The Reformation as Christianization: Essays on Scott Hendrix's Christianization Thesis (Spatmittelalter, Humanismus, Reformation / Studies in the La) 9783161517235, 9783161586040, 3161517237

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Spätmittelalter, Humanismus, Reformation Studies in the Late Middle Ages, Humanism and the Reformation herausgegeben von Volker Leppin (Tübingen) in Verbindung mit Amy Nelson Burnett (Lincoln, NE), Berndt Hamm (Erlangen) Johannes Helmrath (Berlin), Matthias Pohlig (Münster) Eva Schlotheuber (Düsselsdorf )

66

The Reformation as Christianization Essays on Scott Hendrix’s Christianization Thesis Edited by Anna Marie Johnson and John A. Maxfield

Mohr Siebeck

Anna Marie Johnson, born 1973; 1996 BA St. Olaf College; 2001 M.Div. Princeton Theological Seminary; 2008 PhD Princeton Theological Seminary; 2008–09 Adjunct Professor at Loyola University Chicago; since 2010 Visiting Assistant Professor of Reformation History at Garrett-Evangelical Theological Seminary. John A. Maxfield, born 1963; 1985 BA Gettysburg College; 1989 M.Div. Concordia Theological Seminary; 1990 MA (History) Indiana University; 2004 PhD (History) Princeton Theological Seminary; since 2009 Assistant Professor of Religious Studies, Concordia University College of Alberta.

ISBN 978-3-16-151723-5 / eISBN 978-3-16-158604-0 unveränderte eBook-Ausgabe 2019 ISSN 1865-2840 (Spätmittelalter, Humanismus, Reformation) Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliographie; detailed bibliographic data is available on the Internet at http://dnb.d-nb.de. © 2012 by Mohr Siebeck, Tübingen, Germany. This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, in any form (beyond that permitted by copyright law) without the publisher’s written permission. This applies particularly to reproductions, translations, microfilms and storage and processing in electronic systems. The book was typeset and printed by Gulde-Druck in Tübingen on non-aging paper and bound by Buchbinderei Spinner in Ottersweier. Printed in Germany.

Acknowledgements The idea for this book began as a twofold undertaking: to honor Scott Hendrix on the occasion of his seventieth birthday and to give a forum for discussion of his views on the coherence and significance of the Reformation that found their fullest expression in his 2004 book, Recultivating the Vineyard: The Reformation Agendas of Christianization. We are grateful to the nineteen scholars who agreed to lend their efforts and expertise to this conversation. Each one of them was enthusiastic, thoughtful, supportive and prompt, all of which was greatly appreciated. Several scholars helped us formulate the precise aim of the book and begin the process of making it a reality. We are especially grateful to Paul Rorem, Bob Kolb, and Ron Rittgers for their guidance and collegiality. Bob Kolb took collegial cooperation to the utmost by also helping us select and invite contributors, and finally by translating one of the essays included here. We are also grateful to both of our institutions for their support of this project. Garrett-Evangelical Theological Seminary offered not only the time for this work, but also funding for editorial assistance in proofing the final drafts of the chapters. Thanks to the administration and trustees for providing those resources and to R. Daniel Smith for his meticulous work in the editing process. Concordia University College of Alberta provided a collegial atmosphere of creative scholars and students for a new assistant professor, and an outstanding library and staff. Berndt Hamm and Henning Ziebritzki at Mohr Siebeck were ideal collaborators over the development of this volume. They provided the scholarly freedom to form the book as we saw fit, and they were unfailingly patient and conscientious as the project moved through its various phases. Finally we thank our Doktorvater, Scott Hendrix, for his collegial encouragement over the years. We hope he enjoys this volume as much as we have enjoyed learning from him. Anna Marie Johnson Evanston, Illinois John A. Maxfield Edmonton, Alberta October 2011

Contents Acknowledgements . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Abbreviations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

V IX

Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

1

Christendom and Christianization in the Middle Ages and the Reformation Robert Bireley, S. J. The “Reformation” as a Response to the Changing World of the Sixteenth Century: Reflections on Scott Hendrix’s Recultivating the Vineyard . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

11

Gerald Christianson From Conciliar to Curial Reform in the Late Middle Ages . . . . . .

33

Carter Lindberg “Christianization” and Luther on the Early Profit Economy . . . . .

49

Timothy J. Wengert Philip Melanchthon on “Christianity” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

79

James Stayer Three Phases of “Christianization” (?) among Reformation Radicals .

101

Martin Luther’s Agenda James M. Estes Clergymen, Princes, and Luther’s Agenda . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

125

John A. Maxfield Martin Luther and Idolatry . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

141

VIII

Contents

Risto Saarinen Luther and Beneficia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

169

Russell Kleckley Recultivating Natural Philosophy: Luther, the Magi, and the “Fools of Natural Knowledge” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

189

Rechristianizing Women, Men, and the Family Elsie Anne McKee Martin Luther through the Eyes of Katharina Schütz Zell . . . . . . .

213

Merry Wiesner-Hanks Jacob’s Branches and Laban’s Flocks: Christianizing the Maternal Imagination . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

231

Susan C. Karant-Nunn The Tenderness of Daughters, the Waywardness of Sons: Martin Luther as a Father . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

245

Austra Reinis Christianizing Church, State, and Household: The Sermons of Aegidius Hunnius (1550–1603) on the Household Table of Duties . . .

257

Reforming Religious Practice Berndt Hamm Reform, Reformation, Confession: The Development of New Forms of Religious Meaning from the Manifold Tensions of the Middle Ages

285

Robert Kolb Recultivation of the Vineyard in Sixteenth-Century Lutheran Exegesis and Preaching . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

305

Ronald K. Rittgers Christianization Through Consolation: Urbanus Rhegius’s Soul-Medicine for the Healthy and the Sick in These Dangerous Times (1529) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

321

Contents

IX

Theological Controversies and Christianization Volker Leppin Polarities in Conflict: The Late Medieval Roots of the Disputes between the Reformers and their Opponents . . . . . . . . . . . . .

349

Amy Nelson Burnett “According to the Oldest Authorities”: The Use of the Church Fathers in the Early Eucharistic Controversy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

373

Irene Dingel Pruning the Vines, Plowing Up the Vineyard: The SixteenthCentury Culture of Controversy between Disputation and Polemic . .

397

Bibliography of the Writings of Scott H. Hendrix . . . . . . . . . . .

409

Contributors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

419

Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

423

Abbreviations CB CC COD CWTM GR LW MC NRSV StA TRE WA WABr WATr WADB

Concilium Basiliense: Studien und Quellen zur Geschichte des Concils von Basel, ed. Johannes Haller et al., 8 vols. Basel, 1896–1936; reprint, Nendeln/Liechtenstein: Kraus Reprint, 1976. Nicholas of Cusa. The Catholic Concordance. Edited and translated by Paul E. Sigmund. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1991. Conciliorum Oecumenicorum Decreta. Edited by Giuseppe Alberigo. Basel: Herder, 1962. The Collected Works of Thomas Müntzer. Translated and edited by Peter Matheson. Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1988. Nicholas of Cusa, A General Reform of the Church. In Writings on Church and Reform. Translated by Thomas M. Izbicki. The I Tatti Renaissance Library. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2008. Luther, Martin. Luther’s Works. American Edition. 55 vols. Edited by Jaros­ lav Pelikan, Hilton C. Oswald, and Helmut T. Lehmann. Saint Louis and Philadelphia: Concordia Publishing House and Fortress Press, 1955–86. Monumenta conciliorum generalium seculi decimi quinti. Edited by Frantisek Palacky et al. 4 vols. Vienna and Basel: Typis C. R. Officinae typographicae aulae et status, 1857–1935. The Bible. New Revised Standard Version. Luther, Martin. Studienausgabe. 6 vols. Edited by Hans-Ulrich Delius. Berlin, later Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 1987–1999. Theologische Real Enzyklopädie. 36 vols. Edited by Gerhard Kraus and Gerhard Müller. Berlin; New York: de Gruyter, 1976–2007. D. Martin Luthers Werke. Kritische Gesamtausgabe. 77 vols. Edited by J. F. K. Knaake et al. Weimar: Herman Böhlau, 1883–2003. D. Martin Luthers Werke. Kritische Gesamtausgabe, Briefwechsel. 18 vols. Weimar: Böhlau, 1930–1948. D. Martin Luthers Werke. Kritische Gesamtausgabe, Tischreden. 6 vols. Weimar: Böhlau, 1912–21. D. Martin Luthers Werke. Kritische Gesamtausgabe, Deutsche Bibel. 12 vols. Weimar: Böhlau, 1906–1961.

Lutheran Confessions BSLK AC

Bekenntnisschriften der evangelisch-lutherischen Kirche. 10th ed. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1986. Augsburg Confession (1530)

XII Ap. FC LC SC SD Tr.

Abbreviations

Apology of the Augsburg Confession (1531) Formula of Concord (1577) Large Catechism (1529) Small Catechism (1529) Solid Declaration of the Formula of Concord (1577) Treatise on the Power and Primacy of the Pope (1537)

Introduction Anna Marie Johnson and John A. Maxfield Scott H. Hendrix’s Recultivating the Vineyard: The Reformation Agendas of Christianization presented a provocative thesis. Arguing against a decades-long trend that emphasized diversity and particularity among sixteenth-century reform movements, Hendrix instead highlighted the coherence he saw at the center of the various movements. Where Reformation historians had focused on theological differences and the formation of distinct confessional groups, Hendrix instead focused on a common desire and goal to re-Christianize Europe. Lutheran, Reformed, Radical, and Catholic reformers all thought that the Christianity of their time was an inadequate form of Christian faith and life, and they sought to cultivate a more authentic Christianity in their communities and churches. The goal all reformers shared, according to Hendrix, can be summarized by the term Christianization. A unified goal, however, does not imply unified convictions or outcomes. Hendrix notes that “the diversification of Christianity was already under way prior to the Reformation,” and he accounts for the division of Reformation movements into confessional churches as he describes the agendas of various reformers and movements in the chapters of the book. But his thesis is that the era is not defined primarily by the diversity, disagreements, and even the religious divisions that resulted from the various reform movements of the sixteenth century, but rather by the intensity of efforts to realize the common goal of Christianization and the outcomes that resulted, even if unintentionally, from that goal. Protestant reformers (including Radical reformers) viewed the religious culture they inherited as riddled with idolatry, while Catholic reformers sought the more limited goal of reforming the existing, divinely instituted structures and institutions of the Roman church. Yet all participated in the “restructuring of Christianity and the redrawing of the religious and political map of Europe” that defines the Reformation as a distinct historical epoch with significant cultural impact in the history of Western civilization. In Hendrix’s 

  (Louisville; London: Westminster John Knox Press, 2004).   Ibid., 160.    Ibid., xviii. 



Anna Marie Johnson and John A. Maxfield

view, this restructuring of Christianity conformed to the goal of Christianization even though none of the reformers intended the outcome of a divided, confessional Christianity. Significant to the Christianization thesis and to Hendrix’s view of the Reformation, then, is that the process of confessionalization that emerged as its outcome was not the co-opting of religious institutions and values by secularizing, absolutist states but rather “was the continuation of efforts to Christianize European cities and territories.” Thus Hendrix views the Reformation as a distinct epoch that continues well into the seventeenth century. Hendrix’s thesis challenges the way we imagine the Reformation. If there is a fundamental coherence to the Reformation, then narratives of reform must be reversed. Instead of beginning with difference, what happens if we begin with commonality? This experiment can be applied to everything from theologians to artisans. Hendrix’s own application focused on the goals of the reformers, arguing that they began with the common goal of Christianization and diverged in the specific agendas they employed to reach that goal. So, for example, Karlstadt’s radicalism was closer to Luther than is often told, for Luther also viewed the Christendom of his day as infested with idolatry that needed to be rooted out, though in a different way than Karlstadt was proposing. Luther was also more similar to the urban reformers than is often acknowledged, for he, too, was concerned not solely with justification by faith but also with the reform and improvement of Christian life and society. Various radical movements shared these assessments of and goals for Christianity in their day, even though their agendas called for a sharper break from past (and present) communities, and eventually to a “Christianization outside Christendom.” Catholic reform, well underway since the early fifteenth century, became Catholic Reformation as new orders and missionary enterprises, and especially the Council of Trent, brought about a restructuring of the papal church that made early modern Roman Catholicism a particular, confessional church instead of the universal church in the West. Taking up the provocative thesis of Gerald Strauss that the Reformation tried but failed “to make people – all people – think, feel, and act as Christians,” Hendrix concluded that this was indeed the goal of Protestant and Catholic reform movements, and that they were more successful in achieving this goal than has often been granted, even though disappointments abounded. Nevertheless, lingering disappointments were tempered by the expectation of a great harvest to come that they would not see but that would finally fulfill their vision. .  .  . By hoping for the transformation of hearts and minds, the reformers of early modern Europe were also hoping for a transformation of history, and if that transformation could 

  Ibid., 157.   Ibid., 149, quoting Gerald Strauss, Luther’s House of Learning: Indoctrination of the Young in the German Reformation (Baltimore; London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1978), 307. 

Introduction



not be accomplished in the present, then it would be completed, they believed, in an age yet to come.

This “Christianization thesis,” as we are calling it, invites historians to talk to one another about the larger questions of Reformation history. The essays in this volume are a response to the interpretive challenge raised by Recultivating the Vineyard. They are intended to test Hendrix’s thesis by applying the research and perspectives of nineteen Reformation scholars to critique, modify, or expand its framework. It is a Festschrift of sorts, timed to coincide with Hendrix’s seventieth birthday, but it is intended to be a genuine debate in which the merits and deficits of the thesis are parsed and its usefulness tested. In other words, it is intended to honor the careful and incisive scholarship that Scott Hendrix has contributed to Reformation history by fostering a careful and incisive discussion of his scholarship among his colleagues. Hendrix began his scholarly career as a student of Heiko Oberman’s in Tübingen, Germany. There he labored in the Institut für Spätmittelalter und Reformation and joined several other young scholars in the study of Luther’s first lectures on the Psalter. Hendrix’s dissertation was completed in 1971 and published in 1974 as “Ecclesia in via”: Ecclesiological Developments in the Medieval Psalms Exegesis and the Dictata super psalterium (1513–1515) of Martin Luther. In this work, Hendrix used Luther’s early Psalms lectures to argue that his divergences from late medieval views on ecclesiology can be traced to his early theology. Luther’s later protest, then, was an outgrowth of his ecclesiology, and his new view of the church in the reform treatises of 1520 was more than a reaction to his conflict with the church hierarchy. Hendrix’s further research continued to focus on Luther and the circumstances that set the course for Luther’s movement. Early articles by Hendrix examined various aspects of late medieval ecclesiology, fifteenth- and sixteenth-century reform movements, and Luther’s early conflicts with the Catholic hierarchy. Some of these works were published in 1996, alongside later essays, in the book Tradition and Authority in the Reformation. Hendrix’s second monograph, Luther and the Papacy: Stages in a Reformation Conflict, was published in 1981. In that work, he traced seven stages of Luther’s growing opposition to the papacy, illustrating and explicating the causes of the conflict at each stage. Luther and the Papacy helped fill in the historical record on one of the most-researched aspects of Luther’s life, showing how a combination of Luther’s convictions, failed negotiations, and historical circumstance ultimately led to mutual antipathy. Even more significantly, Luther and the Papacy probed the important question of the reasons for Luther’s protest. Was Luther primarily a theologian who objected to the doctrine of the late medieval church? An overly-anxious monk in desperate need of a more grace-centered theology? A rebellious soul still reeling from the strict discipline of his father? Hendrix 

  Hendrix, Recultivating the Vineyard, 174.



Anna Marie Johnson and John A. Maxfield

presented a portrait of a reformer who was indeed theologically astute, religiously scrupulous, and personally acerbic, yet he located Luther’s concerns about the papacy primarily in his sense of pastoral responsibility. Luther’s protest against the papacy was fueled by his conviction that the pope, though claiming to be the shepherd of the faithful, was in fact leading the faithful astray. The longer the conflict continued, the more convinced Luther became that the papacy had knowingly abdicated its duty to the faithful; his protest became an open challenge and, finally, obstinacy. Although his publishing projects were focused on Luther, Hendrix maintained an active interest in other aspects of Reformation history all the while. Those interests were given the chance to develop further when he stopped teaching for several years in order to train and practice as a marriage and family therapist. In addition to fostering an interest in marriage and family in the Reformation, this hiatus also gave him the time to develop burgeoning interests, such as the Augsburg reformer Urbanus Rhegius, the use of the church fathers in Reformation debates, and the history of the Lutheran Confessions. Being trained and engaged professionally in therapeutic practices also pushed Hendrix to consider new paradigms and to contemplate the motivations of the reformers. All of these inclinations can be seen in Recultivating the Vineyard, which considers the broad range of sixteenth-century reform movements, places them in a new paradigm, and holds the question of motives at the center. Scott Hendrix spent most of his teaching career in the context of theological education and pastoral formation at Lutheran seminaries, and he ended it at Princeton Theological Seminary, a Presbyterian seminary with an ecumenical faculty and student body. His scholarship, however, has also engaged the much broader field of international Reformation studies, including those of political, social, and cultural history. The nineteen essayists who have contributed the chapters of this volume reflect that broad circle of international Reformation scholars. Roman Catholic scholar Robert Bireley opens the volume by incorporating the Christianization thesis into his view of the Catholic Reformation as a response to the manifold and significant changes of the sixteenth-century world. Gerald Christianson then applies the vineyard theme to the fifteenth century, especially to conciliar efforts at recultivation and reform. Carter Lindberg offers a critique of the Christianization thesis, using Luther’s views on usury and early modern capitalism as a case study in the reformer’s limited application of Christian teaching to societal reform. Timothy J. Wengert takes up the understanding of Christendom and various terms for “Christianity” in the thought and writings of Luther’s colleague Philip Melanchthon. James M. Stayer critiques the Christianization thesis by challenging scholars to abandon viewing Luther as normative for biblical studies and to recognize “the religious insufficiencies of any conception of ‘Christianization.’” After an overview of the goals

Introduction



and agendas of various radical reformers, Stayer concludes that “intensification of religious commitment” better characterizes the goals of sixteenth-century reformers than does “Christianization.” In a section devoted to Martin Luther’s agenda, James M. Estes opens with a careful analysis of the reformer’s Appeal to the Christian Nobility of the German Nation (1520), in addition to other works and events, to amend Hendrix’s view in Recultivating the Vineyard that “Luther attributed to the laity ‘as much right and obligation to reform Christendom’ as the clergy.” John A. Maxfield endorses Hendrix’s view of Luther as waging his own “war against the idols” and further develops that thesis. He argues that the bitter divisions between Luther and other reformers are best explained by different views of idolatry and their resulting contrary convictions regarding how idolatry should be weeded out of Christendom. Risto Saarinen takes up the theme of “gifts” in Luther’s theology and presents a case for viewing the Christianization of social culture as a major part of Luther’s agenda. Russell Kleckley picks up the “replanting” image in Hendrix’s view of Luther and applies it to the reformer’s theological interest in promoting natural philosophy in the University of Wittenberg’s curriculum. Hendrix’s interests in gender and the family in Reformation studies played a relatively minor role in Recultivating the Vineyard, but several scholars identify connections between this theme and Christianization. In a section of essays devoted to women, men, and the family, Hendrix’s former colleague at Princeton, Elsie Anne McKee, explores the Strasbourg reformer Katharina Schütz Zell’s view of and relationship with Martin Luther. McKee carefully analyzes how Schütz Zell’s gender played a role in her relationships with various reformers and how Luther viewed this remarkable woman. Merry Wiesner-Hanks takes up Luther’s exposition of Genesis to reflect on the reformer’s appeals for gentle (and thus Christian) treatment of pregnant women in an age that often accorded the maternal imagination great power, especially when something went wrong. Susan C. Karant-Nunn explores Martin Luther’s relationship as a father with his own children. Through analysis of sermons on the Household Table of Duties by the Lutheran court preacher Aegidius Hunnius, Austra Reinis takes up the Christianization thesis in relation to the later sixteenth century as a time of confessionalization. In the section devoted to Christian religious practice and piety, Berndt Hamm’s chapter shows how Christianization entailed the selective reception of diverse late medieval traditions. Hamm argues that the efforts to standardize late medieval piety and theology actually led the Reformation to splinter into various confessions because the new norms were too rigid. Robert Kolb traces the use of the image and metaphor of reformers cultivating the vineyard through 

  See pp.  104 and 122 below.   See pp.  125–26 below.





Anna Marie Johnson and John A. Maxfield

sixteenth-century Lutheran exegesis and preaching. Ronald K. Rittgers takes up the Christianization thesis in an analysis of the consolation literature by the Evangelical reformer Urbanus Rhegius, describing Rhegius as “a missionary who sought to make Christendom more authentically Christian through the development and promotion of an evangelical ministry of consolation.” The final section of the book looks at the theological controversies that were so prominent in the sixteenth century, which have led at least one historian to the conclusion that “the most important feature of the story of sixteenth-century Christianity was that a fundamental and fateful division occurred.”10 By focusing on the missionary goals of the reformers, Hendrix characterized the theological controversies and institutional divisions of the Reformation with the positive metaphor of recultivation, an integral part of the restructuring of Christianity that, for Hendrix, defines the Reformation as an epoch in church history. Three essays in this book explore some of these controversies. Volker Leppin points to the interplay of late medieval polarities in various Reformation movements to explain the diversity that resulted from the Reformation. For Leppin, the Reformation heightened existing polarities and made them into distinct movements, while opposition from Rome created unity among these diverse movements. Amy Nelson Burnett analyzes the uses of the church fathers in the early controversy on the Lord’s Supper between Luther (and his followers) and the Swiss and South Germans. She concludes that it was not just differing social contexts that led to the lasting divisions between the communities that eventually came to be known as Lutheran and Reformed, but also significant disagreements over biblical interpretation and the teaching of the early church fathers. In the final essay, Irene Dingel explores the “culture of controversy” that took a particular shape in the wake of the controversy over the Interim beginning in 1548. She concludes that such a culture was a natural and inevitable outcome of the recultivation of Christendom taken on by the reformers of the sixteenth century. The authors in this volume present a variety of perspectives on the Christianization thesis, both in the angles they use to approach the thesis and in their assessments of its usefulness. Some have found Christianization to be a helpful concept for framing their own research findings and for re-evaluating prior research. Some have judged Christianization to be an apt description of some aspects of the Reformation, but less apt for other aspects. And some authors have maintained that the concept of Christianization does not lend itself to an accurate depiction of the manifold viewpoints and events in sixteenth-century 

  See p.  322 below.   Hans J. Hillerbrand, The Division of Christendom: Christianity in the Sixteenth Century (Louisville; London: Westminster John Knox Press, 2007), x. Hillerbrand repeatedly uses the destructive term “conflagration” to describe the events ignited by Luther and engulfing European Christianity and society in the sixteenth century. 10

Introduction



church and society. The purpose of this volume is not to reach a consensus, but instead to foster a discussion about the interpretation and significance of the Reformation. It is, as Hendrix described it in the opening lines of Recultivating the Vineyard, an attempt to see the forest and not just the trees. Recultivating the Vineyard challenged the discussion of the Reformation to move beyond the safe confines of microhistory, and the contributors here have taken up that challenge.

