that had driven Luther to write his Ninety-Five Theses, and when word reached the Wartburg that the archbishop was again at it, Luther prepared a stinging protest, denouncing not only Albrecht’s “idol” (the relics) but also his “brothel” (a reference to the harlots that he was widely believed to keep). Against the Idol at Halle, Luther called it, and when it was done he sent it off to Spalatin to be published.
Anticipating this development, Albrecht had sent Wolfgang Capito to Wittenberg in late September to meet with Melanchthon and others to try to forestall it. The mission was a success: the Saxon court decided to withhold the publication of Luther’s tract against Albrecht. When informed by Spalatin of this decision, Luther erupted. “I have hardly ever read a letter that displeased me more than your last one. . . . Your idea of not disturbing the public peace is beautiful, but will you allow the eternal peace of God to be disturbed by the wicked and sacrilegious actions of that son of perdition? Not so Spalatin! Not so Elector!”
Refusing to be deterred, Luther decided to write to Albrecht directly. Twice before, he noted, he had admonished Albrecht for selling indulgences but had not publicly accused him. Disregarding his concerns, the archbishop had now erected at Halle an idol that “robs poor simple Christians of their money and their souls.” He implored the archbishop to take the display down. If he did not, Luther would be forced to reveal to the world that the notorious indulgence sale of 1517 had been instigated not by Johann Tetzel, as was generally believed, but by Albrecht himself. He urged Albrecht to recall the “horrible fire” that had been set off by that initial spark. “The whole world was then surely of the opinion that one poor friar was too unimportant to receive the pope’s attention and was undertaking an impossible task.” But matters had now reached the point where the pope himself could barely contain the blaze. Luther further demanded that Albrecht stop persecuting priests who were marrying. He expected a “definite and speedy reply” to his letter in fourteen days; if it did not come, he would release his book. From his aerie, the solitary friar was presenting Germany’s most powerful prelate with an ultimatum.
Luther was worried, however, that the electoral court would not post his letter to Albrecht. He was also concerned about the status of his manuscripts on the Mass and monastic vows. Weeks after sending them off to Wittenberg, he had heard nothing back. Had they, too, been held up? After six months of being cooped up in the Wartburg, Luther longed to see Melanchthon, Amsdorf, Jonas, and other friends. In another of the daring acts that marked this phase of his career, he decided to make a secret visit to Wittenberg. Wearing the gray cloak and red beret of a knight, Luther on December 2, 1521, mounted a horse and, accompanied by a servant, rode down from the Wartburg and headed east toward Wittenberg.
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Was Nowhere Safe?
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p; Shortly after leaving Louvain for Basel, Erasmus had a stroke of luck. In the town of Tienen twelve miles to the east, he came upon a detachment of German soldiers who had just been discharged from the imperial army. Traveling in the same direction, they let him join them. Grateful for their protection and finding them far more disciplined than the usual bands, Erasmus would remain with them for the next two hundred miles. On one leg they rode for nine straight hours without stopping to eat because the road, winding through mountains and hills, was vulnerable to attack. Leaving the soldiers at Speyer, Erasmus continued on through Alsace. There, the main hazards were the foul-smelling stoves and the literary societies that insisted on detaining him with their receptions and toasts.
Finally, after nearly three weeks on horseback, Erasmus on November 15, 1521, rode wearily into Basel. The strain of the journey made his return to this oasis of scholars, printers, and proofreaders all the sweeter. Johann Froben had prepared a room for him in the building that housed his own shop and living quarters, with an open fireplace instead of a stove. No sooner was Erasmus installed, though, than he came down with a “pestilent rheum,” brought on in part by the growing chill in his rooms. In his letters, he frequently remarked on what seemed his dwindling years, and this lent added urgency to his work as he rushed to complete the remaining elements of his reform program. They included his annotations on the New Testament, his editions of Cyprian and Augustine, a new collection of his letters, and his scriptural paraphrases.
Erasmus had initially planned to limit his paraphrases to the Epistles; the Gospels, with their many discrepancies and obscurities, seemed too daunting. But the paraphrases of the Epistles were proving so popular—“thumbed everywhere, even by laymen,” he noted—that he was being urged to move on to the Gospels, and so he took up Matthew. As he proceeded, he saw how mistaken he had been to resist. While the Epistles offered the theology of Christ, the Gospels offered his life. The Sermon on the Mount as recorded in Matthew was central to Erasmus’s philosophy of Christ, and in his paraphrase he was able to expand and elaborate on it. “Since the evangelists wrote down the gospel to be read by all,” Erasmus observed in his preface, “I do not see why all should not read it, and I have treated it in such a way that even illiterates can understand it.”
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