Christendom and Christianization in the Middle Ages and the Reformation

The “Reformation” as a Response to the Changing World of the Sixteenth Century Reflections on Scott Hendrix’s Recultivating the Vineyard Robert Bireley, S. J. Scott Hendrix has made a significant contribution to our understanding of the Reformation era with his Recultivating the Vineyard: The Reformation Agendas of Christianization. It represents a welcome attempt to see the forest as well as the trees, as the author puts it, when we look at the religious changes of the sixteenth century. His volume develops further a line of interpretative scholarship that emphasizes the common elements of the religious traditions that competed with one another starting in the early sixteenth century. For these traditions taken together, including the Catholic, he uses the term “Reformation,” even though he prefers to use it to designate, more traditionally, the Protestant Reformation. So he builds on a scholarship that dates back at least to Jean Delumeau’s companion volumes Naissance et affirmation de la Réforme (1965) and Catholicism between Luther and Voltaire: A New View of the Counter-Reformation (1977; French original, 1971), which he discusses, and John Bossy’s Christianity in the West, 1400–1700 (1985), which he mentions briefly. For Delumeau the sixteenth century represented the first effective Christianization of rural Europe by Catholic and Protestant preaching; until then rural Europe remained to a significant degree pagan. More directly Hendrix builds on the theory of confessionalization that has its roots in the work of Ernst Walter Zeeden. Zeeden provided a new conceptual framework into which to fit the religious changes of the sixteenth century. In a seminal article of 1958 Zeeden called for the comparative study of the growth of the principal Christian churches, or confessions, that emerged in the sixteenth century. He designated the common elements in the formation of confessions as “confessionalism” (Konfessionsbildung). This he defined as “the organizational and intellectual hardening” of the diverging Christian confessions after the collapse of Christian unity into more or less stable church structures with their own doctrines, church orders, and religious and moral styles. It also included their active intervention in the world of the sixteenth century and

12

Robert Bireley, S. J.

their relationship to non-ecclesiastical entities, especially the state. Noteworthy here is that confessionalism can also be applied to churches or religious groups that were not affiliated with the state, that is, not state churches, such as communities of the Radical Christian tradition or the Jews. Wolfgang Reinhard subsequently listed seven procedures common to the development of a confession: the elaboration of clear theological positions or “confessions” of faith; their promulgation and implementation through institutional forms, such as papal nuntiatures, synods, visitations; their internalization through preaching and education, especially schools and seminaries; the use of media of communication, especially the printing press, to propagandize, and the use of censorship to hinder the propaganda of others; disciplinary measures, such as the visitation of parishes and excommunication; control of the nature of and access to rites; and the development of a peculiar confessional language, as, for example, the use of particular saints’ names in the baptism of infants. Reinhard then and Heinz Schilling later took confessionalism further and introduced the term “confessionalization” (Konfessionalisierung). This term added and emphasized the role of “social discipline,” a term assumed from the work of Gerhard Oestreich, in the emergence of the confession, and they associated the confessions with the growth of the early modern state. By enhancing the unity of subjects or citizens, instilling a sense of loyalty and obedience to authority, and making it easy for a ruler to make use of church resources, confessionalization aided the development of the state. This theory fit particularly well the situation in the Holy Roman Empire with its many medium-sized and small states. Initially, it proposed a model that postulated action from the top down, that is, the imposition of norms and prescriptions by authority, either of church or state, or of the two together, on an obedient populace. But more and more it became evident that this model did not fit reality. Movement was not only from the top down but also from the bottom up, that is, in many cases authorities were not able to simply settle their will upon the people. Resistance arose from the bottom, so that confessionalization often became a matter of negotiation between authorities and subjects and so the theory experienced many modifications.    Ernst Walter Zeeden, “Grundlagen und Wege der Konfessionsbildung in Deutschland im Zeitalter der Glaubenskämpfe,” Historische Zeitschrift 185 (1958): 251. Reprinted in Gegenreformation, ed. E. W. Zeeden (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1973), 88.    Wolfgang Reinhard, “Zwang zur Konfessionalisierung? Prologemena zu einer Theorie des konfessionellen Zeitalters,” Zeitschrift für historische Forschung 10 (1983): 257–77.    Wolfgang Reinhard, “Reformation, Counter-Reformation, and the Early Modern State: A Reassessment,” Catholic Historical Review 75 (1989): 383–404; Winfried Schulze, “Gerhard Oestreichs Begriff ‘Sozialdisziplinierung’ in der frühen Neuzeit,” Zeitschrift für historische Forschung 14 (1987): 265–302.    See, for example, the two volumes by Marc Forster, The Counter-Reformation in the Villages: Religion and Reform in the Bishopric of Speyer, 1560–1720 (Ithaca: Cornell University

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What Hendrix has now done is to relate the concept of Christianization more directly to the theory of confessionalization. He intends, as he relates, more to describe than to explain. Drawing upon the terminology of John van Engen, Hendrix understands Christianization as the shaping of the culture of both high and low through Christian teachings and practices. The first Christianization of Europe began in the early medieval period and continued up to the end of the fifteenth century. In his first chapter, following the introductory one, Hendrix describes and assesses this medieval Christianization calling attention at the end to reform efforts of the late Middle Ages. The “second act” of Christianization, according to Hendrix who takes this term over from Constantine Fasolt, was the Reformation period. The next four chapters describe the way in which the four main Reformation traditions undertook to Christianize European society: the Lutheran, the urban (the Zwinglian, the Strasbourg, and the Calvinist), the Radical Christian, and the Catholic. The main thesis that Hendrix makes here is that all four traditions started out with the same goal, the Christianization of society. Its twofold goal was “to reform the rituals of late-medieval piety in conformity with sound doctrine,” and “to create more sincere and intentional believers by transforming people’s minds and hearts.” These are the elements that are common to all of them. In this sense we can speak of a “Refashioning of Christianity” as Hendrix does, modifying the title of my book The Refashioning of Catholicism. What stands out in Hendrix’s understanding of Christianization is the emphasis on the elimination of what was considered idolatry, superstition, or false worship. The reformers were concerned about the practice of religion in the first place, not doctrine, according to Hendrix. They took offense at the abuses that they found in the veneration of Mary and the saints, indulgences, pilgrimages, and other similar practices. In some cases this led to iconoclastic outbursts as in Wittenberg, Zurich, and later in the Netherlands. Interestingly, Hendrix does not point to institutional as opposed to liturgical or devotional abuses, such as absenteeism, pluralism, the exaggeration of papal authority, and questionable financial practices as a source of the reformers’ concern. Generally, he relegates his discussion of the institutional and doctrinal features that underlay the differences between Protestant and Catholic practice to a secondary position. The reformers (including the Catholics) then diverged fundamentally over two genPress, 1992); and Catholic Revival in the Age of the Baroque: Religious Identity in Southwest Germany (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2001).    Scott H. Hendrix, Recultivating the Vineyard: The Reformation Agendas of Christianization (Louisville; London: Westminster John Knox Press, 2004), 2.    See Constantin Fasolt, “Europäische Geschichte, zweiter Akt: Die Reformation,” in Die deutsche Reformation zwischen Spätmittelalter und Früher Neuzeit, ed. Thomas A. Brady (Munich: Oldenbourg, 2001), 231–50.    Hendrix, Recultivating, 148.    Ibid., 123–24.

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eral issues. The first was over what more specifically constituted an abuse. Here Hendrix places the different traditions on a scale according to the degree to which they wanted to spiritualize religion. The Zwinglian/Calvinist, and it would seem the Radical too, aimed at the greatest spiritualization of religion, and so the elimination of material elements from worship as well as any intermediaries between man and God. So there followed their rejection of all images, which they considered to lead to idolatry, and to their position on the spiritual presence of the Lord in the Eucharist. The Lutherans occupied a middle ground. They retained some images and veneration of biblical saints as well as elements of the Real Presence in the Eucharist. The Catholics also sought the reform of abuses of worship, as was evident in the reform decrees of the Council of Trent, but they aimed at the elimination of the superstitions connected with many of the material elements of worship, not the end of the practices themselves. So they retained the Real Presence in the Eucharist, the veneration of the saints, indulgences, and many other pious practices. Hendrix does not use the term, but one may say that the Catholic tradition remained thoroughly incarnational. Where the reformers then diverged still more fundamentally was over how to deal with the elimination of abuses. It was these divergences, then, over the nature of idolatrous abuses and especially the way to end them and to lead the people to a deeper understanding and more intelligent practice of the Christian life that gave birth, according to Hendrix, to the formation of the main Christian confessions or churches. This was never the intention of the reformers. They all envisioned the Christianization of society, and it is this common vision that unified all the major Reformation traditions, including the Catholic tradition. It is the merit of Recultivating the Vineyard to have highlighted this unifying element of the Reformation period and to show how it eventually yielded to confessionalization. Certainly Christianization constituted a major element in what has come to be called Catholic Reform or Early Modern Catholicism. John O’Malley emphasized in The First Jesuits that the principal goal of the Jesuits was the Christianization (Christianitas) of people and of society in the sense of their advancement in the Christian life, and he was disinclined to use the term “reform” for this effort. According to O’Malley, reform should be taken in a more limited, technical sense of a return to the observance of the ecclesiastical canons, which applied to the clergy and which was enacted at the Council of Trent.10 But if we take the term “reform” in its more general sense of a conversion of heart on the    The Radicals do not fit cleanly on this scale; they might be located between the Calvinists and the Lutherans. For Hendrix they are characterized by the high level of expectations they held for all Christians and for their gradual movement toward separation. 10   John O’Malley, The First Jesuits (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1993), 17–18, 87–88, 125–26, 321–27.

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part of individuals or of society, its meaning comes very close to Christianization. And as Hendrix points out, the term “reformation” was often used by Catholics as well as Protestants. Furthermore, reform connotes that matters were in a bad state. But in fact, as much recent research has shown, the church was not in such a bad state on the eve of the Protestant Reformation.11 Certainly, though there were abuses, matters were not continually sliding from bad to worse as was often portrayed in an older Protestant historiography. Ignatius Loyola did not see himself as a “reformer” but as a missionary. Hendrix sees the start of the “second act” of Christianization with the sixteenth century. I would place it at the Council of Constance (1414–18) where there originated the call for “reform in faith and practice and in head and members” that echoed throughout much of the fifteenth century. The century saw a renewed emphasis on preaching, especially in the towns where the friars played a major role. One historian has written for northern France that “never before had there been so much preaching, never before had sacred orators enjoyed such popular success.”12 Standouts were the Dominicans Vincent Ferrer and Girolamo Savonarola, and the Franciscans Bernardine of Siena and John Capistrano. Cities vied to contract famous preachers for the sermons of Lent and Advent. After the invention of the printing press in the 1450s, religious books dominated the market. Bibles appeared in the vernacular languages except English, as did many helps for prayer such as missals, psalters, and books of hours. A classic was the Imitation of Christ by Thomas à Kempis. Confraternities dotted medieval Europe. These social and religious brotherhoods that were often associated with occupational groups grew in the course of the fifteenth century. Rouen with a population of roughly 40,000 counted 131 confraternities toward the end of the fifteenth century.13 In Italy after the start of the Italian wars, confraternities turned to dealing with those wounded or displaced. Observant branches of the Dominicans and Franciscans were formed with the intention of returning to a strict practice of the rule. Even the foundation of the Spanish Inquisition in 1478 can be seen as an effort to promote the practice of the Christian life. The recent multi-volume French Histoire du christianisme entitles the volume for the period from 1450 to 1530 De la Reforme à la Reformation, so it 11   John O’Malley, Trent and All That (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2000), 65 and n46; see, for example, Eamon Duffy, The Stripping of the Altars: Traditional Religion in England, c. 1400-c. 1580 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1992). 12   Hervé Martin, “Les prédications deviantes, du début du XVe siècle au dèbut du XVIe siècle, dans les provinces septentrionales de la France,” in Bernard Chevalier and Robert Sauzet, eds., Les réformes enracinement socio-culturel: XXV colloque de Tours (Paris: Editions de la Maisnie, 1985), 251; cited in Larissa Taylor, Soldiers of Christ: Preaching in Late Medieval and Reformation France (New York: Oxford University Press, 1992; reprinted Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2002), 10. 13   Francis Rapp, in Histoire du Christianisme, vol. 7: De la réforme à la Réformation (1450– 1530), ed. Marc Venard et al. (Paris: Desclée, 1994), 256.

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associates the early years of the Protestant Reformation with late medieval reform. Catholic Christianization or, to use another word to designate the same reality, evangelization, shared many common elements with Protestant versions. This should not surprise us; they both confronted the same world. My principal purpose in this essay is to suggest that the religious movements of the sixteenth century examined by Hendrix can also be understood as competing, positive reactions to the changing world of the sixteenth century. Indeed, Hendrix points in this direction. I look at issues of practice and pass over doctrinal and institutional matters; these latter I leave for another day. My attention is directed principally to the Catholic tradition with comparisons with the Protestant traditions along the way. This conception enables us to fit the developments of the sixteenth century into a broader pattern in the history of the church. From its earliest days the church has had to define and establish its position toward contemporary society and culture in order to speak to that society and culture. Often enough vigorous disagreements existed within the church about what this position ought to be. Already in the Acts of the Apostles there arose first the question whether the gospel ought to be preached beyond the Jews to the Gentiles. This was fairly easily resolved but then there emerged the much more divisive issue whether the Gentile Christians were to be held to the dietary regulations and other observances of the Jewish law. The struggle over and the resolution of this issue represents a main theme of the whole Acts of the Apostles. Subsequently, in the early church there arose the issue of the relationship of the church to the contemporary Greek and Roman culture. It was summed up in the question, “What has Jerusalem to do with Athens?” Then, in the early Middle Ages, there emerged the need to evangelize and incorporate into the church the barbarian tribes of the north with their relatively primitive, warrior culture. Out of this came the figure of the Christian knight whose vocation was to defend women and the weak, and ultimately to pilgrimage to the Middle East on Crusade. The well-known cases of the Rites Controversies in China and in India in the early modern period illustrate the same issue with regard to non-European cultures. The issue remains an acute one for us in the twenty-first century. What constitutes an African form of Christianity? How can and should the church in the Western world adapt to the society and culture as they change much more rapidly than they ever did in past centuries? What is and ought to be the position of women in the church? The early sixteenth century saw European society and culture undergoing major changes. Four of these stand out for this essay, and of these two in particular. Socially and economically it was a period of demographic growth and, for my purposes here, urbanization. According to the best estimates, the European population swelled from 55 million in 1450 to 74 million in 1650. Though the great majority of people continued to live in the country, growth was prom-

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inent in the cities. Antwerp’s population, for example, jumped from roughly 37,000 in 1500 to 100,000 in 1600.14 Increasing trade within Europe as well as across the seas and general economic expansion accompanied the rise in population. A relative social mobility and an expanding, better educated middle class characterized the cities and towns. The second change, the cultural change brought by the Renaissance, only traveled across the Alps in a significant fashion after about 1490. A new individualism characterized by a self-consciousness and a recognition of the unique nature of the individual personality took hold especially among elites. The portrait and the self-portrait, both increasingly popular, aimed to capture the individual personality and to draw attention to his inner life, as the humanist Petrarch had done in his many writings. The new humanism involved the eager study of the ancient Greek and Roman classics, and this in turn stirred a growing study of the sources of the Christian tradition, the Christian Scriptures and the Fathers of the Church, and then the Hebrew Scriptures. Humanism’s return to the ancients dug up texts regarding law, medicine, astronomy, philosophy, and history from the ancient world; these studies combined with the knowledge acquired as Europeans sailed the oceans and encountered new lands brought about an enormous expansion of knowledge that stretched European minds to incorporate it into a new synthesis. Educational practice, as well as optimism about the possibilities of education, was greatly stimulated by humanism. Gutenberg’s invention of printing in the mid-1450s enormously increased the dissemination of knowledge including editions of the Scriptures as well as devotional and theological works. Two further changes that marked the early sixteenth century were the growth of the state – it was the age of Machiavelli – and the expansion of Europe across the seas and the birth of the first colonial empires of Portugal and Spain. There were many similarities in the way Catholics and Protestants responded to this changing world. The following pages suggest some of these similarities, chiefly from a Catholic perspective, as well as some distinctive differences. They are intended to invite further, detailed reflection comparing Protestant and Catholic reform precisely as responses to the changing world of the sixteenth century. Both the Protestant Reformation and the Catholic Reform put down firm roots first in the cities, in Nuremberg and Strasbourg, Cologne and Lyons, for example. The urban middle class, increasingly literate, proved to be the principal lay carrier of the Protestant Reformation and Catholic Reform. Starting with Lucien Febvre’s well-known article back in 1929, some scholars have not14   Jan de Vries, “Population,” in Handbook of European History 1400–1600, ed. Thomas A. Brady, Jr., Heiko A. Oberman, and James D. Tracy (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1996), I:13; R. R. Palmer, Atlas of World History (Chicago: Rand McNally, 1957), 194.

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ed an apparent desire for a more profound religious experience and practice especially among this urban laity. This would help explain the developing popularity of sermons, confraternities, and religious publications. The Protestant Reformation, Febvre contended, could not be explained as a reaction against abuses in the church, real as they were. It resulted for him more from the desire for a new style of religion that would better suit the times.15 H. Outram Evennett saw both Protestant and Catholic reform as emerging from “the reinvigoration of the religious urge” in the sixteenth century, as Hendrix points out (122).16 John Bossy argued many years ago that both Protestantism and sixteenthcentury Catholicism represented a turn from a more communal to a more individualistic style of religion that runs parallel with the individualism of the Renaissance. For Protestants it certainly meant, at least in the long run, a greater role for individual conscience in the face of church authority as well as the diminution of the part played by the church in the process of salvation. For Catholics, the sacrament of confession became both more individual and private, thus fitting nicely with the growing individualism. The confessional was first introduced for the sacrament by Charles Borromeo in Milan, and gradually it found its way across most of Europe. It was made up of a box-like structure, usually open in front, with a chair for the priest and a grille to the side, on the other side of which there was place for the penitent to kneel. So there was greater opportunity for a conversation between priest and penitent in confession, and with it, a forum for individual spiritual direction and the adaptation of moral norms to particular individual cases, or the practice of casuistry. According to some historians, the careful examination of conscience before confession aided in the development of systematic, ordered thinking, and the practice of the general confession, which looked back over one’s whole life and was recommended by the widely influential Spiritual Exercises of Ignatius Loyola, fostered an increase of individual self-knowledge.17 The Spiritual Exercises, more significantly, offered a way to help the individual discern God’s call for him or her, whether in the clerical, religious, or lay estate, and in what capacity. In this sense it catered 15

  Lucien Febvre, “Une question mal-posée: Les origines de la Réforme française et le problème des causes de la Réforme,” La Revue Historique 159 (1929): 1–73, reprinted in his Au coeur religieux du 16e siècle (Paris: Sevpen, 1957): 1–70, and translated in an abbreviated form as “The Origins of the French Reformation: A Badly-Put Question?” in A New Kind of History: From the Writings of Febvre, ed. Peter Burke (New York, 1973): 44–107; see also, for example, Bernd Moeller, “Frommigkeit in Deutschland um 1500,” Archiv für Reformationsge­ schichte 56 (1965): 5–31. 16   H. Outram Evennett, The Spirit of the Counter-Reformation, ed. with a postscript by John Bossy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1968), 124. 17   Michael Maher, “Confession and Consolation: The Society of Jesus and Its Promotion of the General Confession,” in Penitence in the Age of Reformations, Katharine Jackson Lualdi and Anne T. Thayer, eds. (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2000), 184–200.

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to the new individualism, as did a proliferation of books providing instruction on individual prayer and meditation. Some of these, such as the Introduction to the Devout Life by Francis de Sales, first published in 1609, were read across confessional lines. A leading achievement of the Catholic Reform as well as the Protestant Reformation was the affirmation of the worldly or lay vocation as a Christian way of life. One need not be a cleric or religious in order to live a full Christian life. This assertion, along with the attempt to show how it could be done, constituted a main form of evangelization in the early modern period as well as an attempt to accommodate the gospel to the changing world and especially to the growing number of educated lay people, especially in the towns and cities. There were dissenters to be sure. Machiavelli had famously written that “if a ruler who always wants to act honourably is surrounded by many unscrupulous men, his downfall is inevitable. Therefore, a ruler who wishes to maintain his power must be prepared to act immorally when this becomes necessary.”18 In other words, one could not be moral in any traditional way and be successful in the world of politics. Prominent voices took the side of Machiavelli. Thomas à Kempis in his The Imitation of Christ, perhaps the most widely read book after the Bible, cautioned about participation in worldly affairs. But this view did not prevail in early modern Catholicism. It rather reasserted the position of Renaissance humanism that the active life, and participation in politics in particular, represented a noble Christian calling. Then a renewed Thomism stamped its imprint on the Catholic Reform and along with it an optimistic vision of human nature and its fulfillment in grace. A significant pessimistic Augustinian countercurrent persisted, with an emphasis on the sinfulness of man and the world, but it did not predominate. The Spanish Dominican theologian Francisco Vitoria brought with him back to Spain the revived Thomism whose spirit he had breathed in at Paris. The lectures on Aquinas that they attended at the University of Paris influenced Ignatius Loyola and his early companions. Aquinas was in vogue in Rome by the time they arrived there in 1528. For them, humanist education and Aristotle, along with Aquinas, were congenial. Aquinas was the author recommended by the Jesuit Constitutions for the study of theology.19 Later the Jesuit schools and in particular Jesuit theater exalted the active life in the world and aimed to show the harmony between it and the Christian virtues.20 The Spiritual Exercises of Ignatius Loyola implied a world-affirming spirituality. Creation remained essentially good even after original sin and man’s misuse 18   Niccolò Machiavelli, The Prince, ed. Quentin Skinner and Russell Price (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 54. 19   O’Malley, First Jesuits, 28, 247–51. 20   Jean-Marie Valentin, “Gegenreformation und Literatur: das Jesuitendrama im Dienste der religiösen und moralischen Erziehung,” Historisches Jahrbuch 100 (1980): 240–56.

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of God’s creatures. Still more important in this regard was Francis de Sales’ Introduction to a Devout Life. The purpose of this volume was to “instruct those who live in towns, within families, or at court, and by their state of life are obliged to live an ordinary life as to outward appearances. Frequently, on the pretext of some supposed impossibility, they will not even think of undertaking a devout life .  .  . . [God] commands Christians .  .  . to bring forth the fruits of devotion, each accord to his position and vocation.” Francis then elaborates on the different states of life, at one point remarking that “for my part, I would have devout people, whether men or women, always the best dressed in a group but the least pompous and affected.”21 Francis’s psychological method also reflected contemporary individualism and was reminiscent of Montaigne’s Essays. By his death in 1622 many editions of the Introduction to a Devout Life had appeared, and by 1656 it had been translated into seventeen languages.22 Many other books in the same vein found their way into print, for example, the French Jesuit Nicholas Caussin’s The Holy Court. First published in 1624, it appeared in increasingly expanded editions and in translations into the major European languages throughout the seventeenth century. Closely related to the conviction that the Christian life could be lived in the world and to individualism was the development of casuistry, that is, the adaptation of moral principles to individual circumstances. A changing world required thoughtful reassessment of the application of traditional moral norms as, for example, in the case of usury, which then designated the taking of any interest on a loan, not excessive interest. Gradually moralists came to realize that usury or interest contributed positively to the growth of a commercial economy. The Jesuit Leonard Lessius’s On Justice and Law, published in 1605 after his thorough study of the Antwerp market, helped to change the Catholic attitude, which was becoming more understanding of usury since the later Middle Ages. More generally, increasingly large tomes of moral theology helped confessors to assist penitents in the application of moral principles. At the heart of the long conflict between Jesuits and Jansenists, which started to loom in the 1650s, were differences about the adaptation of traditional morality to a changing social and cultural scene. Protestants also engaged in the practice of casuistry, as can be seen in the works of the Puritan William Perkins at the turn of the seventeenth century.23 Few historical movements have taken education as seriously as the Catholic Reform and the Protestant Reformation. Generally, Protestants and Catholics shared the confidence of the Renaissance in education, both less formal through 21   Francis de Sales, Introduction to the Devout Life, ed. and trans. John K. Ryan (Garden City, NY: Image Books, 1989), 34, 41, 43–4, 193. 22   Ibid., 9–12. 23   See H. C. Porter, Reformation and Reaction in Tudor Cambridge (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1958), 288–313.

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preaching and catechism and formal through schooling from village schools through universities. Catholics as well as Protestants placed great importance on instruction of the faithful, a faithful they often deemed woefully ignorant of their Christian faith. Both Catholics and Protestants emphasized preaching as a means of Christianization in the sixteenth century. As noted earlier, in the fifteenth century the mendicant orders had revived preaching and produced a number of charismatic preachers, and this activity greatly increased in the next two centuries. New was a systematization or rationalization of method that was used by the Capuchins, Jesuits, and other orders in the popular missions that they conducted first in cities and towns and later in the countryside. By the later seventeenth century, especially in southern Europe, these missions, usually lasting a week, included elaborate staging, public processions, and dramatic liturgies. More important still for evangelization was regular preaching in urban and rural parishes. According to the Council of Trent, bishops and pastors were held above all to preach in their churches themselves or to provide a preacher. A number of books on preaching were published in the two decades following the council. They suggested a variety of rhetorical styles, drawing in particular on aspects of humanist oratory. Catholic preaching drew upon the Scriptures as its principal source, and occasionally preaching manuals took over material from Protestant writers, especially Philip Melanchthon.24 Sermon collections called Postilla were published, some with material for every Sunday of the year and others for feast days. But it would be a long time before pastors, especially in the country, would be willing to preach regularly and were equipped to do so adequately. The brunt of preaching remained with the religious orders up through the seventeenth century. Indeed, preaching became a distinct literary form by the end of that century. The sixteenth century was the age of the catechism and of catechetical instruction for Catholics as well as for Protestants. A new awareness of the startling ignorance of religious knowledge among the populace helped to stimulate the catechetical movement, and the coming of the Protestant Reformation made it necessary for Catholics to know their faith. The printing press made catechisms available. Luther’s and other Protestant catechisms are well known. The need to instruct the Moriscos had stirred an interest in catechetics in Spain before 1500. The zealous priest Juan de Avila, inspired by a catechetical school in Seville in 1526, adopted the cause of religious instruction and composed a rhymed catechism. Enthusiasm for catechetical instruction mounted in Spain.25 24   John W. O’Malley, “Content and Rhetorical Forms in Sixteenth-Century Treatises on Preaching,” in Renaissance Eloquence: Studies in the Theory and Practice of Renaissance Rhetoric, ed. James J. Murphy (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1983), 239–40. 25   Sara T. Nalle, God in La Mancha: Religious Reform and the People of Cuenca, 1500–1650 (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1992), 111.

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In Italy in 1536 the priest Castellino da Castello launched the initiative in Milan that resulted in the widespread Confraternity of Christian doctrine. By 1584 it numbered 3000 members who taught about 40,000 pupils.26 The Council of Trent in its first period in 1546 and again at the end in 1563 imposed the obligation on pastors to instruct children in catechism on Sundays and feast days, and many diocesan and provincial synods followed this up with more specific measures. Of the catechisms that came on the market most prominent were those authored by the German Jesuit Peter Canisius. His Summary of Christian Doctrine came out in three versions, in 1555 for university students, in 1558 for adolescents, and in 1566 for children. Altogether, they went through more than 200 editions in many languages before his death in 1597. Yet catechetical instruction encountered resistance. Pastors themselves sometimes argued against keeping children indoors on Sunday afternoons. In Bavaria they often taught catechism after the homily at Sunday Mass. Successful in teaching catechism were the Jesuits who made use of the paedagogical methods employed in their schools. They aimed to make the memorization involved in catechism more palatable, introducing into the instruction stories, songs, dramatizations, dialogues, and processions, and they fostered competitions among the students with contests and awards. Reception of the sacraments was closely associated with preaching and catechetical instruction. Shortly after the conclusion of Trent, in 1570, Rome issued a new missal with standardized texts for the Mass, and a new Roman Ritual soon followed with texts for other sacraments as well as for many sacramentals or pious practices such as prayers, blessings, anointings, and processions. In the course of the later Middle Ages the sacrament of confirmation had fallen into widespread disuse but now gradually reappeared. At one point 30,000 folks were confirmed in the diocese of Augsburg within two months.27 The Jesuits fostered the solemnization of a child’s First Communion, a practice that became widespread in the church.28 New and revived devotional practices were a feature of sixteenth and seventeenth-century Catholicism. Here there was a decided effort to banish elements that seemed to be superstitious or profane. The Catholics preferred to reform or purify practices that the Protestants with their horror of idolatry eliminated. Often practices were involved that distinguished Catholics from Protestants and 26   Paul F. Grendler, “Borromeo and the Schools of Christian Doctrine,” in San Carlo Borromeo: Catholic Reform and Ecclesiastical Politics in the Second Half of the Sixteenth Century, ed. John M. Headley and John B. Tomaro (Washington, DC: Folger Shakespeare Library; London and Cranbury, NJ: Associated University Presses, 1988), 164–65. 27   Eugon Paul, “Religiös-kirchliche Sozialisation und Erziehung in Kindheit und Jugend,” in Handbuch der bayerischen Kirchengeschichte, vol. 2: Von der Glaubensspaltung bis zur Säkularisation, ed. Walter Brandmüller (Sankt Ottilien: EOS Verlag, 1993), 571–72. 28   Maryvonne Goubet-Mahé, “Le premier rituel de la première Communion,” in La Première Communion: quatre siècles d’histoire, ed. Jean Delumeau (Paris: Desclée, 1987), 51–74.

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so fostered confessional identity, for example, the adoration of Christ present in the Blessed Sacrament, the veneration of the Virgin Mary and the saints, and prayer for the souls in purgatory. Other medieval traditions were frequently elaborated and expanded upon, so that continuity with the earlier period was evident. Of these, the most well known was the celebration of the Feast of Corpus Christi (Body of Christ) with its great procession in honor of the Real Presence of Christ in the Blessed Sacrament. It had begun in the Netherlands in the thirteenth century and was extended to the universal church in 1317 for the Thursday after the second Sunday after Pentecost, which meant that it fell at the height of spring in late May or early June. The annual Corpus Christi procession became a major civic event incorporating civic and ecclesiastical officials, guilds and confraternities, and, in university towns, students and faculty. Ecclesiastical officials became increasingly concerned about propriety in this event, and they seem to have succeeded in banning objectionable features from the church building itself. The great Spanish playwright Pedro Calderón de la Barca composed more than eighty one-act plays, many of them allegorical, which were intended initially for performance on Corpus Christi. Pilgrimages had long been a traditional way of seeking favors from God through the intercession of a saint, expressing thanks and undertaking penance. They as well as Marian piety had come under the stinging criticism of the Protestant reformers. They declined sharply in the first half of the sixteenth century, but pilgrimages rebounded, especially Marian pilgrimages, in the second half of the century and they flourished in the seventeenth century. Pilgrims streamed in particular to two Marian shrines, Loreto near Ancona in Italy, which drew an international following, and Altötting in Bavaria, which attracted pilgrims mostly from Bavaria and from the Habsburg lands. Orlando di Lasso, the famous Italian musician at the Wittelsbach court of Munich, set to music in 1575 the Litany of Loreto, a series of invocations of Mary prayed every Saturday at the shrine, and it spread through the Catholic world.29 Many saints, local and international, acquired new popularity at the same time as the church sought to end the abuses associated with their veneration while reaffirming their intercessory power and accentuating their place as role models for the Christian life. The Council of Trent dealt with the saints, and Pope Urban VIII in 1634 streamlined the liturgical calendar and issued new regulations for the canonization of saints. St. Joseph’s cult had developed in the fifteenth century. It became increasingly popular across the whole church in the subsequent two centuries, perhaps because of an interest in him as a model father. “Joseph” became a name frequently given to Catholic boys. In 1578 labor29   On processions see Sabine Felbecker, Die Prozession. Historische und systematische Untersuchungen zu einer liturgischen Ausdruckshandlung (Altenberge, 1995); on Calderón, ibid., 303– 4; and for pilgrimages, see Ludwig Hüttl, Marianische Wallfahrten im süddeutsch-österreichischen Raum (Cologne: Böhlau, 1995).

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ers in a Roman vineyard discovered previously unknown catacombs, and this stirred new interest in the early saints. Catholic churches from across Europe aimed to secure bones as relics from the catacombs, all of which were thought to be the bones of martyrs. Usually these were given names before they were carried over the Alps, and they were installed with great solemnity in local churches. On 7 November 1621 the court church of the Duke of Neuburg in Germany, a convert, received with much ceremony the bones of Saints Sulpicius, Charilaius, and Aurelia. This cult of the early Roman martyrs confirmed the bond with both Rome and the early church.30 Confraternities had played a significant role in Catholic life in the later Middle Ages, as we have seen; Protestants had generally shut them down. But in the sixteenth century they came to new prominence just as church authorities sought to acquire greater control over these essentially lay brotherhoods. They gave the laity an opportunity to live a more intensive religious life. Their growth in both number and in membership, as well as a new emphasis on works of charity, represented in part a response to the rising number of the poor and needy. By 1600, every third or fourth male in the larger urban areas of Italy, it has been estimated, was a member of a congregation at some point in his life, along with a lesser number of women and adolescents. Perugia counted perhaps two thousand people in its confraternities at the end of the sixteenth century, out of a population of 19,000.31 In the town of Cuenca in Spain in 1570, sixty-two per cent of the men and forty per cent of the women belonged to at least one confraternity.32 Many congregations dated from the Middle Ages, founded to pursue devotional and social goals, but as we have seen, many now carried on a number of charitable activities: hospitals for the sick and pilgrims, visitation of prisoners and the accompaniment of the condemned to their death; the assembling of dowries for poor girls; nursing care in homes; loans for the poor; the teaching of catechism. Of particular significance were the Marian congregations conducted under the auspices of the Jesuits. The first was founded by the seminarian John Leunis in Rome in 1563, and they spread rapidly across Europe. The Marian congregations generally required more from their members: daily Mass; weekly meetings; ascetical practices; and a growing apostolic commitment such as assistance to the poor, the sick, and prisoners; instruction in catechism; and accompaniment of Jesuit priests in regional missionary activity. By 1600 a network of congregations was in operation. The Antwerp congregation of married men numbered 320 members in 1612, nearly 1000 in 1664.33 30

  Walter Pötzl, “Volksfrömmigkeit,” in Brandmüller, Handbuch, 920–22.   Christopher F. Black, Italian Confraternities in the Sixteenth Century (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 54, 270. 32   Nalle, God in La Mancha, 163. 33   Louis Châtellier, The Europe of the Devout: The Catholic Reformation and the Formation of a New Society, trans. Jean Birrell (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 50. 31

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For both Catholic and Protestants, schooling became an essential feature of the process of evangelization and confessionalization. Indeed, both Catholic and Protestant Reformations have been called “youth movements.”34 The church needed educated clerics and ministers, and the expanding governments required an increasing supply of officials and magistrates at every level. Parents came to realize that education was the way for their sons to advance. Hence the huge investment in schools by Catholics and Protestants: Latin schools in the towns and cities, with a view chiefly to the preparation of clergy and civil servants, and elementary schools in villages as well as in towns and cities. Their Latin schools assumed much of the curriculum of the humanists with their stress on the ancient classics. This constituted an obvious accommodation to the times. In addition to developing eloquence in both speech and writing, reading of the classical authors, especially Cicero, was thought to foster growth in the moral virtues. The curriculum of the Protestant educator Jean Sturm for his Latin school in Strasbourg overlapped surprisingly with that of the rapidly increasing Jesuit schools, apart from religious instruction.35 The ready availability of printed books, especially catechisms, made instruction in reading a priority in elementary schools. Public authorities also supported the schools because they saw in them the means to a more disciplined and civilized population, but the principal goal of the schools was Christianization. The Jesuits made their turn towards education in the 1540s. Their founder, Ignatius Loyola, had not originally conceived of education as a principal ministry of the new Society. The Jesuits became the first religious order in the history of the church to make formal education a chief ministry. When they were suppressed in 1773, they conducted more than 800 educational institutions in an international network unparalleled before or since.36 Their involvement in schools was to have a significant impact on European culture and to exemplify the harmony between faith and science, literature, and art. Especially in towns, Jesuit colleges often served as centers of cultural life. For many early Jesuits the dictum Puerilis institutio renovatio mundi (“the education of youth [brings about] the renewal of the world”) held true. But the Jesuits were not the only religious order to take up education as a ministry. The Barnabites and the Piarists, the Oratorians and the Doctrinaires According to Nicholas Terpstra, “De-Institutionalizing Confraternity Studies: Fraternalism and Social Capital in Cross-Cultural Contexts,” in Early Modern Confraternities in Europe and the Americas: International and Interdisciplinary Perspectives, ed. Christopher Black and Pamela Gravestock (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006), 273, the structure of confraternities influenced the development of Protestant church orders. 34   See R. Po-Chia Hsia, Society and Religion in Münster, 1535–1618 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1984), 67. 35   Roger Chartier, M.-M Compère, and D. Julia, L’éducation en France du XVIe au XVIIIe siècle (Paris: Société d’édition d’enseignement supérieur, 1976), 159–61. 36   O’Malley, First Jesuits, 16.

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all founded colleges, the first two chiefly in Italy, the latter two in France. The most significant advances in primary education for the poor were made in France where John Baptist de la Salle’s Brothers of the Christian Schools developed the first national program of primary education.37 De la Salle institutionalized his vision of a professional teacher who was neither a priest nor a sacristan as were many instructors. Born in Rheims in 1651 into a family of the nobility of the robe, he was ordained to the priesthood there, and shortly afterward he and two colleagues founded a school for poor boys. By the time of his death, the Brothers conducted schools in twenty-two towns and cities; by 1789 they had 116 schools, all organized in the same fashion.38 The Brothers took no payment from their students, being supported by private benefactors, municipalities, or the local church. Their curriculum included first religion, then reading, writing, and arithmetic, and finally vocational skills according to the needs of the locality. De la Salle’s Brothers taught only in French, eliminating Latin from the curriculum. They also founded normal schools or schools for teachers, first for the Brothers themselves and then for elementary teachers in the parishes. Delinquent boys also gained their attention, and they opened several schools for them. The education of girls lagged well behind the education of boys. Most aristocratic or patrician families placed their girls in convents for their formation as well as for the preservation of their virginity until they were ready to take a husband or take the veil in a convent. The Confraternity of Christian Doctrine generally aimed to provide catechetical instruction for girls as well as boys. The education of girls advanced most in France, the Catholic Netherlands, and the Rhineland, and it was heavily concentrated in the towns and cities, more so than with the boys. There was a wide disparity among dioceses when it came to schools for girls. On the eve of the Revolution, six per cent of the parishes in the diocese of Albi maintained girls’ schools, whereas, in the diocese of Arles, sixty per cent did. The rapid growth of the Ursulines and other congregations dedicated to the education of girls showed that they met a need in French society. Their first foundation in Avignon after they came over from Italy dated from 1598, and by the 1670s they supported over 300 houses in France. Young girls as future mothers, the church realized, would influence their families and so could greatly contribute to Christianization. The Ursuline colleges usually ministered to three groups of women or girls. The boarding students were the first group. Usually of the upper classes, they might number thirty in a medium-sized school but at Lille and Tournai counted over one hundred. Next came the extern stu37   J. de Viguerie, L’institution des enfants: L’éducation en France, XVIe-XVIIIe siécles (Paris: Calmann-Lévy, 1978), 65. 38   Ibid., 64.

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dents; of them there might be from 300 to 500, but at Brussels in 1700 their number reached 900. School was free for them, and most of them came from the middle or lower classes. Finally, there were the adult women who along with girls came for catechetical instruction each Sunday and feast day, perhaps 200 of them. Frequently a confraternity was attached to a college.39 The program of the Ursuline colleges differed from that of the Jesuit colleges. They emphasized more religious instruction and the living of the Christian life. The girls were taught to read and write French and occasionally to read Latin, and to do arithmetic. Instruction in a trade was often a feature of the curriculum should the girls need to work. Many other foundations for the education of lower and middle class girls in France and the Low Countries appeared in the seventeenth century, for example, the Daughters of Our Lady, established by Jeanne de Lestonnac, a niece of Montaigne, in Bordeaux in 1606. Some prepared lay schoolmistresses to return to their villages to instruct the girls. Many of the foundations remained within a single diocese. University education ranked as a high priority for both Catholics and Protestants. The period between 1550 and 1700 saw the foundation of fifty Catholic universities and thirty-three Protestant ones.40 In both cases, as with the Latin schools, the principal function of the university was to prepare young men for service in the church and in government. In the sixteenth century theology was the dominant faculty; in the seventeenth it yielded to law, a sign of the need for more government officials as the state expanded. The Iberian universities stood out in the Catholic world in the sixteenth century for their study of theology, philosophy, and law. After returning from long study in Paris, Francisco de Vitoria assumed the primary chair of theology at Salamanca in 1526, a position he held until his death in 1546. There he introduced Thomas Aquinas’s Compendium of Theology in place of Peter Lombard’s Sentences, thus inaugurating a new school in which his fellow Dominicans Domingo de Soto and Melchior Cano and the Jesuits Francisco Suarez and Luis Molina participated. Vitoria took the lead in elaborating a theory of the relationship between church and state that incorporated the recently discovered peoples and laid the groundwork for a new international order. He has been called “the father of international law.” Suarez developed Vitoria’s thought further with his On the Laws and God as Legislator in 1612. The two of them played a major role in elaborating a political theory that took into account the new realities of the coming modern state as well as the peoples across the seas. Suarez’s Metaphysical Disputations, 39   Philippe Annaert, Les collèges au féminin: les Ursulines au XVIIe et XVIIIe siècles (Namur: Vie consecrée, 1992), 158–78. 40   Willem Frijhoff, “Patterns,” in Hilde de Ridder-Symoens, A History of the University in Europe, vol. 2: Universities in Early Modern Europe (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 71.

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published in 1597 while he taught at Coimbra in Portugal, significantly influenced the study of philosophy and the understanding of Aristotle among Protestants as well as Catholics. Yet by the middle of the seventeenth century, the Iberian universities were in decline. With the reestablishment of the university at the Sapienza in 1513 by Leo X – it dated from the papacy of Boniface VIII – and especially the foundation of the Roman College by Ignatius Loyola in 1551, Rome became for the first time a university center. Ignatius initially considered the Roman College as a model for Jesuit colleges throughout Europe, but he came to foresee that it would evolve into a university at the service of the papacy that would attract students from the whole Catholic world. In 1556 it received from the papacy the right to award doctorates in philosophy and theology as did the universities in Salamanca, Paris, and Louvain, but it never took the title of university. It struggled with finances until Gregory XIII provided it with an adequate endowment in the 1580s. The Jesuits summoned many of their luminaries to teach there, including Suarez for a time and later Robert Bellarmine. In association with the Roman College, the papacy now for the first time became a center for the education of diocesan clergy. The German College was founded in 1552 to prepare priests to return to Germany, where Catholicism had been devastated by the Reformation. Other colleges soon followed, among them the Greek College in 1577, the English College in 1578, and the Hungarian College, which merged with the German College in 1580. But it was to the individual dioceses that the Council of Trent looked for the improvement of clerical education that was essential to church reform. The council, in one of its most significant decrees, required that each diocese establish its own seminary. Though some dioceses were able to found a seminary quickly – Milan and Rome already had done so in 1564 – it would take decades and even centuries to implement this decree. It was in France that the Tridentine seminaries enjoyed the most influence after a slow start. Only near the mid-point of the seventeenth century did they begin to flourish. By the early eighteenth century the diocesan clergy had substantially improved in terms of residence, virtue, and pastoral performance, that is, celebration of the liturgy, administration of the sacraments, and preaching. Church and government often cooperated to use pressure and force to promote evangelization, for both Catholics and Protestants. This was a feature of confessionalization. The various Inquisitions illustrate one form of social discipline for Catholics: the Spanish Inquisition, which dated from 1478 and was meant to deal with the conversos and moriscos, Jewish and Muslim converts to Catholicism who, it was suspected, had departed from the Catholic faith; the Portuguese, which was founded in 1536 for the same reasons; and the Roman in 1542, which amounted to a reorganization of the medieval Inquisition and was first intended to counter an advance of Protestantism into Italy. The juris-

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diction of the last-named was meant to extend across the globe, and it did take on the role of establishing doctrinal norms for the Catholic world, even though the reach of its ability to enforce its decrees did not extend much beyond Italy. In general, an inquisition was an ecclesiastical court for the discovery and prosecution of heresy, but it subsequently extended its purpose to deal with moral offenses such as bigamy. Its goal was essentially pastoral, to lead the accused to repentance and confession, and to protect others from the danger of heresy. Another mode of applying pressure upon recalcitrants were the systematic, sometimes brutal, and eventually successful reformation commissions employed by the Austrian Habsburgs for the recatholicization of their states in the seventeenth century. They too involved the cooperation of state and church. These commissions grew out of the ecclesiastical procedure for the visitation of parishes, and both Catholic and Protestant rulers had employed them previously. These commissions were often justified by a particular psychological theory. Faith, it was realized, to be genuine had to be freely embraced, and this was best brought about by good example, effective preaching, catechesis, and education. But when these failed, pressures might be employed to perform external actions, such as attending sermons or Sunday Mass. These external actions would then, in the long run, lead to the appropriation of the proper internal attitudes, and so faith would become a free action. This type of thinking was a part of both Catholic and Protestant paedagogy, and it was more applicable to youth than to adults; hence the emphasis on education by both Catholics and Protestants. European expansion into Asia, the Americas, and to a degree into Africa starting in the late fifteenth century constituted one of the great developments that heralded the coming of modern times. There took place, for better and for worse, the most ambitious campaign of Christian evangelization since the days of the early church. Protestants, for understandable reasons, did not participate in this endeavor; they were just getting started and were frequently embattled. By 1550 as many as 10 million people had received baptism in the Americas alone.41 For many Catholics this rich harvest constituted a divine compensation for the losses to Protestantism, and it gave them a new sense of the universality of the church. Extraordinary heroism marked this missionary outreach but so did misunderstanding and exploitation of newly known peoples. This missionary expansion produced two particular challenges to the church. The first raised the issue of how to accommodate the gospel message to the vastly different cultures encountered around the world. Were Native American Indians to be considered full human beings with all the attendant rights, or were they to be thought of as the “natural slaves” described by Aristotle? Were pagan religions 41

  Alain Milhou, Histoire du Christianisme, vol. 8: Temps des confessions (1530–1620/1630), ed. Marc Venard et al (Paris: Desclée, 1992), 694.

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to be simply uprooted and a new start made, or were there human elements in these manners of worship upon which one might build an indigenous Christian culture? What was to be the part of force or pressure, if any, to bring the various peoples to the gospel? The protracted controversies over the Chinese and Indian Rites that lasted well into the eighteenth century revealed the disparate views of Catholics toward Asian religious and cultural practices. The second challenge posed by Western expansion and missionary activity concerned the relationship between the church and the state. For a long time, missionary activity was carried out under the aegis of the broad jurisdiction given the Iberian powers over the church by the papacy under the Spanish Patronato or Portuguese Padroado in the late fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries. The French monarchy came to exercise the same powers. Government’s hands were often heavy, and colonists’ greed, cruelty, and lust often obstructed effective missionary activity. But there was little alternative. Papal initiatives starting in the 1560s eventually resulted in the foundation of the Congregation for the Propagation of the Faith (Propaganda Fide) in 1622 with a view to papal oversight over the whole missionary endeavor, but its success was slow.42 Throughout the late medieval and early modern period, the emergence of the state caused problems which the church had to confront. Rulers sought to exercise greater control of religion within their borders, especially with regard to ecclesiastical appointments, taxation, and jurisdiction. They intervened, often out of a sense of Christian responsibility for their people, in issues of church reform and popular Christianization. The Spanish Patronato and the Portuguese Padroado exemplify this. These directions became more pronounced after the outbreak of the Reformation. The papacy realized that it needed the support of Catholic princes to stem the tide of the Reformation. Hence, for example, the Concordat of Munich in 1583 between Pope Gregory XIII and Duke William V of Bavaria. This agreement conceded to the duke rights to tax the clergy, control many ecclesiastical appointments, and oversee the administration of considerable church property.43 The direction was the same in the Protestant states, especially in Germany and England where government acquired an even stronger hold on the church. Luther in his Address to the Christian Nobility of the German Nation of 1520 had summoned the princes to take the lead in the reformation of the church because of the failure of the bishops to take action. In Catholic lands the bond with Rome, though occasionally stretched to the limit, preserved the church from complete subordination to the state, but the church

42   For the early years of the Congregation of the Propagation of the Faith, see Josef Metz­ ler, ed., Sacrae Congregationis de Propaganda Fide Memoria Rerum, vol.  1, part 1: 1622–1700 (Rome: Herder, 1972). 43   Dieter Albrecht, Handbuch der bayerischen Geschichte 2, ed. Max Spindler (Munich: Beck, 1969), 629–30.

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was headed toward the Staatskirchentum of the late seventeenth and the eigh­ teenth centuries. One major element of Catholic Christianization that had no parallel among the Protestant traditions was the foundation of new religious orders and congregations for both men and women. They would serve as agents of Christianization and also as objects of Christianization in as much as they offered to men, and to women, greater opportunity to live the religious life in the world. Of these the most significant and easily the most numerous were the Capuchins, the Jesuits, and, of the women’s congregations, the Ursulines. The Capuchins and the Jesuits were heavily committed to the traditional ministry of preaching, at home and in the missions overseas, and they created new forms of systematic, popular preaching. Both men and women religious cared for the sick and the dying and attempted to respond to the challenges of poverty, vagrancy, prostitution, and orphans that resulted from the social changes of the period. One can speak for France of “the feminization of religious life” and its democratization where the new congregations incorporated many middle and lower class women.44 But above all, they turned to the greatly expanded ministry of education: catechetical instruction, seminaries, elementary and secondary schools. This new emphasis on education grew out of the conviction, shared by Protestants, that preaching, no matter how effective, could not adequately provide for the formation of mature Christians. Members of the new religious orders, female as well as male, frequently served as schoolmistresses or school masters. Distinctive spiritualities or ways of living the Christian life characterized the religious orders new and old, many of which had lay affiliates in terms of third orders or confraternities for those who wanted to live a more intense Christian life. One can speak of Benedictine, Franciscan, or Jesuit spirituality. These orders with their varying approaches to the spiritual life have been compared to the various Protestant sects. They offered Catholics a variety of ways in which to live out their Christian life. Different religious orders or congregations maintained houses in many towns and cities. In Guadalajara, Mexico, for example, in the later seventeenth century, the Dominicans, Franciscans, Augustinians, Carmelites, Mercedarians, Oratorians, and Jesuits all had churches, and the Hospitalers of St. John of God and the Bethlehemites, a congregation founded in Guatemala City, conducted hospitals. Were the changes of the Reformation of the sixteenth century – used here to encompass the Catholic tradition, too – successful? Certainly, as Hendrix affirms, they did successfully reduce “idolatry and superstition” and change the form of liturgy and observance for the Protestants, and for the Catholics to the degree that they considered desirable. Confessionalization changed the culture. 44

  Elizabeth Rapley, The “Dévotes”: Women and Church in Seventeenth-Century France (Montreal: McGill-Queens University Press, 1990), 141, 193.

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Did they lead to a more intelligent and deeper faith on the part of Christians? Obviously, one cannot measure interior faith and charity. But external observance or practice, for example, attendance at church and reception of the sacraments, can be an indicator – but no more than that – of their presence. In this respect, one may cautiously say that both the Protestant Reformation and Catholic Reform succeeded. Gerald Strauss and Geoffrey Parker both err by not carrying their examinations up to the year 1700 rather than stopping around 1600.45 This essay has proposed some ways in which Catholic Reform can be considered an attempt to update the church to the changing world of the sixteenth century. Not that this attempt was at all a conscious attempt at aggiornamento; that would be an anachronism. Usually contemporaries thought in terms of a return to origins or to an older, better time. But updating is in fact what they were doing. The essay has suggested the same for the Protestant traditions. So the various Protestant traditions and the Catholic Reform may be seen as competing efforts at aggiornamento. Thus the changes of the sixteenth century fit the pattern of the church’s regular need to adapt to changing times, a need that frequently provokes conflict within the church as it did then and does in our own day. But this cannot be the whole story. I have not dealt with major doctrinal issues, especially the Protestant position of sola scriptura regarding the sources of revelation and of sola fide regarding the respective role of grace and free will in the process of justification. These were the first two issues addressed by the Catholics at the Council of Trent. The position of sola scriptura, I would suggest, was in some way related to the return to the sources advocated by Renaissance humanism and to the growing practice of Bible reading associated with a more literate laity and the invention of the printing press. The issue of the relationship between God’s activity and human free will had long been discussed by theologians and was also a theme for Renaissance humanists. But whether and how these issues fit into the pattern of accommodation or aggiornamento that I have outlined, I leave for another time.

45   Gerald Strauss, Luther’s House of Learning: Indoctrination of the Young in the German Reformation (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1978); Geoffrey Parker, “Success and Failure During the First Century of the Reformation,” Past and Present 136 (1992): 43–82.

From Conciliar to Curial Reform in the Late Middle Ages Gerald Christianson

Like Augustine in his contest with the Donatists, the Council of Basel (1431– 1449) and other reformers of the fifteenth century struggled to balance the unity of the church with its holiness. The majority of the council clung to its reform convictions and led the church into schism. Others such as its president, Cardinal Giuliano Cesarini (1398?–1444), and its brightest young intellect, Nicholas of Cusa (1401–1464), chose unity and left the council, but not without giving up the fight for reform. For Cusanus the result was an illuminating compromise: from a conciliar-led to a curial-led reform. In his provocative appeal to see the whole forest by grasping a central theme in the sixteenth century, Scott Hendrix shrewdly observes, “Recent study of the European Reformation has been dominated by the trees.” This essay dares to plant another tree in the forest of the previous period, even while adhering to his caution that while “medieval reformers yearned for the reformation of the church ‘in head and members’” one should not extend the boundary of the Reformation back into the fifteenth century. Within these justifiable limits the conclusion of K. A. Fink, written in the afterglow of the Second Vatican Council, seems a bit over-stated: .  .  . it had become all too clear that without a council there could be no reform. From the viewpoint of Church history the decisive turning from the Middle Ages to modern times occurs around the middle of the fifteenth century. Rome had prevented reform and in return soon received Reformation.

Nevertheless, the boldness of the statement piques one’s curiosity. Younger scholars, in the manner of Gerhart Ladner, have provided us with a clearer    Scott H. Hendrix, Recultivating the Vineyard: The Reformation Agendas of Christianization (Louisville; London: Westminster John Knox Press, 2004), xv.    Ibid., xxi.    Karl August Fink, “Eugene IV and the Council of Basel-Ferrara-Florence,” in Handbook of Church History, ed. Hubert Jedin and John Dolan, trans. Anselm Biggs, 10 vols. (New York: Herder & Herder, 1965–81), 4:487.

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picture of the late medieval reform tradition, but we know less about the Council of Basel (1431–1449) as well as an equally controversial period from this point through the Council of Lateran V (1512–1517) in the sixteenth century. This essay takes core samples in three related topics roughly within the period Fink was talking about, from the beginning of Basel to the end of Cusanus’s career, and hopes that it will add to the already rich complexity of issues and events that underline the continuities and discontinuities between this period and the next century. Additionally, if the forest threatens to become a dark wood, we can summon our colleague Hendrix to be our Virgil at critical points along the way. Alas, the tree we have in mind appears at first to be a mere sapling. The seed is Codex 168 in the Library of the Cusanus Hospital in Bernkastel-Kues that contains a collection of reform proposals from the early years of the Council of Basel. This collection came into the possession of Nicholas of Cusa, the great philosopher, theologian, writer on mysticism, cardinal, and reformer, who deposited it into his library where it remained for posterity to discover. It may still have gone unnoticed if not for Johannes Haller, the tireless historian of reform and the papacy who brought it to light. The codex that he found contained twenty-seven original documents, not copies, which presumably were delivered to someone in high position at the council. The identification of this someone remained a mystery for several years until Heinrich Dannenbauer returned to study the codex in 1935. Dannenbauer identified the seal and handwriting in the margins and on the backs of the documents as belonging to Cardinal Cesarini, papal legate, president of the council and a mentor to Nicholas of Cusa. The rediscovery of the codex, however, invites the question of why Cusanus would take possession of it, and what connection it might have with the course of reform in the fifteenth century. Although the individual items are of interest    See the forthcoming Reassessing Reform: An Historical Investigation into Church Renewal, ed. Christopher M. Bellitto and David Zachariah Flanagin (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, in press); and Christopher Bellitto, “The Reform Context of the Great Western Schism,” in A Companion to the Great Western Schism (1378–1417), ed. Joëlle Rollo-Koster and Thomas M. Izbicki (Leiden: Brill, 2009), 303–31.    Nelson H. Minnich, “Councils of the Catholic Reformation: A Historical Survey,” in The Church, the Councils, and Reform: The Legacy of the Fifteenth Century, ed. Gerald Christianson, Thomas M. Izbicki, and Christopher M. Bellitto (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2008), 27–59. A helpful introduction to a revealing episode in this period, involving Cardinal Cajetan and his opponents, is Conciliarism and Papalism, ed. J. H. Burns and Thomas M. Izbicki (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1997), viixxiii.    Heinrich Dannenbauer, “Die Handakten des Konzils präsidenten Cesarini,” in Concilium Basiliense: Studien und Quellen zur Geschichte des Concils von Basel, ed. Johannes Haller et al., 8 vols. (Basel, 1896–1936; reprint, Nendeln/Liechtenstein: Kraus Reprint, 1976), 8:3– 31. [Hereafter CB].

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in themselves, they become even more significant when considered as a presidential file or “dossier” that was part of a sweeping reform program, one that would equal that of the Council of Constance (1414–1418), which had initiated the significant decrees Haec sancta on the superiority of councils over popes in certain cases, and Frequens on the mandatory meetings of future councils. However, rather than continue their time-consuming deliberations and work-a-day compromises, the members of Constance chose to allow the new pope, Martin V, to take responsibility for completing their reformatory task. In this light, the dossier, slender as it is, can take us on a journey through the forest of the late medieval reform tradition from about 1433 to 1459 with stops along the way to survey a conciliar classic, the council’s reform platform, and Nicholas of Cusa’s final thoughts on the subject. Minimally, the dossier indicates that Cesarini, among others, was determined to fulfill the promise of Constance. But when placed in a wider context the fate of the Council of Basel and its reform program illuminate the challenging and often frustrating efforts to reform the fifteenth-century church in head and members.10 The dossier also opens a window on Nicholas of Cusa, who framed the conciliar struggle with two significant works, The Catholic Concordance, written during the early days of the council, and A General Reform of the Church, composed at the end of his career and well after the council’s demise. Most important, what makes this framework and the intervening history instructive for a later century is the shift one observes in Nicholas, who was as deeply committed to reform as any in his    We now have a new study on this important pope: Birgit Studt, Papst Martin V. (1417– 1431) und die Kirchenreform in Deutschland (Cologne: Böhlau Verlag, 2004). See also Phillip H. Stump, “The Council of Constance (1414–18) and the End of the Schism,” in Rollo-Koster and Izbicki, Companion to the Great Western Schism, 395–442.    On Cusanus, the best introductions are Erich Meuthen, Nicholas of Cusa: A Sketch for a Biography, translated from the seventh German edition with an introduction by David Crowner and Gerald Christianson (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2010); and Donald F. Duclow, “Life and Works,” in Introducing Nicholas of Cusa: A Guide to a Renaissance Man, ed. Christopher M. Bellitto, Thomas M. Izbicki, and Gerald Christianson (New York: Paulist Press, 2004), 25–56.    Newer literature on Cesarini is limited. Two recent, specialized studies are Erich Meuthen, “Cesarini-Studien II. Der ‘Tractatus Juliani apostate magis perniciosus et furiosus’,” in Italia et Germania. Liber Amicorum Arnold Esch, ed. Hagen Keller, Werner Paravicini, and Wolfgang Schieder (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 2001), 209–24; and Hans Thurn, “Inhaltsanalyse eines Traktates des Giuliano Cesarini für Papst Eugen IV. gegen das Konzil von Basel,” in De Iure Canonico Medii Aevi. Festschrift für Rudolf Weigand, ed. Peter Landau and Martin Petzolt (Rome: A. Salesiano, 1996), 561–71. 10   The best recent surveys of the council are Stefan Sudmann, Das Basler Konzil. Synodale Praxis zwischen Routine und Revolution, Studien zur Modernität des Mittelalters 8 (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 2005); and Michiel Decaluwe, A Successful Defeat: Eugene IV’s Struggle with the Council of Basel for Ultimate Authority in the Church, 1431–1449 (Bruxelles: Institut Historique Belge de Rome, 2009), which views the issues of authority and reform from both the conciliar and the papal sides.

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time, from a spokesman for constitutional conciliarism to a plaintiff for personal renewal and curial-centered remediation. Before Cesarini could work on his dossier or the council could enact significant reform measures, they needed a mandate to move forward, and while the Constance decrees provided sufficient grounds for many of the members, the opposition of Pope Eugenius IV required a more articulate argument for conciliar authority. As we enter the world of conciliarism and reform, we quickly meet our guide. Long before his work in the Reformation vineyard Scott Hendrix tilled late medieval soil and helped us to see the crucial importance of ecclesiology in the fifteenth century – the search for the one, holy, catholic and apostolic church, not only in the conciliar movement, but also in the Hussites and the Renaissance papacy (both of which he addressed), and not only in treatises and theory, but in the realms of power and practice as the issue was fought out in the rough and tumble efforts to reform church and society.11 A perspective on ecclesiology is at the root of Cusanus’s early masterpiece, The Catholic Concordance, dedicated to Cesarini and Emperor Sigismund.12 As a young lawyer from Kues, Nicholas had taken a degree in canon law at the University of Padua where Cesarini was likely one of his teachers. He arrived at the Council of Basel in February 1432 to represent a client, Ulrich of Mandersheid, in the case of a contested election in the diocese of Trier. His contributions to reform at the council were of two kinds. His efforts toward practical, institutional reform were limited. Although he made a remarkable proposal on communion in both kinds (known as utraquism) in an attempt to win back the Hussites, wrote a treatise-length epistle on the subject (Letter to the Bohemians on Church Unity) and took an active role in the debate over the seating of newly appointed papal presidents to sit alongside Cesarini, and wrote a treatise on this subject as well (Presidential Authority in a General Council),13 he made only one notable contribution to the multitude of specific proposals, a reform of the calendar.14

11

  Scott Hendrix, “In Quest of the Vera Ecclesia: The Crises of Late Medieval Ecclesiology,” Viator: Medieval and Renaissance Studies 7 (1976): 347–78. The challenge has been taken up recently by David Zachariah Flanagin, “Extra ecclesiam salus non est – sed quae ecclesia? Ecclesiology and Authority in the Later Middle Ages,” in Rollo-Koster and Izbicki, Companion to the Great Western Schism, 333–74. 12   Nicholas of Cusa, The Catholic Concordance, ed. and trans. Paul E. Sigmund (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1991). [Hereafter CC]. 13   Nicholas of Cusa, Writings on Church and Reform, trans. Thomas M. Izbicki, The I Tatti Renaissance Library (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2008), nos. 3 and 9. 14   A. Richard Hunter, “What Did Nicholas of Cusa Contribute to Science?” in Nicholas of Cusa in Search of God and Wisdom, ed. Gerald Christianson and Thomas M. Izbicki (Leiden: Brill, 1991), 102–4.

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Yet with a second kind of contribution Cusanus was exceptional. The publication of his Concordance on authority and reform in council and empire was a timely event. He wrote the first two Books in 1433–34, while the council was simultaneously negotiating with the Hussites and with Pope Eugenius IV over the council’s right to exist, not to mention the right to enact reform. He added a final Book on the Empire in anticipation of Emperor Sigismund’s arrival in Basel.15 Since a number of studies on the Concordance are now available, we need not go over the ground again except to highlight the main principles pertaining to reform, especially reform of the church’s “constitution.”16 The work was not the first to join the call for councils to the demands for reform in the later Middle Ages. While the two go back to the beginning of Christian history,17 and some have suggested that reform was a leading theme for the entire period from 1300 to 1550 and beyond,18 the cry “reform and councils” became urgent after the outbreak of the Great Schism in 1378.19 Calls for action in the form of letters and treatises began to appear that delved into the precedents that might be found in Bible, history, and canon law.20 In brief, the result of these writings – what we today call conciliar theory – asserted that in certain critical cases – including heresy and schism, but also failure to reform – the highest authority in the church rests not with a pope but with the congregatio fidelium, the whole body of the faithful, and that this authority could be exercised by their representatives gathered in a general council. The movement was far from anti-papal, but believed that the pontiff held a ministerial authority delegated to him by the whole body for the wellbeing of the church (status ecclesiae).21 15

  CC, xv-xviii.   For the literature see Thomas M. Izbicki, “The Church,” in Bellitto, Izbicki and Christianson, Introducing Nicholas of Cusa, 113–40; and Morimichi Watanabe, “Political and Legal Ideas,” ibid., 141–65. 17   H. J. Sieben, Die Konzilsidee des lateinischen Mittelalters, 847–1378 (Paderborn: Schö­ ningh, 1984), 320–21, 353–54; idem, Traktate und Theorien zum Konzil (Frankfurt am Main: Knecht, 1983); and the classic of the genre, Gerhart Ladner, The Idea of Reform: Its Impact on Christian Thought and Action in the Age of the Fathers (rev. ed., 1959; reprint New York: Harper and Row, 1967). 18   Steven Ozment, The Age of Reform (1250–1550) (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1980); Jaroslav Pelikan, The Christian Tradition: A History of the Development of Doctrine, vol. 4: Reformation of Church and Dogma (1300–1700) (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1971– 89). 19   Hubert Jedin, A History of the Council of Trent, trans. Ernest Graf, 2 vols. (St. Louis: B. Herder Book Co., 1957–61), 1:1–75. 20   While a whole generation since Brian Tierney has acknowledged the significant role of canon law, less study has appeared on the biblical precedents, but see now Thomas M. Izbicki, “The Authority of Peter and Paul: The Use of Biblical Authority during the Great Schism,” in Rollo-Koster and Izbicki, Companion to the Great Western Schism, 375–93. 21   Recent summaries include James Blythe, “Conciliarism,” in Ideal Government and the Mixed Constitution in the Middle Ages, ed. James Blythe (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992), 243–59; Francis Oakley, “Gerson as Conciliarist,” in A Companion to Jean Ger16

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The Concordance represents a culmination of this tradition but adds its own unique features.22 To begin, it is built on two principles: Neoplatonic hierarchies and medieval canon law that, thanks to intensive research in the past generation, we now recognize as a legitimate source of conciliarism along with Paul’s concept of the Body of Christ.23 We can invoke Hendrix again to note that underlying these principles is an Augustinian perspective on the unity of the church in the bonds of love.24 On the basis of these principles, Cusanus contemplates the relative roles of clergy and laity within the community of the faithful conceived as a corporate body. Modern eyes quickly widen when Cusanus affirms that the fundamental power of consent derives from the whole body – that all power lies “potentially in the people” – but this “happy thought” is tempered by the concurrence of a “formative radiance” from on high that translates this potentiality “into being.”25 To help with this apparent enigma, we turn again to Scott Hendrix as our guide. As forward-looking as Cusanus’s convictions were, Hendrix cautions against a one-to-one identification with modern notions of popular sovereignty, and points to what he calls the “clerical conciliarism” of the Concordance, in which the author not only reveals a balance between consent and hierarchy, but also blends in an unexpected ingredient to the conciliar mix: the fundamental role of the priesthood, the “soul” of society (Book Two) in which the empire is the “body” (Book Three). He gives pride of place to this office in his ecclesiology because he believed that a council of priests, led by a canonically-elected hierarchy, could best achieve both unity and reform.26 As it turned out, developments proved this to be a naïve hope.

son, ed. Brian Patrick McGuire (Leiden: Brill, 2006), 179–204; and idem, The Conciliarist Tradition: Constitutionalism in the Catholic Church, 1300–1870 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003). The pioneering work remains Brian Tierney, Foundations of the Conciliar Theory: The Contribution of the Medieval Canonists from Gratian to the Great Schism (enlarged new ed., Leiden: Brill, 1998; originally, Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1955). 22   Claudia Lücking-Michel, Konkordanz und Konsens: Zur Gesellschaftstheorie in der Schrift “De concordantia catholica” des Nicolaus von Cues (Würzburg: Echter, 1994). 23   Paul E. Sigmund, “Nicholas of Cusa on the Constitution of the Church,” in Nicholas of Cusa on Christ and the Church, ed. Gerald Christianson and Thomas M. Izbicki (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 127–34. In contrast, Peter L. McDermott, “Nicholas of Cusa: Continuity and Conciliation at the Council of Basel,” Church History 67 (1998): 254–73, contends that Cusanus “was not a committed conciliarist” (p.  254), but as a graduate from the University of Padua he must have known the tradition, while his personal contributions to this tradition give the work an out-of-the-ordinary flavor. 24   Scott Hendrix, Ecclesia in Via: Ecclesiological Developments in the Medieval Psalms Exegesis and the “Dictata super Psalterium” (1513–1515) of Martin Luther (Leiden: Brill, 1974), 17–36. 25   CC, 28. See also 98, 118, 202–203. 26   Scott Hendrix, “Nicholas of Cusa’s Ecclesiology between Reform and Reformation,” in Christianson and Izbicki, Nicholas of Cusa on Christ and the Church, 107–26. See CC, 127.

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Cusanus may not have participated as actively in the debates over reform as he did in other matters, but he had provided a reasoned foundation for its power to legislate a platform. As he looked to Sigismund for leadership in the empire, he looked to a council of clergy to address all matters pertaining to the status ecclesiae. With satisfaction he notes that the Council of Basel has already taken up proposed decrees on simony, concubinage, regular provincial assemblies and elections, and that if adopted other condemnations would follow, among them condemnations of taking payment for visitations, avarice in the curia, and pluralism.27 At the heart of this reformatory ecclesiology, motivated by the everpresent necessity to “build up” the community and maintain its wellbeing, lie two Pauline texts, 1 Corinthians 14:12 and 2 Corinthians 10:8. If together with the theological doctrine of the church, ecclesiology can include its constitutional foundations and the power to enact reform, such as in Cusanus’s principled treatment, it can also encompass specific legislation to re-shape the church as an institution. The Council of Basel’s reform program still awaits a comprehensive, modern treatment such as that given to Constance by Philip Stump,28 and in all likelihood will demonstrate how seriously the former, despite the controversial nature of some of its decrees, went about the business of its predecessor. In addition to individual decrees adopted at other times, this seriousness is particularly evident in the period from the twelfth session in July 1433 to the twenty-third session in March 1436, a period that witnessed an intense activity based on a series of related and carefully prepared decrees.29 27

  CC, 171–92.   Phillip H. Stump, The Reforms of the Council of Constance, 1414–1418 (Leiden: Brill, 1994). Although the conclusions are outdated, the best treatment of Basel’s reforms is still Richard Zwölfer, “Die Reform der Kirchenverfassung auf dem Konzil zu Basel,” Basler Zeitschrift für Geschichte und Altertumskunde 28 (1929): 141–247; 29 (1930): 2–58. Among more recent works are Johannes Helmrath, “Theorie und Praxis der Kirchenreform im Spätmittelalter,” Rottenburger Jahrbuch für Kirchengeschichte 11 (1992): 41–70; idem, “Reform als Thema der Konzilien der Spätmittelalters,” in Christian Unity: The Council of Ferrara-Florence (1438/1439), ed. Giuseppe Alberigo (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1991), 75–152; Alexander Patschovsky, “Der Reformbegriff zur Zeit der Konzilien von Konstanz und Basel,” in Reform von Kirche und Reich: Zur Zeit Konzilien von Konstanz (1414–1418) und Basel (1431– 1449), ed. Ivan Hlavácek and Alexander Patschovsky (Constance: Universitätsverlag Konstanz, 1996), 7–28. An important collection of sources is Quellen zur Kirchenreform im Zeitalter der grossen Konzilien des 15. Jahrhunderts, ed. Jürgen Miethke and Lorenz Weinrich, vol. 1: Die Konzilien von Pisa (1407) und Konstanz (1414–1418) (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1996). 29   The most important sources are the monumental history of John of Segovia in Monumenta conciliorum generalium seculi decimi quinti, ed. František Palacky´ et al., 4 vols. (Vienna and Basel: Typis C. R. Officinae typographicae aulae et status, 1857–1935), vol. 2 [hereafter MC]; and the secretarial records, known as protocols, in CB, vols. 1–3. See also the documents in Giovanni Domenico Mansi, Sacrorum conciliorum nova et amplissima collectio, 54 vols. 28

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Was this by accident? The question brings us back to Cardinal Cesarini’s dossier. Although we are not made aware of it until well into this period of intense activity, the collection is a small but important indication about how the council and the legate proceeded with the task. In part, the twenty-seven items in the dossier were the result of the cardinal’s request for suggestions. They include memoranda, drafts of decrees, and other proposals, and they represent a wide range of abuses and concerns, including papal administration, the color of a prelate’s robes, world peace, violation of the sabbath, drunkenness, a crusade against the Turks, taxes, universities, the cloistering of monks and nuns, and the number of sponsors at baptism.30 This was not the stuff of which a unified plan is made. In addition, some proposals were known to provoke serious opposition. On 25 February 1435, during one of these drawn-out discussions over a decree against simony, Cesarini requested a leave of absence to spend a kind of working sabbatical at the Carthusian monastery across the Rhine River in Lesser Basel. He stayed for three weeks.31 From the testimony of others we only know that the cardinal used this period to shape a plan in seven parts: curia, prelates, priests, canons, religious, laity, and common concerns, and he submitted them to the council’s deputations in series rather than all at once.32 Although the sabbatical took place after several decrees were already promulgated, one presumes that this was the president’s modus operandi in concentrated form. A quick run-down of the major decrees also suggests anything but haphazardness or lack of planning. – A decree related directly to the nature and structure of the church approved at the twelfth session on 13 July 1433 required a return to the traditional practice of elections by abolishing all reservations (with some exceptions for the Papal States).33 – Closely related was a decision made a few months later, in the fifteenth session on 26 November 1433 that mandated regular diocesan and provincial synods to extirpate heresy and simony, and to regulate clerical immorality and the quality of preaching.34 – On a less noble note, the nineteenth session on 7 September 1434 demanded that Jews wear a distinctive garb and refrain from business on Sundays. But (Paris: H. Welter, 1901–27; reprint, Graz: Akademische Druck u. Verlagsanstalt, 1960), vols. 29–30. 30   CB 8:33–186. 31   MC 2:781; CB 3:324–25. 32   CB 1:89, 92. 33   MC 2:402–5. A modern edition of the formal decrees can be found in Conciliorum Oecumenicorum Decreta, ed. Giuseppe Alberigo (Basel: Herder, 1962), 464–72 (Session Twelve). [Hereafter COD]. 34   MC 2:525–28; COD, 473–76 (Session Fifteen).

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the decree also urged universities to establish chairs in Hebrew, Greek, and Arabic to assist in the mission of the church.35 – Among specific abuses, a decree of the twentieth session on 22 January 1435 laid down regulations against concubinage. Bishops were even allowed to search the homes of suspected clerics and if necessary invoke the secular powers.36 – The same session supported the rights of local bishops with a decree that limited the Roman Curia to major appeals only, and allowed ordinary courts to retain all other cases.37 – A decree promulgated at the twenty-first session on 19 June 1435 condemned abuses in worship and included the noteworthy stipulation that no one was to possess a benefice without a proper title.38 – Far more controversial, a decree condemning the papal annates was also approved at the twenty-first session.39 This decree took a longer, more complex and divisive course. The decree began as a condemnation of simony in general, including the sale of sacraments, benefices, dispensations, and the like. The proposal was attacked from all sides, not only out of self-interest, but because many hesitated over the possibility of a new tax to indemnify the losses incurred by the papacy.40 This protracted debate was the occasion when Cesarini went on retreat and where he deposited the simony decree in his dossier as a lost cause.41 He then prepared another on a specific form of simony, the papal annates, which was likely to win greater approval. Essentially a tax levied on a beneficiary upon receiving a benefice, the annates amounted to the income from the incumbent’s first year (annus) but the rule was open to negotiation.42 For Rome, the withdrawal of the annates was the last straw and the curia redoubled its efforts to condemn the assembly as a reckless crowd of lower clergy bent on bringing down the papacy.43 – In the meantime, a decree on the cardinals from the twenty-third session on 26 March 1436 limited their number to twenty-four, required that they hold

35

  MC 2:757–60; COD, 483–85 (Session Nineteen).   MC 2:773–74; CB 3:294; COD, 485–88 (Session Twenty). 37   MC 2:775; COD, 485–88 (Session Twenty). 38   MC 2:801–5; COD, 488–92 (Session Twenty-one). The cardinal’s dossier contains the statutes that served as his model: CB 8, no. 22; MC 2:781. 39   MC 2:800–801; COD, 488–92 (Session Twenty-one). 40   MC 2:555–59. 41   CB 8, no. 12. 42   For background see the useful article by Phillip H. Stump, “The Reform of Papal Taxation at the Council of Constance (1414–1418),” Speculum 64 (1989): 65–105. 43   See especially the pope’s Libellus apologeticus in Joachim Stieber, Pope Eugenius IV, the Council of Basel and the Secular and Ecclesiastical Authorities in the Empire (Leiden: Brill, 1978), 27–29. 36

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advanced degrees and not accept payment for visitations nor maintain households with over fifty persons.44 – After almost a year of discussion since Cesarini had returned from his retreat, a companion decree on the papacy emerged from the same session. It ordered the pope to hold an open forum every year to consider issues of heresy, schism, poor administration, and war; to oversee the habits of curial officials; to govern Rome and the Papal States with care; to name prelates of good repute who were not relatives; and to give audience to the needs of the poor and oppressed.45 While Cesarini’s file opens a vista on the council’s reformatory vision, Cusanus’s specific contribution was a revision of the calendar in June 1434. Nevertheless, the cardinal and the canonist offered complementary perspectives: Cusanus with his rationale for a conciliar church, and Cesarini with his program of institutional reforms. Together they contradict an older opinion that the assembly was more anxious to perpetuate the machinery of reform than reform itself.46 Yet, one may still wonder why Nicholas of Cusa took an interest in preserving Cesarini’s dossier in his library. We get some idea in their subsequent careers. In November 1436, during acrimonious and eventually divisive negotiations with the pope over a proposed site for a union council with the Greeks, Cesarini declared that the membership had achieved its major reform goals.47 When the pope announced that the new council would assemble in Ferrara, Cesarini left Basel for Italy in January 1438 and died in a crusade against the Turks in the days after he and the Greek humanist Bessarion read the declaration of union.48 Cusanus left Basel even earlier. Paul Sigmund’s observation that “Nicholas was concerned with reform, not revolution,” and that reform “was to be orderly, legal, and in a sense reactionary” insofar as it reflected the one, holy and apostolic church – especially in the first great ecumenical councils – offers a clue to why the lawyer departed for Italy and papal service.49 Instead of harmony and order, the proposed decree on annates caused dissension with the papacy, and the decision on a location for the union council brought on a new schism. 44   MC 2:852–55: COD, 494–505 (Session Twenty-three). See Cesarini’s draft submitted to the deputations: CB 1:241–43. 45   MC 2:847–52; COD, 494–505 (Session Twenty-three). Cf. MC 2:844; CB 1:236–40. 46   Mandell Creighton, A History of the Papacy from the Great Schism to the Sack of Rome, new ed., 6 vols. (London: Longmans, Green, and Co., 1897), 2:231. 47   MC 2:915. 48   Decaluwe, A Successful Defeat, 262–66, gives an excellent summary of this controversial period in Cesarini’s life. See also Erich Meuthen, “Ein bisher unbekannte Stellungnahme Cesarinis (Anfang November 1436) zur Papstgewalt,” Quellen und Forschungen aus italienischen Archiven und Bibliotheken 62 (1982): 143–79. 49   CC, xxxi.

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When forced to choose between the pursuit of holiness in Basel’s sometimes contentious reform program, as well as among the Hussites, and the call to unite Catholics and Greeks in a single church under the papal banner, Cusanus chose unity over holiness. But he did not surrender a dedication to reform. It was merely postponed by several other assignments, the first of which was to accompany a Greek delegation from Constantinople to the union council at Ferrara, and then to spend several years in defense of the papacy, for which he garnered the title “Hercules of the Eugenians” and in 1448 the office of cardinal.50 He was not alone. As the position of Eugenius strengthened, cardinals began to rally around him, and he received crucial support from the Dominicans who gradually formulated a coherent defense of papal leadership that continued into the sixteenth century. Its earliest exponent was John of Torquemada who in this role was given the assignment to debate Cesarini on the relative merits of conciliarism and papalism while the council met at Ferrara.51 Between the Concordance and his late career, Nicholas of Cusa did not write extensively on reform. Instead, he devoted his energies to more local issues, first as cardinal-legate to conduct visitations in the Holy Roman Empire (1451–52) and then as diocesan bishop of Brixen in the Tyrolean Alps (1452–60).52 Best known of the issues raised by his legatine journey was his opposition to “superstitions,” most notably the bleeding hosts of Wilsnack. By 1400 a shrine dedicated to the miracle had achieved enormous popular success. Pope Eugenius IV approved it in 1447. With success came a bonanza for the bishopric. Cusanus, however, issued a decree that condemned the cult and the greed of the clergy who sustained it, but the decree was met by staunch resistance and did

50   H. Lawrence Bond, “Nicholas of Cusa from Constantinople to ‘Learned Ignorance’: The Historical Matrix for the Formation of the De docta ignorantia,” in Christianson and Izbi­ cki, Nicholas of Cusa on Christ and the Church, 133–63. Other scholars are beginning to agree with Bond and see a certain consistency in Nicholas’s basic principles before and after the shipboard experience, for example Jovino Miroy, Tracing Nicholas of Cusa’s Early Development: The Relationship between “De concordantia catholica” and “De docta ignorantia” (Louvain: Peeters, 2009). 51   Juan de Torquemada: Disputation on the Authority of Pope and Council, trans. and with an introduction by Thomas M. Izbicki, Dominican Sources 4 (Oxford: Blackfriars, 1988). See also Thomas M. Izbicki, “The Council of Ferrara-Florence and Dominican Papalism,” in idem, Friars and Jurists: Selected Studies (Goldbach: Keip, 1998), 3–17. 52   Brian Pavlac, “Reform,” in Bellitto, Izbicki and Christianson, Introducing Nicholas of Cusa, 59–112; Donald Sullivan, “Cusanus and Pastoral Renewal: The Reform of Popular Religion in the Germanies,” in Christianson and Izbicki, Nicholas of Cusa on Christ and the Church, 165–73; Pardon Tillinghast, “Nicholas of Cusa vs. Sigmund of Habsburg: An Attempt at Post-Conciliar Church Reform,” Church History 36 (1967): 371–90. In general, see Erich Meuthen, Die letzten Jahre des Nikolaus von Kues (Cologne: Westdeutscher Verlag, 1958).

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not hinder the pilgrims, who by the 1470s made Wilsnack one of the most popular shrines in the world.53 Even more, the cardinal’s off-and-on residence in Brixen turned violent when conflicts with Duke Sigismund of Tyrol and a venerable abbess named Verena von Stuben even threated his life.54 Not to be entirely defeated by these setbacks, his writings on reform appear once again with two sermons, one in Brixen and the other after he had returned to Rome and set his sights on another improbable task: improving its curia and its churches.55 Compared with the Concordance, the sermons begin to hint at a new emphasis with a stress on individual spirituality. The Christian, he suggests, is expected to achieve personal and moral reform through Christiformitas, conformity to the life and teachings of Jesus.56 Residence in Rome meant security from the tribulations of the Tyrol, but had their own kind of frustration. Pope Pius II, whom Cusanus had known as Aeneas Sylvius Piccolomini since the Council of Basel, recalled in his memoirs (perhaps with some exaggeration) that the cardinal burst out with these words: If you can hear the truth, I like nothing which goes on in this Curia. Everything is corrupt. No one does his duty. Neither you nor the cardinals have any care for the church. .  .  . All are bent on ambition and avarice. If ever I speak in a consistory about reform, I am laughed at.57

Whereupon he wept. His passion for institutional reform did not subside, however. Another opportunity presented itself in the form of an appointment to a reform commission, the inspiration of Pope Pius. Nicholas took the pope’s assignment seriously and wrote A General Reform of the Church, probably in July 1459, in the form of a draft for a papal bull.58 Pius included parts of the treatise 53   See Charles Freeman, Holy Bones, Holy Dust: How Relics Shaped the History of Medieval Europe (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2011), 191–93; and Morimichi Watanabe, “The German Church Shortly before the Reformation: Nicolaus Cusanus and the Veneration of the Bleeding Host at Wilsnack,” in idem, Concord and Reform, ed. Thomas M. Izbicki and Gerald Christianson (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2001), 117–31. On the distinction between elite and popular piety see the helpful discussion in Keith P. Luria, “‘Popular Catholicism’ and the Catholic Reformation,” in Early Modern Catholicism: Essays in Honor of John W. O’Malley, S. J., ed. Kathleen M. Comerford and Hilmar M. Pabel (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2001), 114–30. 54   Morimichi Watanabe, “Nicholas of Cusa and the Tyrolese Monasteries: Reform and Resistance,” in Watanabe, Concord and Reform, 133–53. 55   Nicholas of Cusa, Writings on Church and Reform, nos. 15 and 16. For a general introduction and further literature on this growing field of study, see Lawrence F. Hundersmarck, “Preaching,” in Bellitto, Izbicki and Christianson, Introducing Nicholas of Cusa, 232–69. 56   Nicholas of Cusa, Writings on Church and Reform, xv. 57   Memoirs of a Renaissance Pope: The Commentaries of Pius II. An Abridgment, ed. and trans. Florence Gragg and with an introduction by Leona Gabel (New York: G. P. Putnam, 1959), 228. 58   Nicholas of Cusa, A General Reform of the Church, in Writings on Church and Reform, no. 17. [Hereafter GR].

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in Pastor aeternus in 1464, but excluded the expectation that visitors would correct the pope and cardinals.59 The deletion was of little consequence, however, since the pope’s overriding concern was a crusade against the Turks, for which he literally gave the last days of his life, and the bull was never promulgated.60 In all the years since a shipboard experience when he reported a “gift from the Father of Lights” while returning from Constantinople, Nicholas had filled his spare time as an active diplomat and cardinal with a number of treatises, from Learned Ignorance (1440) to The Summit of Contemplation (1464).61 These remarkable works have been the subject of widespread interest and admiration for many years, but we hear far less about the General Reform, perhaps because it is unusual among his works. Not entirely a meditation on metaphysics but part theology and part practical reform, it presents specifics in equal measure with an institutional process that would guarantee personal and then institutional renewal.62 The presuppositions remain largely the same as those in the Concordance: reform begins with the head and moves downward through the hierarchy, while the priesthood representing the people will see it through. The differences in the General Reform, which contains an introduction, fourteen rules for visitations, and practical suggestions for addressing particular needs, can be seen in two familiar medieval assumptions and some creative biblical exegesis. The first assumption stresses sight, and asserts that humanity’s purpose is to see God in glory, a principle dating back at least to Augustine. The second, also Augustinian, stresses that humanity’s chief end is blessedness, the highest form of human happiness, which allows one to “see.”63 Cusanus adds his own creative imprint to these traditional axioms with this central thesis: reform means “to bring back to its original form,” namely, to Christ (Christiformitas).64 Recalling the role of “the divine radiance” in the Concordance, he maintains that Christiformitas comes through the mediation of the Word, not through human effort, for “no one is justified except the one whom Christ has justified by the merits of his death.”65 59   The suppression of simony proved to be intractable; see Barbara Hallman, Italian Cardinals, Reform, and the Church as Property (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985), 166. 60   Nicholas of Cusa, Writings on Church and Reform, xv. 61   H. Lawrence Bond, Nicholas of Cusa: Selected Spiritual Writings (New York: Paulist Press, 1997), 87–206, 293–303. 62   Exceptions are Morimichi Watanabe, “Nicholas of Cusa and the Reform of the Roman Curia,” in Watanabe, Concord and Reform, 169–85; and Morimichi Watanabe and Thomas M. Izbicki, “Nicholas of Cusa, A General Reform of the Church,” in Christianson and Izbicki, Nicholas of Cusa on Christ and the Church, 155–202. 63   GR, 551. 64   GR, 563. Although not as directly, the theme appears elsewhere in Cusanus, for example in Sermon 24 (1441); see Peter Casarella, “Sacraments,” in Bellitto, Izbicki and Christianson, Introducing Nicholas of Cusa, 33–66. 65   GR, 552–53.

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Although not specifically referenced, a nexus of biblical texts undergird this thesis, behind all of which is probably Philippians 2:6–11, often called the “kenosis hymn” (or Olympian ode), which Nicholas paraphrases in the words, “He was in the form of God so he could unite our humanity with his divine nature.” When from an ethical perspective he goes on to assert that we must take on the form of Christ to attain the kingdom,66 he echoes Romans 12:2: “Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your minds .  .  .” And an oblique reference to Romans 8:29, “For those whom he foreknew he also predestined to be conformed to the image of his Son, in order that he might be the firstborn within a large family,” moves the argument from individual conformity to the “family” of the church, for it is from the faithful that God forms the church, the purpose of which is building up (aedificatio) the Body of Christ. In a key passage in which Cusanus applies this theology to his reform proposal, he says that “two things are necessary”: that the higher clergy, “the eyes,” should submit first to their own correction, and then turn with clear vision to the whole church beginning in Rome and then to all the provinces.67 The central idea of the Reform extends a major theme from his sermons in Brixen and Rome: renewal will succeed only when the individuals involved adopt a life that is Christiformitas. But to take root and flourish, it must begin at the top with the pope who then must inculcate the fervor in the cardinals, the curia and all the churches of Rome, and from there down through the ranks.68 This gravitational flow-down suggests that Cusanus still sees the world through Pseudo-Dionysian hierarchies. It also reminds us that Hendrix’s insight about the “clerical conciliarism” of the Concordance still applies, but only insofar as a universal council gives way to individual reform.69 Unlike the author’s theological ruminations, the specific recommendations in the treatise are hardly unique, and correlate with a number of sermons preached in Rome about the same time in which some common themes are prominent: moral reform of the city and the curia; the appointment of good bishops outside Rome; the desire that princes respect the church’s liberty and address a common enemy, the Turks; and unity of all under one universal pastor.70 If we include a tacit assumption about the Turkish threat, Cusanus articulates all these concerns. 66

  GR, 555.   GR, 561. 68   GR, 577–79. 69   Compare Heribert Müller, “Vom Konzil zür Kurie. Ein kirchliche Karriere im 15. Jahrhundert: Guillaume Hugues d’Étain, Archidiakon von Metz und Kardinal von Santa Sabina (†  1455),” Zeitschrift für Kirchengeschichte 110 (1999): 25–52. 70   John W. O’Malley, Praise and Blame in Renaissance Rome (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1979), 195–96. 67

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In comparison to Cesarini’s dossier, on the other hand, some differences are apparent, such as the presence in Nicholas’s treatise of an extended theological introduction, the absence of any reference to the papal annates, and the demand to authenticate relics (a recollection of Wilsnack). Yet there are enough similarities to suggest that Cesarini and the related conciliar decrees could have been a pattern for Cusanus. This is most evident in his recommendations on the curia, the pope and cardinals, and worship, and even more the prohibitions against multiple benefices, absenteeism, and clerical immorality.71 Beyond the specifics, the dossier probably retained its power as a symbol of an earlier vision that provided a comprehensive reform agenda and a determination to stay the course in spite of adversities. All the reform efforts we have touched on had more mileage in them than previous generations imagined. The Catholic Concordance made a comeback with the publication of the Paris edition in 1514.72 Significant portions of Basel’s reforms were adopted by the French in the Pragmatic Sanction of Bourges (1438) and by the Germans in the Acceptation of Mainz (1439).73 And the General Reform not only influenced Pastor aeternus but subsequent papal reform bulls, and although none were promulgated, many of the issues remained on the agenda all the way through Lateran V.74 Yet, while The Catholic Concordance, Cesarini’s dossier, Basel’s reform decrees, and the General Reform are all different varieties in a single forest of late medieval efforts toward renewal, one striking proposal in the Reform stands out: Cusanus suggests that the cardinals, in addition to demonstrating zeal for God’s house, faithfulness in counsel, and an exemplary way of life, should consider themselves legates who represent the various nations and form “a daily, comprehensive council.”75 Nicholas ends his reformatory career by substituting the college and the curia for a universal council – the grand vision of his Catholic Concordance.

71

  GR, 566, 573, 575.   Nicholas of Cusa, Writings on Church and Reform, xvi. 73   Johannes Helmrath, Das Basler Konzil 1431–1449: Forschungsstand und Probleme (Cologne: Böhlau Verlag, 1987), 346–52; Stieber, Eugenius IV, 132–89. 74   O’Malley, Praise and Blame, 200, 217; Nelson Minnich, “The Last Two Councils of the Catholic Reformation: The Influence of Lateran V on Trent,” in Comerford and Pable, Early Modern Catholicism, 3–25. 75   GR, 579. 72

“Christianization” and Luther on the Early Profit Economy Carter Lindberg

Significant scholars such as Scott Hendrix stimulate the rest of us by their fresh interpretations of received perspectives. In his major study, Recultivating the Vineyard: The Reformation Agendas of Christianization, Scott Hendrix fleshes out his earlier concern to counter the trend of recent studies which “speak of reformation in the plural instead of the singular.” Since he used the title of my textbook as an example of this trend, this volume on Hendrix’s thesis provides an opportunity to initiate a dialogue over such issues as whether the reformers had a common agenda, viz., Christianization, or diverse perspectives; whether their conflicts developed from differing theological perspectives or alternative strategies for achieving a coherent program. In what follows I will review some critical reflections on the Christianization thesis, then explore Luther’s views on social welfare and economics as an example that questions the adequacy of the term “Christianization” to explain Luther’s reformatory movement. Contra the old saw, it may well be that you can tell a book by its cover. The two editions of my “Reformations” text feature works by Lucas Cranach the Elder. The first edition features a section of Cranach’s “Allegory of Law and Gospel” and the second edition features the “Last Supper” panel from the altarpiece in the Wittenberg parish church. Both graphics highlight central themes of Luther’s theology and were repeatedly depicted, with variations, on numerous Lutheran altars, Bibles, and elsewhere. These two Cranach images are also    Scott H. Hendrix, “Re-rooting the Faith: The Reformation as Re-Christianization,” Church History 69/3 (2000): 558–77, here 558. This article is a revised version of his “Rerooting the Faith: The Coherence and Significance of the Reformation,” Princeton Seminary Bulletin 21 (2000): 63–80. See also idem, Recultivating the Vineyard: The Reformation Agendas of Christianization (Louisville; London: Westminster John Knox Press, 2004), xv-xxiii.    Carter Lindberg, The European Reformations (Oxford: Blackwell, 1996; 2nd rev. ed., Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2010). References will be to the second edition, here xii-xiii.    See ibid., 371, 374. See also Bonnie Noble, Lucas Cranach the Elder: Art and Devotion of the German Reformation (Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 2009); idem, “The Wittenberg Altarpiece and the Image of Identity,” Reformation 11 (2006): 79–129; and Christoph Weimer, “Luther and Cranach on Justification in Word and Image,” in Timothy J. Wengert,

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shorthand representations of Luther’s theological difference from his contemporary reformers Karlstadt and Müntzer (law and gospel), Zwingli (Lord’s Supper), and Anabaptists (infant baptism). The cover of Hendrix’s book also features a Cranach image, that of Cranach the Younger’s 1569 “The Vineyard of the Lord,” an Epitaph for Paul Eber (1511–1569) that is in the same Wittenberg church as the above-mentioned altarpiece. We obviously chose illustrations that signaled our perspectives. Mine indicate theological commitments that led to Luther’s separations from the old church as well as from his erstwhile colleagues Karlstadt, Müntzer, and Zwingli, among others, as well as the motifs that formed his social ethics. Hendrix chose an image of planting a vineyard that he argues illustrates the common agenda stretching from the medieval church through the reformers: the agenda of “replanting authentic Christianity,” of “Christianizing Christendom.” “Cranach the Younger’s depiction of the Reformation as recultivating the vineyard is an apt portrayal of Luther’s program to Christianize Europe. As he saw it, the medieval church had planted the faith in the soil of pagan Europe but, after the faith had germinated, the bad husbandry of the papal church had neglected the field. Christianity had withered almost beyond recognition, and now the faith, in its genuine form, had to be replanted and cultivated.” Yet, I wonder how adequate “The Vineyard of the Lord” is to convey a sense of a common Reformation agenda of Christianization. To be sure, Cranach the Younger’s epitaph picks up many vineyard themes – biblical, pre-Reformation, Reformation, and personal – regarding the deceased Eber. Paul Eber, clearly a person of many talents, began his studies in Wittenberg in 1532 where he became a friend of Philip Melanchthon. He soon joined the Arts faculty teaching mathematics, astronomy, botany, Greek authors, and history. In 1557 he moved to the Theology faculty as Professor of Old Testament, and in 1558 he was ordained and succeeded Johannes Bugenhagen as City Pastor as well as Provost for the Castle Church and General Superintendent. He appears twice in the Epitaph, at the bottom kneeling with his family and in the vineyard itself as a worker kneeling and pruning a grape vine next to Luther. ed., The Pastoral Luther: Essays on Martin Luther’s Practical Theology (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2009), 292–309.    Hendrix, Recultivating the Vineyard, 63–64.    For a brief résumé of Eber’s life, numerous images of the epitaph, and identification of the reformers working in the vineyard, see Albrecht Steinwachs, The Vineyard of the Lord: Epitaph for Paul Eber (Spröda: Akanthus, 2001); Ingrid Schulze, Lucas Cranach d. J. und die protestantische Bildkunst in Sachsen und Thüringen: Frömmigkeit, Theologie, Fürstenreformation (Bucha bei Jena: Quartus-Verlag, 2004), 191–202; and Oskar Thulin, “Die Reformatoren im Weinberg des Herrn: Ein Gemälde Lucas Cranachs d. J.,” Luther-Jahrbuch 25 (1958): 141– 45. Thulin’s identification of the reformer removing stones as Flacius (144) is questioned by Schulze (193) on the basis of the conflict between Flacius and Melanchthon; Schulze suggests the person is Sebastian Fröschel, Eber’s pastoral colleague. Eber himself was attacked for his mediating theology by Gnesio-Lutherans.

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While I have neither the space nor the expertise for an extended analysis of Cranach the Younger’s painting, the following comments may be pertinent to reflection on Hendrix’s theme. While Cranach portrays one vineyard, not two, his painting sharply divides the papal destroyers of the vineyard, i.e., the Roman church, on the left and the faithful reformers tending and building up the vineyard on the right. The epitaph is a polemic. Luther, the largest figure on the right, is raking leaves, perhaps papal writings that he burned in 1520, including the papal threat of excommunication that referred to him as the “wild boar in the vineyard.” Cranach may well be playing here with Eber’s name that means “boar” in German. This suggestion is reinforced by Cranach’s second vineyard composition, the 1582 Salzwedel Altar, in which the leaves Luther is raking are indeed the Decretals, the indulgence letter of Leo X, and a document with Tetzel’s jingle, “as soon as the coin in the box rings, a soul to heaven springs.” At both Wittenberg and Salzwedel the vineyard motif presents the confrontation of true and false faith. The polemical thrust may also reflect earlier Reformation graphics of the vineyard. Two prints by the Nuremberg artist Erhard Schön may have been in Cranach’s mind. A one-page woodcut from around 1524 depicts Roman Catholic clergy as the evil tenants of the vineyard parable in Mark 12:1–11 who kill the vineyard owner’s slaves and then his heir. “What then will the owner of the vineyard do? He will come and destroy the tenants and give the vineyard to others” (Mk 12:9). Schön’s second woodcut of 1532 refers to Hans Sachs’s poem “Klage Gottes über seiner Weinberg” (“God’s Lament over his Vineyard”) and presents representatives of the papacy as dead trees adorned with props of the old faith. According to Matthew 15:13, “Every plant that my heavenly Father has not planted will be uprooted.” The woodcut portrays God uprooting the barren wood, angels binding and burning it; a grapevine with the crucified Christ as the tree of life that is fed by a well of life. In contrast the monks use a cistern that holds no water. While the false gardeners flee the vineyard, an evangelical pastor exhorts an attentive congregation. In brief, the focus of the “Vineyard of the Lord” epitaph is on the reform of the church led by Luther and his colleagues rather than on a common Reformation agenda of Christianization. All the reformers are Wittenbergers; clearly the papacy is not sharing the agenda of these reformers; and by the time of Cranach’s painting the Colloquy of Worms (1557) had highlighted tensions between Gnesio-Lutherans and Philipists, the Crypto-Calvinist controversy was afoot with Eber himself playing a moderate role, and of course Anabaptist options had long earlier received a negative judgment in the Augsburg Confession.    Schulze, Lucas Cranach d. J., 195–96. See also Ulrich Kalmbach & Jürgen M. Pietsch, Der Weinberg Altar von Lucas Cranach d. J. aus der Mönchskirche in Salzwedel (Spröda: Akanthus, 1996).    Schulze, Lucas Cranach d. J., 193–94.

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Reformation as Christianization Hendrix has argued for some time that “studying the goal of Christianization enables us to see the forest of the Reformation despite its many trees and to understand it as a whole. .  .  . [T]he mentality of Christianization is essential to a full appreciation of the Reformation and to an evaluation of its impact.” Before continuing, I must admit that the term “Christianization” creates in me not just a certain cognitive dissonance with regard to Reformation studies, but also a “gut-dissonance” with regard to the present American political context. The United States of America has long harbored an unhealthy view of itself as a “Christian nation.” The national penchant for spreading its “gospel” of “democracy” and “freedom” throughout the world raises for me the question of whether “Christianization” can ever be benign or merely heuristic. This may appear as antics with semantics, but my reaction to contemporary Christianization as nationalistic triumphalism is reinforced by the recent news accounts of our military’s use of “Jesus rifles,” stamped with Bible verses, and of “Christian militias.” Parallels to Thomas Müntzer’s “Princes’ Sermon” urging Christianization by the sword spring to mind.10 The term “Christianization” all too easily leaves open its content and the means of achieving that content. Can “Christianization” be read in the passive sense? That said, I can return to the topic as a heuristic tool. The term “Christianization” is most often associated with the work of the French historian Jean Delumeau. His claim is that the largely “pagan” population of medieval Europe was little by little “Christianized,” that is, subjected to    Hendrix, Recultivating the Vineyard, xvii-xviii. In addition to the references given above in n. 1, see Hendrix’s “Radical Agenda, Reformation Agenda: The Coherence of the Reformation,” in Hans-Jürgen Goertz and James M. Stayer, eds., Radikalität und Dissent im 16. Jahrhundert/Radicalism and Dissent in the Sixteenth Century (Berlin: Duncker & Humblot, 2002), 43–60; “Martin Luther, reformer,” in R. Po-Chia Hsia, ed., The Cambridge History of Christianity, vol. 6: Reform and Expansion 1500–1660 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 3–19; and “The Future of Luther’s Theology,” Dialog 47/2 (2008): 125–35. An early expression of Hendrix’s thesis occurs in his 1996 Sixteenth Century Studies Conference paper, “Reforming This Earth: Luther and a Christian Society”; and “Reformation Impossible?” Dialog 35/3 (Summer 1996): 204–8, here 206: “The more I read Luther, the more I believe he shared the vision of a more serious Christian society that was held by other reformers, most of them humanists such as Zwingli, Bucer, Calvin, and his colleague Philip Melanchthon. Theological differences remained of course, but greater than these differences was the common desire for an earnest commitment to Christian values and structures.”    See www.schott.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/01/25/jesus-rifles and www.religiondispatches.org/archive/politics.2424/, or google “jesus rifles and Christian militias” for other news accounts. Of course, political “Schwärmerei” is not the sole preserve of the USA. 10   See my European Reformations, 146–47: By the time of the “Princes’ Sermon” (1524), Müntzer’s “desire to Christianize the world, to realize the medieval aspiration of a corpus Christianum with a vengeance, had led him to become a ‘Reformer without a church.’”

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and then embracing a Christian discipline through the joint actions of the church, the state, and the privileged social strata. “As I see it, the ‘Christian Middle Ages,’ as far as the (essentially rural) masses are concerned is a legend which is being increasingly challenged. And if it is legend, the two Reformations – Luther’s and Rome’s – constituted, despite mutual excommunication, two complementary aspects of one and the same process of Christianization whose impact and limits have still to be assessed.”11 Indications of Christianization include not merely the widespread diffusion of basic elements of Christian faith and ritual but also a social life reflecting that faith, i.e., what we would call Christian ethics. If Christianity is to be known by its fruits, then Delumeau argues that the historian is pointed toward study of the marginalized. From the beginning of the thirteenth century on, there was a swelling number of impoverished people, beggars, and vagabonds roving the countryside and in the towns. “To attempt to measure the importance of this grave social phenomenon is also – very likely – to grasp the dimensions of a world only slightly Christianized.”12 Hendrix notes that his “formulation of the Reformation’s agenda has some similarity with the work of .  .  . Delumeau. .  .  . Delumeau’s notion of the Reformation as christianization is useful for redirecting attention away from an exclusively theological or social conception of its agenda. Most of all it is useful for the entire Reformation because it describes generally what all reformers, including radicals, wanted to accomplish.”13 The process of Christianization occurring between 1550 and 1750 created a new type of society through inculcation of catechisms, ritual, moral surveillance, and regulation of daily life. “The goal of the evangelical movement was the regulation of daily life in the sense of the gospel.”14 While I appreciate very much Hendrix’s numerous substantive contributions to Reformation studies in general and Luther studies in particular, I remain 11   John Bossy, introduction to Catholicism between Luther and Voltaire: A New View of the Counter-Reformation, by Jean Delumeau (London: Burns & Oates/Philadelphia: Westminster, 1977), xi; spelled-out by Delumeau for the Counter-Reformation in France on pp.  175–202. See the review essay by J. K. Powis, “Repression and Autonomy: Christians and Christianity in the Historical Work of Jean Delumeau,” The Journal of Modern History 64/2 (1992): 366–74, 370: “For Delumeau, authentic Christianity is a highly internalized matter – the reflective individual responding to a transcendent message. Viewed in that perspective, much of what has traditionally passed for Christianity can only seem a poor and fraudulent thing.” 12   Jean Delumeau, Un chemin d’histoire: Chrétienté et christianisation (Paris: Fayard, 1981), 151. See also in this collection of his essays and papers chapters 7 and 8: “L’histoire de la christianisation” and “Missions de l’intérieur au XVIIe siècle.” 13   Hendrix, “Radical Agenda, Reformation Agenda,” 44–45. See also idem, Recultivating the Vineyard, 21–22, where he notes problems with Delumeau’s use of Christianization. 14   Heinrich Richard Smith, “Emden Est Partout: Vers un modèle interactif de la confessionalisation,” in Francia. Forschungen zur Westeuropäischen Geschichte 26/2, ed. Deutsches Historisches Institut Paris (Stuttgart: Thorbecke Verlag, 2000), 23–45, here 39.

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uneasy with his “Christianization” thesis. The association with Delumeau’s argument may bring in its train the criticisms associated with that argument.15 “Christianization” also begs the questions of antonyms and synonyms: “dechristianization,” “secularism,” “confessionalization,” “rechristianization,” “modernization,” “acculturation,” and “social disciplining.”16 Such an “ensemble of concepts” may have some heuristic application in grappling with historical developments following confessionalization and then the French Revolution, but I think they introduce unnecessary baggage to reflection on the Reformation.17 Christianization, for me at least, includes the nagging questions of content and form: How do you recognize Christianization when you see it? In “On the Councils and the Church” (1539), Luther does speak of “outward signs that identify the Christian church, namely, those signs whereby the Holy Spirit sanctifies us according to the second table of Moses. .  .  .” But then he goes on to say that “these signs cannot be regarded as being as reliable as those noted before [Word and sacraments] since some heathen too practice these works and indeed at times appear holier than Christians. .  .  .”18 In this regard Oswald Bayer notes the modern demand for orthopraxy as a substitute for the traditional marks of the church.19 Similarly, it seems to me, Christianization may be read by modern eyes in terms of ethical progress. Berndt Hamm affirms that “categories of historical interpretation are indispensable.” But they may become “problematic .  .  . in their use to characterize broad-ranging epochs, as when one takes the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries and applies to them labels like ‘Late Middle Ages,’ ‘Renaissance,’ ‘Reforma15   In addition to the article by Powis cited above, see Kaspar von Greyerz, Religion and Culture in Early Modern Europe (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), 62–64, who notes, “Delumeau’s interpretation has found only a limited following outside France,” and characterizes the approach as “questionable.” “Such dubious schematizations are also hinted at now and then in more recent works by other French historians.” Also, Peter Blickle, “Die Reformation vor dem Hintergrund von Kommunalisierung und Christianisierung. Eine Skizze,” in Peter Blickle and Johannes Kunisch, eds., Kommunalisierung und Christianisierung: Voraussetzungen und Folgen der Reformation 1400–1600 (Zeitschrift für Historische Forschung, Beiheft 9) (Berlin: Duncker & Humblot, 1990), 9–28, 25: “The concept of Christianization still rests upon meager empirical grounds.” 16   See the discussions referenced under the index entry “Christianisierung,” in Heinrich Richard Schmidt, Konfessionalisierung im 16. Jahrhundert (Enzyklopädie Deutscher Geschichte, Band  12) (Munich: Oldenbourg, 1992), 143. 17   See Matthias Pohlig et al., Säkularisierungen in der Frühen Neuzeit: Methodische Probleme und empirische Fallstudien (Zeitschrift für Historische Forschung, Beiheft 41) (Berlin: Duncker & Humblot, 2008), 103–9; Greyerz, Religion and Culture, 202–3. “Ensemble of concepts” is a phrase from Hartmut Lehmann’s edited volume, Säkularisierung, Dechristianisierung, Rechristianisierung im neuzeitlichen Europa: Bilanz und Perspektiven der Forschung (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1997), 318. 18   LW 41:166–67; WA 50:643.28–29. See also Confession Concerning Christ’s Supper, 1528; LW 37:365; WA 26:505.11 ff. 19   Oswald Bayer, Martin Luthers Theologie: Eine Vergegenwärtigung (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003), 237–38.

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tion,’ and ‘Confessionalization’ or explains them with categories such as ‘rationalization’ (Max Weber), ‘social discipline’ (Gerhard Oestreich), ‘the civilizing process’ (Norbert Elias), or ‘christianization’ ( Jean Delumeau). These last four seem to me to be especially contestable, since each subject[s] narrow bases of sources to broadly encompassing and yet highly selective models of interpretation.”20 Luther, of course, was not privy to our historiographical debates. Nevertheless, Hendrix presents Luther’s agenda as first of all “to create ‘real Christians,’ as he called them, believers whose main concern should be whether or not they had become ‘different’ people.”21 “Luther was not originally aiming at structural reform but at the deeper infusion of an entire society with faith and love. This would happen first of all in people, not in institutions. .  .  . [Luther] wanted to make the theology and piety of his society more Christian than it was. The agenda developed by him during the years 1517 to 1522 was to Christianize Christendom.”22 What was at stake for Luther, Hendrix argues, was “the reformation of life.”23 Well, yes; it is certainly hard to question that Luther wanted his Wittenbergers – and everyone else for that matter – to live in conformity to his understanding of the gospel. The focus for Luther, however, was not “to Christianize Christendom,” but to proclaim the Word. That is, Luther’s focus was theology. And for Luther, theology is never without consequences. “For the Word of God comes, whenever it comes, to change and renew the world.” The result is upheaval. “It is the most unvarying fate of the Word of God to have the world in a state of tumult because of it.”24 And, it is well known that when Luther thought his fellow citizens were not manifesting faith active in love, he threatened to walk out on them.25 “Christianization” or “rechristianization,” however, has an ideological ring to it that echoes that divine sanctioning of a culture apparent in both the papal construction of Christianitas and Müntzer’s intensification of it in his sense of the Ordnung Gottes. Neither, I think, would have affirmed Luther’s point that it is not necessary for good governance that the emperor be a Christian but that he be able to reason. “Christians are not needed for secular author20   Berndt Hamm, The Reformation of Faith in the Context of Late Medieval Theology and Piety. Essays by Berndt Hamm, ed. Robert J. Bast (Leiden; Boston: Brill, 2004), 1. 21   Hendrix, Recultivating the Vineyard, 39. 22   Ibid., 42. 23   Ibid., 64. 24   The Bondage of the Will, 1525; LW 33:52; WA 18:626.8–32. Cf. Gerhard Ebeling, “Luthers Kampf gegen die Moralisierung des Christlichen” in idem, Lutherstudien III (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1985), 44–73, here 60–62. 25   See Martin Brecht, Martin Luther, vol. 3: The Preservation of the Church 1532–1546, tr. James L. Schaaf (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1993), 262–65. Already in the “Invocavit Sermons” (1522), Luther asserts that if the gospel is preached as a new law he will leave “unasked” and “regret that I even preached so much as one sermon in this place” (LW 51:91; WA 10/III:46.15–47.1). The issue here is doctrine not life.

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ity. Thus it is not necessary for the emperor to be a saint. It is not necessary for him to be a Christian to rule. It is sufficient for the emperor to possess reason.”26 “God has placed human civil life under the dominion of natural reason which has the ability enough to rule physical things. Reason and experience together teach .  .  . how to do everything else that belongs to sustaining life here on earth. These powers have been graciously bestowed by God upon human reason, and we need not look to Scripture for advice in such temporal matters. God has seen to it that even the heathen is blessed with the gift of reason to help him live his daily life.”27 William Lazareth emphasizes Luther’s point when he writes, “Rather than attempt any naïve and fruitless ‘Christianization’ of the fallen social structures in the community, Christ’s followers should dedicate their consecrated brains to learn even from conscientious pagans how best to live their daily lives so as to achieve the most equitable society possible under human reason, justice, law, and order.”28 Hence Luther’s concern for education, and the obligation of “temporal authority to compel its subjects to keep their children in school.” Schooling is far more important than military service, for education is the means through which the community maintains its offices and estates. “Wisdom, not force, must rule. .  .  . All experience proves this and in all histories we find that force, without reason or wisdom, has never once accomplished anything. .  .  . Briefly, then, it is not the law of the fist but the law of the head that must rule – not force but wisdom or reason – among the wicked as well as among the good.”29 One of the dangers of “Christianization” talk is that it may suggest a “theology of glory,” wherein culture is directed by the gospel. But, as Lazareth argues, “Luther preached consistently, ‘You cannot rule a fallen world with the gospel!’ This is a realism that alienates all starry-eyed idealists, be they Christians or secular humanists alike, who either covet or fear the alleged Christianization of the world and all its values through the moral perfection of the alleged good works of the law.”30 Another danger of “Christianization” talk is the obscuring of the ambiguity and uncertainty inherent not only in the world, but also in Christian life. Luther’s sensitivity to this is evident in his succinct definition of 26

  Sermon, 1528. WA 27:418.2–4.   Sermon, 1524. WA 16:353.27–33. 28   William Lazareth, Christians in Society: Luther, the Bible, and Social Ethics (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2001), 170. 29   A Sermon on Keeping Children in School, 1530; LW 46:256–57, 238–39; WA 30/ II:587.7 ff., 556.33 ff. Cf. Christof Windhorst, “‘Durch ihr Amt Schutz und Frieden haben’: Martin Luther über die soziale Verantwortung der Obrigkeit,” in Patrik Mähling, ed., Orien­ tierung für das Leben: Kirchliche Bildung und Politik in Spätmittelalter, Reformation und Neuzeit. Festschrift für Manfred Schulze (Münster: LIT Verlag, 2010), 59–80, here 64–68. 30   Lazareth, Christians in Society, 146. Cf. Temporal Authority: To What Extent It Should Be Obeyed, 1523, LW 45:75–129, esp.  91–2, 108, 114, 119, 129; WA 11:251. See also Carter Lindberg, “Theology and Politics: Luther the Radical and Müntzer the Reactionary,” Encounter 37/4 (1976): 356–71. 27

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theology: “The proper subject of theology is man guilty of sin and condemned, and God the Justifier and Savior of man the sinner. Whatever is asked or discussed in theology outside this subject is error and poison.”31 Consider also Luther’s concomitant theological anthropology of the Christian as simultaneously sinner and righteous.32 Luther displaced from theology the old Aristotelian progress from vice to virtue. Hence, to cite Lazareth again, “strictly speaking, there is likely no specifiable ‘Christian’ ethic as such; there are only Christians who act ethically and contextually in love and justice. For Luther, the evangelical uniqueness lies solely in the ground and goal of the ethical actors and not in the length and breadth of their ambiguous actions.”33 To paraphrase: Luther’s agenda in the realm of the world was not Christianization but civilization, i.e., obedience to the civil use of the law. In the realm of the gospel, the Christian church is “an article of faith.” This is why natural reason cannot recognize it, even if it puts on all its glasses. .  .  . Christendom will not be known by sight, but by faith. .  .  . A Christian is even hidden from himself; he does not see his holiness and virtue, but sees in himself nothing but unholiness and vice. And you, stupid know-it-all, would behold Christendom with your blind reason and unclean eyes. In a word, our holiness is in heaven, where Christ is; and not in the world, before men’s eyes, like goods in the market place.34

The church, too, is simul iustus et peccator. “The church is indeed holy, but it is a sinner at the same time.”35 “The Church is hidden, the saints are unknown.”36 Luther’s “abscondita est ecclesia, latent sancti” would seem to indicate a rejection of the medieval ideal of a corpus Christianum. For Luther, Christendom is not known except by the Word.37 The key to Luther’s agenda, I would argue, is not Christianization but his theology of the two kingdoms38 set forth, among other tracts, in Temporal Authority: To What Extent It Should Be Obeyed – “the fundamental and most sig-

31

  Commentary on Psalm 51, 1538; LW 12:311; WA 40/II: 328.1 ff.   Lectures on Romans, 1516; LW 25:260; WA 56:272.16 ff. 33   Lazareth, Christians in Society, 83. 34   Preface to the Revelation of St. John [II],” 1546 (1530); LW 35: 410–11; WADB 7:420.3– 11. 35   Lectures on Galatians, 1535; LW 26:109; WA 40/I:197.23–24. 36   The Bondage of the Will, 1525; LW 33:89; WA 18:652.23. See Oswald Bayer, Martin Luthers Theologie, 252–55; and Dorothea Wendebourg, “Kirche,” in Albrecht Beutel, ed., Luther Handbuch (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005), 403–14, here 405–6. 37   Sermon, 1525. WA 17/I:100.10–11. 38   The two kingdoms, two governments, or two realms is a much debated topic. For orientations cf., for example, Lazareth, Christians in Society, 2–30; Beutel, ed., Luther Handbuch, 425–28; Oswald Bayer, Martin Luthers Theologie, 281–96; idem, “Nature and Institution: Luther’s Doctrine of the Three Orders,” Lutheran Quarterly 12/2 (1998): 125–59; Windhorst, “Durch ihr Amt,” 60–63; Hans-Jürgen Prien, Luthers Wirtschaftsethik (Göttingen: Vanden­ hoeck & Ruprecht, 1992), 145–62. 32

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nificant document of Luther’s political ethics.”39 “God has ordained two governments: the spiritual, by which the Holy Spirit produces Christians and righteous people under Christ; and the temporal, which restrains the un-Christian and wicked so that – no thanks to them – they are obliged to keep still and to maintain an outward peace.” To attempt to rule the world by the gospel would either make the gospel into a new law or create a “cheap grace” in which anything goes. Take heed and first fill the world with real Christians before you attempt to rule it in a Christian and evangelical manner. This you will never accomplish; for the world and the masses are and always will be un-Christian, even if they are all baptized and Christian in name. Christians are few and far between (as the saying is). Therefore it is out of the question that there should be a common Christian government over the whole world, or indeed over a single country or any considerable body of people, for the wicked always outnumber the good.40

Luther reiterated his point in Trade and Usury: “I have already said that Christians are rare people on earth. That is why the world needs a strict, harsh temporal government which will compel and constrain the wicked to refrain from theft and robbery . .  .  . This is necessary in order that the world may not become a desert, peace vanish, and men’s trade and society be utterly destroyed; all of which would happen if we were to rule the world according to the gospel, rather than driving and compelling the wicked by laws and the use of force to do and to allow what is right.” And: “I have often taught thus, that the world ought not and cannot be ruled according to the gospel and Christian love, but by strict laws and with sword and force, because the world is evil.”41 In fact, Christians themselves remain “sinner and righteous at the same time.” To be sure, in focusing on Luther’s theology I am engaging in the very orientation that Hendrix intends to supplement with a broader orientation. Yet, from the outset, dissension among the reformers was rooted primarily in differences in theology not strategy. It began with the fall-out between Luther and Karlstadt. The issue that separated them was not tactics or strategy of reform but rather their understandings of the gospel.42 Karlstadt, Luther argued from the 39   Brecht, Martin Luther, vol. 2: Shaping and Defining the Reformation 1521–1532, tr. James Schaaf (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1990), 118–19. 40   Temporal Authority, 1523; LW 45:91; WA 11:251.34–252.3. 41   Trade and Usury, 1524; LW 45:258, 264; WA 15:302, 306.28 ff. 42   Cf. Ulrich Bubenheimer, Consonatia Theologiae et Iurisprudentiae: Andreas Bodenstein Karlstadt als Theologe und Jurist zwischen Scholastik und Reformation (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1977), 285–86: Karlstadt’s fundamental question was “How can a person fulfill God’s law?” whereas Luther’s reformation turn expressed an existentially felt liberation from the compulsion of the law; sharply put, Karlstadt’s concern regarding justification was freedom for the law in contrast to Luther’s freedom from the law; Karlstadt’s tendency was in the direction of an “Ein-Reiche-Lehre” (doctrine of one kingdom) in contrast to Luther’s “Zwei-ReicheLehre” (doctrine of two kingdoms); and Karlstadt’s theological proximity to the Swiss reformers literally led him to Zurich and Basel.

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“Invocavit Sermons” through “Against the Heavenly Prophets,” had proclaimed “must-y” theology and sermons for he had taken the free “may” of the gospel and made it the “must” of forced reform regarding the sacrament and images.43 The red thread running through the dissension among the reformers is the question, “What makes a Christian?” In response to the letter from the evangelical leaders of Strasbourg concerning dissension, Luther wrote, “My sincere counsel and warning is that you be circumspect and hold to the single question, what makes a person a Christian? Do not on any account allow any other question or other art to enjoy equal importance. When anyone proposes anything ask him at once, ‘Friend, will this make one a Christian or not?’ If not, it cannot be a matter of major importance which requires earnest consideration.”44 Luther’s succinct answer to this question is doctrine: We can be saved without love .  .  . but not without pure doctrine and faith. .  .  . Therefore, as I often warn you, doctrine must be carefully distinguished from life. .  .  . “One dot” of doctrine is worth more than “heaven and earth” (Matt. 5:18); therefore we do not permit the slightest offense against it. But we can be lenient toward errors of life. .  .  . [W]e have all the articles of faith solidly established in Sacred Scripture. The devil would dearly love to corrupt and overthrow these; that is why he attacks us so cleverly with this specious argument about not offending against love and the harmony among the churches.45

Luther reiterates his point in a Table Talk that Hendrix posits has contributed to a “misconception” of “Luther’s agenda.”46 Doctrine and life must be distinguished. Life is bad among us, as it is among the papists, but we don’t fight about life and condemn the papists on that account. Wycliffe and Huss didn’t know this and attacked [the papacy] for its life. I don’t scold myself into becoming good [ fromm], but I fight over the Word and whether our adversaries teach it in its purity. That doctrine should be attacked – this has never before happened. This is my

43

  For example: the Invocavit sermons, LW 51:74, 75; WA 10/III:11.23–30; 14.24–26: “Take note of these two things, ‘must’ and ‘free.’ The ‘must’ is that which necessity requires, .  .  . as, for instance, the faith. .  .  . But ‘free’ is that in which I have free choice, and may use or not, yet in such a way that it profit my brother and not me. Now do not make a ‘must’ out of what is ‘free,’ as you have done [in relation to both kinds in the Sacrament, and the abolition of images].” “In the things which are ‘musts’ and are matters of necessity, such as believing in Christ, love nevertheless never uses force or undue constraint.” See also Against the Heavenly Prophets, 1525; LW 40:207; WA 18:196.22–24: “See how the devil makes a commandment out of a promise of Christ and in place of faith institutes a human work. .  .  .” For a theologically precise and pastorally sensitive summary of his conviction, see Luther’s 1523 Sendbrief an die Gemeinde der Stadt Esslingen, WA 12:154–59; and Albrecht Beutel, “Christ­ liches Leben vor Gott und dem Nächsten. Luthers ‘Sendbrief an die Gemeinde der Stadt Esslingen’ (1523),” Luther 80/3 (2009): 146–49. 44   Letter to the Christians at Strassburg in Opposition to the Fanatic Spirit, 1524; LW 40:67–68; WA 15:394, 1–6. 45   Lectures on Galatians, 1535; LW 27:41–42; WA 40/2:51.13 ff. 46   Hendrix, Recultivating the Vineyard, 64.

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calling. .  .  . When the Word remains pure, then the life (even if there is something lacking in it) can be molded properly. Everything depends on the Word .  .  .47

The above citations are not, in my view, “misconceptions” but they do continue to cause discomfort if not offense.48 However, Luther’s theological and pastoral point is that only when doctrine trumps life is certainty of the gospel possible. “Let us thank God, therefore, that we have been delivered from this monster of uncertainty [based on our lives]. .  .  . And this is our foundation: The Gospel commands us to look, not at our own good deeds or perfection but at God Himself as He promises, and at Christ Himself the Mediator. .  .  . And this is the reason why our theology is certain: it snatches us away from ourselves and places us outside ourselves, so that we do not depend on our own strength, conscience, experience, persons, or works but depend on that which is outside ourselves, that is, on the promise and truth of God, which cannot deceive.”49 In spite of my caveats regarding Hendrix’s appropriation of a “Christianization” heuristic, and his claim for a common Reformation agenda, I wholeheartedly agree with his thorough emphasis on Luther’s concern for “reformation of life,” which also serves to counter the widespread image of Luther as a quietist. “To live out one’s faith also meant for Luther to behave ethically in politics, marriage, and business where believers confronted complex issues of social and public justice.”50 Here as elsewhere we may see that for Luther “structured reform” and the “deeper infusion of an entire society with faith and love”51 are inseparable expressions of his theology. The extent to which one may speak of Luther’s social ethics as Christianization would require a full scale study of his motifs of the two kingdoms, law and gospel, the three estates, vocation, sancti47

 1533. LW 54:110; WATr 1:294.19–23.   See Carter Lindberg, “Justice and Injustice in Luther’s Judgment of ‘Holiness Movements,’” in Luther’s Ecumenical Singnificance. An Interconfessional Consultation, ed. Peter Manns and Harding Meyer in collaboration with Carter Lindberg and Harry McSorley (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1984), 161–81; and the response by James F. McCue, 204, 207: “If we are not careful, and it seems to me that Professor Lindberg’s paper is not careful enough, we are left with Luther simply as the great ecumenical naysayer.” “And though in a certain sense it is true that ‘Doctrine and life are incomparable, not at all on the same level’ (Lindberg), totally to separate them would be to forfeit one of Luther’s more important accomplishments.” 49   Lectures on Galatians, 1535; LW 26:387; WA 40/1:589.15–28. 50   Hendrix, Recultivating the Vineyard, 64–55. Hendrix notes, “The notion that Luther cared more about theology than ethics and expected less of believers than did other reformers has been especially prominent in American scholarship.” He refers here (cf. 189 n137) to H. Richard Niebuhr as an example of the American view of Luther as quietist. The influence of Troeltsch and others should also be noted, see Carter Lindberg, Beyond Charity: Reformation Initiatives for the Poor (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1993), 161–63. One of the first substantive American responses to the critiques of Luther by Troeltsch and the Niebuhrs is George W. Forell, Faith Active in Love: An Investigation of the Principles Underlying Luther’s Social Ethics (Minneapolis: Augsburg Publishing House, 1954). 51   Hendrix, Recultivating the Vineyard, 42, 64. 48

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fication, et al.52 Within the limited scope of this brief article, I will focus on his views of the profit economy and social welfare. My argument is that here we may see an expression of Luther’s social ethics motivated by his understanding of the gospel but at the same time set forth in terms of reason, justice, and equity – available to Christian and non-Christian alike – rather than in terms of “Christianization” of society.

Luther’s Social Ethics and the Profit Economy Luther’s sustained and virulent attack on the works-righteousness of the medieval ladder of virtues was equally an attack on the early profit economy, in our terms, the corporate ladder.53 Both reveal the drive to secure one’s existence, and as such express the counterfeit gospel that a person’s worth depends upon achievement. To Luther, the good news is that human worth is independent of success whether measured in terms of renunciation or acquisition of the world. Luther therefore fought a two-sided battle against monastic asceticism on the one hand and early modern capitalism on the other. The first battle is wellknown, but the second has been obscured by the common association of the “Protestant ethic” with the “spirit of capitalism,” and the appeal of wealth. But to Luther, both the monastic drive to renounce the world and the capitalist drive to acquire the world really belong to the same coin – salvation by works. The problem, Luther noted, is not money but its use. The greedy misuse the world by striving to acquire it; the monastics by struggling to renounce it.54 The 52

  For the relationship of these theological motifs to Luther’s social ethics see Oswald Bayer, Martin Luthers Theologie; idem, Living by Faith: Justification and Sanctification, tr. Geoffrey Bromiley (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2001); and his chapters in Worship and Ethics: Lutherans and Anglicans in Dialogue, ed. Oswald Bayer and Alan Suggate (Berlin; New York: de Gruyter, 1996). 53   The popular image of the ladder to heaven is examined by Christian Heck, L’Échelle Céleste Dans L’Art Du Moyen Age. Une Histoire De La Quête Du Ciel (Paris: Flammarion, 1999). 54   See, for example, Lectures on Genesis, 1537; LW 2:327, 331; WA 42:495.24–29; 498.17– 32; Lectures on I Timothy, 1528; LW 28:370–72; WA 26:111.25–112.4; Lectures on the First Epistle of John, 1527; LW 30:248; WA 20:661.28–663.28. Luther himself was no stranger to economic issues. His father rose in the mining industry as a successful entrepreneur. Luther’s education in Magdeburg through Erfurt accustomed him to the rising urban milieu and acquainted him with wealthy families. His studies of Biel familiarized him with the revision of medieval monetary theory by the via moderna. The artist and entrepreneur Lucas Cranach was his friend in Wittenberg. And while Luther was quite happy to have Katy be the family “finance minister” after their marriage, he himself had had extensive financial and management experience. Elected prior and district vicar of the Augustinians in 1515, he was responsible for eleven cloisters in Thüringia and Meissen. His extensive economic and commercial correspondence in this regard required at least two constant secretaries. See Günther Fabiunke, Martin Luther als Nationalökonom (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1963), 32; Hans-Jürgen Prien, “‘Lieber mit Gott arm denn mit dem Teufel reich sein’: Überlegungen zu einer Wirtschafts­

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end result for both is personal insecurity because trust is placed in self-achievement rather than in God. Meanwhile the neighbor is neglected. Some scholars have argued that Luther was a political and social conservative whose two-kingdoms theology promoted subservience to political authorities and an ethical quietism.55 But if Luther was so conservative, how do we account for his life-long criticism of early capitalism as a systemic injustice, his call for government regulation of business and banking, and his contribution to social welfare legislation? A list of some of his writings shows his engagement with the burning financial and welfare issues of his day. Already in the Ninety-five Theses of 1517 and their “Explanations,” 1518, Luther emphasized that Christians should support the poor rather than buying indulgences.56 The Blessed Sacrament of the Holy and True Body of Christ, and the Brotherhoods, written in German “for the laity,” related worship and social welfare to his proposal for establishing a “common chest” for social welfare work.57 Social ethics is thus the liturgy after the liturgy, “worship in the realm of the world.”58 Published in 1519 with a Latin translation in 1524, this tract went through fourteen editions in German by 1525.59 Luther attacked profiteering in the Short Sermon on Usury, also published in 1519, appearing in three editions, and the Long Sermon on Usury, 1520, both of which were incorporated into his major attack on the excessive interest rates and monopolistic practices of early capitalism in his 1524 tract, Trade and Usury,60 which appeared in seven editions. In 1523, in response to the request for advice from the town council of Leisnig, Luther wrote the preface to the town’s Ordinance of a Common Chest, which provided legislation for social welfare.61 Here, too, Luther continued his emphasis upon the relationship between worship and social ethics with reference to Matthew 25:31 ff., “Now there is no ethik Martin Luthers,” in Peter Freybe, ed., “Wach Auf, Wach Auf, Du Deutsches Land”: Martin Luther, Angst und Zuversicht in der Zeitenwende (Wittenberg: Drei Kastanien Verlag, 2000), 86–108, 90–91; Nicole de LaHarpe, “Luther et les Problèmes Économiques de son Temps. Le Prêt à Intérêt et le Zinskauf,“ in Jean-Marie Valentin, ed., Luther et la Réforme (Paris: Éditions Desjonquères, 2001), 511–30, 514–15. 55   See n. 50 above. For a review of the literature on Luther and economics see Prien, Luthers Wirtschaftsethik, 13–24; and Ricardo Rieth, “Habsucht” bei Martin Luther: Ökonomisches und theologisches Denken, Tradition und soziale Wirklichkeit im Zeitalter der Reformation (Weimar: Böhlau, 1996), 15–39. 56   Theses 43 and 45; LW 31:29; WA 1:235.22–23.26. Prien, Luthers Wirtschaftsethik, 176: “With his 1517 indulgence theses, Luther implicitly attacked the ecclesial, political, and economic corruption which, among other things, can be seen as an expression of an infection of the late medieval church by the spirit of capitalism.” 57   LW 35:69, 71; StA 1:285.17; 287.6. 58   Vilmos Vajta, Die Theologie des Gottesdienstes bei Luther (Stockholm: Svenska Kyrkans Diakonistyrelses Bokförlag, 1952), 314. Cf. Carter Lindberg, “Luther’s Concept of Offering,” Dialog 35/4 (1996): 251–57, and Lindberg, Beyond Charity, 99–104. 59   LW 35:47–73; WA 2:738–58. 60   LW 45:233–310; WA 15:279–313, 321–22. 61   LW 45:159–94; WA 12:11–30.

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greater service of God [gottis dienst] than Christian love which helps and serves the needy, as Christ himself will judge and testify at the Last Day, Matthew 25[:31–46].”62 People looked to Luther for guidance for reform of economic and welfare issues. In 1525 the Danzig town council requested his advice on profiteering and legitimate interest rates.63 Luther’s response was to emphasize equity in financial dealings and to limit interest rates to five per cent. Luther was a realist with regard to trade and business and emphasized that it needed regulation.64 In the meantime, he wrote To the Christian Nobility of the German Nation (1520) in which he proclaimed that taking interest is the work of the devil and the greatest misfortune of the German nation, and he exhorted civil authorities to create social welfare programs.65 He continued with the Freedom of a Christian (1520); 66 Temporal Authority: To What Extent It Should Be Obeyed (1523); 67 and To the Councilmen of all Cities in Germany that They Establish and Maintain Christian Schools (1524).68 In addition are his biblical and sermon commentaries, e.g., on Deuteronomy 15:4, that there should be no poor among you (1525); and that he advocated for “a common chest and public alms,” a graduated income tax, abolition of begging, and canceling of “the debts of the poor who are in need.”69 These themes are continued in his exposition of the seventh commandment in his Treatise on Good Works (1520) 70 and Large Catechism (1529); 71 and his commentaries on the Magnificat (1521), the Sermon on the Mount (1532),72 and the Psalms.73 Finally, there is the explosive tract at the end of his life that exhorts 62   LW 45:172; WA 12:13.26 ff. Cf. Helmar Junghans, “Sozialethisches Denken und Handeln bei Martin Luther,” in idem, Spätmittelalter, Luthers Reformation, Kirche in Sachsen. Ausgewählte Aufsätze, ed. Michael Beyer and Günther Wartenberg (Leipzig: Evangelische Verlags­ anstalt, 2001), 127–37, here, 135. 63   WABr 3:483–86. 64   Cf. Prien, Luthers Wirtschaftsethik, 89, 108, 110. 65   LW 44:213; WA 6:466; LW 44:189 ff.; WA 6:450 ff. 66   LW 31:333–77; WA 7:49–73 (Latin); WA 7:20–38 (German). 67   LW 45:77–129; WA 11:229–80. 68   LW 45:341–78; WA 15:9–53. 69   LW 9:138–39, 147–48, 243, 254; WA 14:652.2–8, 15–27; 657.3–33; 715.28–33. Cf. the preface to the Ordinance of a Common Chest, 1523; LW 45:161–94; WA 12:11–30. Luther did not share the utopian visions of some his Renaissance contemporaries. See his preface to the edition of Mathias Hütlin’s Liber Vagatorum, WA 26:638–51; modern German edition in Heiner Boehnke and Rolf Johannsmeier, Das Buch der Vaganten, Spieler, Huren, Leutbetrüger (Cologne: Prometh Verlag, 1987), 79–97; English trans. by J. C. Hotten, Liber Vagatorum: The Book of Vagabonds & Beggars (London: Penguin, 1932). 70   LW 44:21–114; WA 6:196–276. 71   Robert Kolb and Timothy J. Wengert, eds., The Book of Concord (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2000), 416–20. 72   Both in LW 21; and in WA 7:538–604 and WA 32:299–544. One of the first scholars to note the significance of the Sermon on the Mount for Luther’s economic ethics was Gerta Scharffenorth. See the section “Die Bergpredigt in Luthers Beiträgen zur Wirtschaftsethik – Erwägungen zu einer Theorie ethischer Urteilsbildung,” in idem, Den Glauben ins Leben ziehen: Studien zu Luthers Theologie (Munich: Chr. Kaiser Verlag, 1982), 314–38. 73   Luther’s reflections on Psalm 127 ([1524] WA 15:348–79; and [1533/4] WA 40/III(3):

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pastors to excommunicate usurers, Exhortation to the Clergy to Preach against Usury (An die Pfarrherrn wider den Wucher zu predigen, Vermahnung, 1540), which went through four editions in its year of publication, plus a translation into Latin.74 His criticism of the tax policies of the German princes and his promotion of fairer tax rates were deemed radical enough to be omitted from the Wittenberg edition of his writings.75 Yet, in spite of the fact that Luther’s writings on economics were important to his contemporaries, these writings are today largely neglected.76 Brecht notes, “Even today, the radical nature of these late statements by Luther on economic questions has not yet been fully apprehended.”77 There are inexpensive modern editions of his 1520 tracts but not of Trade and Usury. And his last effort, exhorting excommunication of laissez faire capitalists, is largely unknown and available only in German, and then only in the Weimar, Erlangen, and Walch editions.78 This is not particularly surprising in a world that extols capitalism to the extent that CEOs receive hundreds of times the income of their employees; where 202–69) clearly show, according to Hans Ulrich, the priority of God’s economy to Luther’s ethics. See Hans Ulrich, Wie Geschöpfe leben: Konturen evangelischer Ethik (Münster: Lit Verlag, 2005), 68, 114, 280. “By referring again to Luther’s interpretation of Psalm 127, Ulrich points out that true worship means living in God’s economy making us cooperators not cocreators of God. As God’s cooperators we work and act economically without becoming idolatrous worshippers of religious capitalism. Only true worship relieves us of the idolatrous dance around the golden calf of capitalism.” Wolfgang Palaver, “Challenging Capitalism as Religion: Hans G. Ulrich’s Theological and Ethical Reflections on the Economy,” Studies in Christian Ethics 20/2 (2007): 215–30. The entire issue is devoted to essays on Ulrich’s book. 74   WA 51:325–424. Prien, Lutherswirtschaftsethik, 83 n76 notes the fact that the four editions within the same year underscores the relevance of the tract. 75   See LW 9:139 n7. 76   Odd Langholm, “Martin Luther’s Doctrine on Trade and Price in its Literary Context,” History of Political Economy 41/1 (2009): 89–107, here 89, cf. also 91 n4: “Luther on usury is due for renewed study but not within the limited scope of a brief article.” See also Leopold von Caprivi, “Mit scharfen ökonomischen Blick: Luthers Schrift vom Kauf handlung und Wucher bleibt aktuell,” Lutherische Monatshefte 21 (1982): 382–85. Hans-Jürgen Prien, however, notes that in 1947 the CDU republished Von Kaufshandlung und Wucher (On Trade and Usury) in booklet form. Prien cites one of the editors of the reprint: “When Luther speaks of the necessity of a ‘stringent, hard temporal government’ of economics, when he expressly conferred on the state monopoly formation, and finally when he recognized productivity as the criterion for the formation of a set price, he touched on the questions which are as burning in the contemporary discussion over socialism as in his own time.” Prien goes on to caution about a fundamentalism that does not recognize historical contexts and the difference of 400 years. Hans-Jürgen Prien, “Lieber mit God arm denn mit dem Teufel reich sein,” 86–87. On the other hand, Prien sees Luther’s concern for the poor evident in the Latin American preferential option for the poor. There was also the recent exhibit in the Luther museum in Wittenberg, “Die Güter dieser Welt.” See Martin Treu, ed., Martin Luther und das Geld. Aus Luthers Schriften, Briefen und Tischreden (Wittenberg: Drei Kastanien Verlag, 2000). 77   Brecht, Martin Luther, vol. 3: The Preservation of the Church, 261. 78   An English translation is scheduled for a forthcoming supplemental volume to Luther’s Works by Concordia Publishing House, St. Louis.

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credit card companies make tens of billions in profits; and where there has been widespread government deregulation of businesses. There may be no interest in Luther’s political-economic writings because they condemn the American way of life as conceived by those who attribute social problems to government regulations and programs, and who extol free enterprise and its trickle-down philanthropy. The following remarks will review Luther’s attack on the profit economy of his day and conclude with his contribution to social welfare legislation. Since most of his numerous tracts addressing profits and welfare, as mentioned above, are widely available, I shall focus on his last work: An die Pfarrherrn wider den Wucher zu predigen, Vermahnung. The medieval ideology of voluntary poverty as the privileged path to salvation had been entrenched for centuries, but the idea that money can make money was relatively recent in the Reformation period. The medieval church’s condemnation of the profit economy, termed usury in theology and canon law, was reiterated as late as the Fifth Lateran Council in 1515.79 But by then the entrepreneur was well-established. Hence the popular saying, “Bürgen soll man würgen” – roughly translated: loan sharks should be strangled.80 Luther detested the calculating entrepreneur. He was convinced that the new profit economy divorced money from use for human needs, necessitated an economy of acquisition, and fed the sin of avarice. Luther consistently preached and wrote against the expanding money and credit economy as a great sin. In 79   See Odd Langholm, The Aristotelian Analysis of Usury (Bergen; Oslo; Stavanger: Tromsø Universitetsforlaget, 1984); idem, The Merchant in the Confessional: Trade and Price in the Pre-Reformation Penitential Handbooks (Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2003); and Stephen J. Gabill, ed., Sourcebook in Late-Scholastic Monetary Theory: The Contributions of Martin de Azpilcueta, Luis de Molina, S. J., and Juan de Mariana, S. J. (Lanham, MD et al.: Lexington Books, 2007). Prien, Luthers Wirtschaftsethik, 56–68, provides a succinct overview of late medieval to early modern financial theory and the church’s tradition of prohibiting interest. Heiko A. Oberman, Werden und Wertung der Reformation (Tübingen: Mohr, 1977), 161–200, also reviews medieval positions on usury and details the contributions of the via moderna to an oeconomia moderna, including Johann Eck’s endorsement of interest and his connection with the Fugger banking house. Langholm, “Martin Luther’s Doctrine on Trade,” argues for “the entirely medieval nature of Luther’s thought” regarding economics. Standard studies include J. T. Noonan, The Scholastic Analysis of Usury (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1957); and Benjamin Nelson, The Idea of Usury: From Tribal Brotherhood to Universal Otherhood, 2nd ed. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1969). Eric Kerridge’s recent study, Usury, Interest and the Reformation (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2002), critiques older studies and also provides excerpts from various reformers. 80   Caprivi, “Mit scharfen ökonomischen Blick,” 384. Translated as “Guarantors to the gallows” in LW 45:253. Ironically, the shift from medieval condemnation of a usurious market economy was prompted by Luther’s opponents. “The Dominicans Silvester Mazolini [sic. Sylvester Mazzolini] and Thomas Cajetan, two of Luther’s most direct adversaries, published works whose sections about trade and price were fed into the Salamanca school and were thus instrumental in a certain ‘depersonalization’ of economics entirely foreign to Luther.” Langholm, “Martin Luther’s Doctrine on Trade,” 105.

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our terms, he saw unregulated capitalism as a weapon of mass destruction. “After the devil there is no greater human enemy on earth than a miser and usurer for he desires to be God over everyone. Turks, soldiers, and tyrants are also evil men, yet they must allow the people to live .  .  . indeed, they must now and then be somewhat merciful. But a usurer and miser-belly desires that the entire world be ruined in order that there be hunger, thirst, misery, and need so that he can have everything and so that everyone must depend upon him and be his slave as if he were God.”81 “The poor are defrauded every day, and new burdens and higher prices are imposed. They all misuse the market in their own arbitrary, defiant, arrogant way, as if it were their privilege and right to sell their goods as high as they please without any criticism.”82 The “lust for profit,” Luther observed, had many clever expressions: selling on time and credit, manipulating the market by withholding or dumping goods, developing cartels and monopolies, falsifying bankruptcies, trading in futures, and just plain misrepresenting goods.83 Luther’s shorthand for these practices was “usury,” the common medieval term for lending at interest. However, the focus of Luther’s attack was not the medieval condemnation of usury, per se, but the financial practices related to large-scale national and international commerce. Such usury, Luther argued, affects everyone. “The usury that occurs in Leipzig, Augsburg, Frankfurt, and other comparable cities is felt in our market and our kitchen. The usurers are eating our food and drinking our drink.” Even worse, however, is that by manipulating prices, “usury lives off the bodies of the poor.”84 In his inimitable style, Luther exploded, “The world is one big whorehouse, completely submerged in greed” where the “big thieves hang the little

81   An die Pfarrherrn, WA 51:396.12–397.3. Greed is the sin of idolatry and unbelief, See Ricardo Rieth, “Luther on Greed,” in Timothy J. Wengert, ed., Harvesting Martin Luther’s Reflections on Theology, Ethics, and the Church (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2004), 152–68; and idem, “Habsucht” bei Martin Luther. 82   “The Large Catechism,” in Kolb and Wengert, Book of Concord, 418. See also Albrecht Peters, Kommentar zu Luthers Katechismen, ed. Gottfried Seebass, Bd.  1 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1990), 255–78. 83   See Trade and Usury, 1524; LW 45:231–310; WA 15:279–313, 321–22; WA 6:36–60. Karl Marx’s admiration of Luther as the “first German political economist” was based not just on Luther’s excoriation of early capitalism as a plunder system but also on his sense that the “essence” of capitalism is to buy labor and reproduce itself. Max Josef Suda, Die Ethik Martin Luthers (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2006), 170–79, provides comparisons of Marx and Luther. See also Hermann Lehmann, “Luthers Platz in der Geschichte der politische Ökonomie,” in Günter Vogler, et al., eds., Martin Luther. Leben – Werk – Wirkung, 2nd ed. (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1986), 279–94; Gisela Kahl, “Martin Luther, ‘der älteste deutschen Nationalökonom,’” in Martin Luther. Leistungen und Wirkungen (Universität Jena: Wissenschaftliche Zeitschrift 33/3, 1984), 315–26; and Wilhelm August Schulze, “Luther und der Zins,” Luther 3 (1971): 139–46. 84   An die Pfarrherrn, WA 51:417.11–17.

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thieves.”85 “Kings and princes ought to look into this matter and forbid them [monopolistic trading companies] by strict laws. But I hear that they have a finger in it themselves, and the saying of Isaiah [1:23] is fulfilled, ‘Your princes have become companions of thieves.’ They hang thieves who have stolen a gulden or half a gulden, but do business with those who rob the whole world and steal more than all the rest . .  .  . As the Roman senator Cato said, ‘Simple thieves lie in dungeons and stocks; public thieves walk abroad in gold and silk.’”86 In his Large Catechism, Luther wrote, “Yes, we might well keep quiet here about individual petty thieves since we ought to be attacking the great, powerful archthieves with whom lords and princes consort and who daily plunder not just a city or two, but all of Germany. .  .  . Those who can steal and rob openly are safe and free, unpunished by anyone, even desiring to be honored.”87 As presentday reports of the million dollar bonuses of bailed-out national and international CEOs remind us, the more things change the more they remain the same. When Luther exhorted pastors to condemn usury as stealing and murder, and to refuse absolution, the Sacrament, and Christian burial to usurers unless they repent,88 he had in mind “the great, powerful archthieves,” not the “petty thieves” who fill prisons. The context for Luther’s call to excommunicate profiteers was a plague of mice that destroyed crops in 1538 89 and the spring drought of 1539 that led to a steep rise in food prices and a famine in Wittenberg and surrounding areas.90 Grain was being held off the market in order to gain higher prices.91 Luther requested communal assistance from the city council and received the reply that it was not responsible. He then appealed to Prince John Frederick, pointing out that grain had been kept off the market “to the ruin of your electoral grace’s 85   Commentary on the Sermon on the Mount, 1532; LW 21:180; WA 32:448.20–22; Lectures on Romans, 1516; LW 25:172; WA 56:190.3–5. 86   On Trade and Usury, LW 45:271–2; WA 15:313.5 ff. 87   Kolb and Wengert, Book of Concord, 417. 88   An die Pfarrherrn, WA 51:367.10–368.16. 89   Nicole de LaHarpe, “Luther et les Problèmes Économiques de son Temps,” in JeanMarie Valentin, ed., Luther et la Réforme. Du Commentaire de l’Épître aux Romains à la Messe allemande (Paris: Éditions Desjonquères, 2001), 511–30, here 511 with reference to WATR 4, no. 4046. Luther’s call to excommunicate usurers was not empty talk; Brecht notes that Luther “seems to have applied the ban a number of times against usurers,” and that in 1538 he “excommunicated the nobleman Heinrich Riedler for usury because he had loaned money at an interest rate of 30 per cent.” Brecht, Martin Luther, vol. 2: Shaping and Defining the Reformation, 257–61. Brecht references WATR 4 nos. 4013a-c; WABr 8:362.17–21; and WA 47:385.2–29. 90   An die Pfarrherrn, WA 51:325. Much of the following discussion of this tract depends upon Gerhard Müller, “Biblische Theologie und Sozialethik,” Evangelische Theologie 59/1 (1999): 25–31; Eberhard Schendel, “Martin Luther und die Armen. Sein Beitrag zur soge­ nannten sozialen Frage,” Lutherischen Kirche in der Welt 36 (1989): 112–124; and Prien, Luthers Wirtschaftsethik. 91   Cf. WATR 4:329.22–332.9.

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land and people.”92 The following Sunday he preached a “very sharp sermon” against the avarice of the usurers. “They were all to be cursed and damned for they are the greatest enemies of the land” and “are strangling many people with shameful miserliness and usury.” In order to spread his criticism as widely as possible, he wrote the pamphlet exhorting pastors to preach against the usurers. Pastors are to preach against the “great sin and shame” of usury that is ruining and destroying Germany. They are to make it clear that those who take more than five per cent profit in interest are idolatrous servants of mammon and shall not be blessed unless they repent. Preachers should stand firm against the rejoinder that if the taking of excessive interest is condemned then “nearly the whole world would be damned.” For the practice of the world contradicts the law and the Word of God, and therefore one is not to preach according to the customs of the world but must express what the law demands and should be done.93 The gospel explodes the categories of the world! In the case of famine, the civil authority has to intervene, for refusal to sell grain is equivalent to stealing and robbing. What is done against God’s Word and valid law is never a good deed, and the preachers should clearly say so. Luther did not naively assume that the CEOs of his day would change their ways. “We preachers can easily counsel but no one or few follow.”94 If it is said that the world cannot be without usury, this is true. But Christ says, woe to the person by whom offense comes (Mt 18:7), and Luther concludes, “There must be usury, but woe to the usurer!”95 Agreeing that “the world cannot be without usury,” Luther argues that the role of government and civil law, flawed as it may be, is to hinder, control, and regulate it. “Only through law and compulsion can it [the common good] be outwardly maintained.”96 Luther then recalls Roman and Greek history and classical figures such as Solon, Aristotle, and Livy to point out that “the heathen have been able to determine by reason that a usurer is a four-fold thief and murderer. Yet we Christians hold them [usurers] in such great honor that we almost idolize them for the sake of their money, paying no heed to what a great mockery and disgrace we thereby do to the name of Christian and Christ himself. Even if we would not be like Christians, reason must tell us just as it did the heathens that a usurer is a murderer. For whoever sucks his nourishment out of another, robs and steals . .  .  . But that is what a usurer does while sitting securely all the while on his stool; thus he should rightly be hanged on the gallows and be eaten by as many ravens as gulden he has stolen .  .  .”97 92

  WABr 8:403–405, especially 404.21–22.   An die Pfarrherrn, WA 51:325, 332–36, 353. 94   An die Pfarrherrn, WA 51:353.29–31. 95   An die Pfarrherrn, WA 51:354.28. 96   An die Pfarrherrn, WA 51:353–56. 97   An die Pfarrherrn, WA 51:355–362. 93

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Luther’s concern was not merely about an individual’s use of money, but about the structural social damage inherent in the idolatry of the “laws” of the market. Ideas of an impersonal market and autonomous laws of economics were abhorrent to Luther because he saw them as both idolatrous and socially destructive. A recent essay analyzes “how much the market has become religiously exalted in our contemporary world. Like God, the market seems to be omnipotent, omniscient and omnipresent.”98 Luther saw the entire community endangered by the financial power of a few great economic centers. The great merchant charging thirty to forty per cent interest not only can devour the peasants but also kings, “and in the process suffers no danger in body or goods, does no work, sits by the stove and bakes apples. Thus a Stuhlräuber might sit at home and devour the whole world in ten years.”99 Luther’s concern is reflected in the saying of the day that “a bit should be placed in the mouth of the Fuggers,”100 the central bank of the empire at that time. The rising world economy was already beginning to absorb urban and local economies, and to threaten increased opposition between rich and poor. He saw economic coercion – we call it globalization – immune to normal jurisdiction and thus destructive to the common good, the ethos of community. That is why Luther considered early capitalism to constitute a status confessionis for the church – a religious not just an ethical issue – in spite of the fact that many of his contemporaries thought he was tilting at windmills.101 With reference to the prophet Nehemiah’s (Nehemiah 5) anger and charges against the nobles and officials extorting high interest from the people, Luther calls for a Nehemiah to liberate Germany from usurers. In the meantime, pastors and preachers are to preach like Nehemiah to rouse and exhort the princes and lords “to control such devils, and to rescue and help the poor.”102 Usurers are to be confidently censured and condemned from the pulpit. Pastors who know such persons are “not to administer the sacrament nor absolution to him 98

  Palaver, “Challenging Capitalism as Religion,” 217.   An die Pfarrherrn, WA 51:365. 100   To the Christian Nobility, LW 44:213; WA 6:466.31–32. 101   See Lindberg, Beyond Charity, 114, 191; Prien, “Lieber mit Gott,” 94, 107 n33; Hermann Barge, Luther und der Frühkapitalismus (Gütersloh: Bertelsmann, 1951), 51; Werner Elert, Morphologie des Luthertums, 2:477–83; (Munich: C. H. Beck, 1958), 2:477–83; Theodor Strohm, “Luthers Wirtschafts- und Sozialethik,” in Helmar Junghans, ed., Leben und Werk Martin Luthers von 1526 bis 1546 (Berlin: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 1983), 205–23, 219; Ulrich Duchrow, Global Economy: A Confessional Issue for the Churches? (Geneva: WCC Publications, 1987). At the end of his chapter delineating the federal policies under George W. Bush that are creating an unprecedented gulf between the few rich and the many poor, Jimmy Carter writes: “These kinds of fundamental political and economic policies are not easy to explain or even to believe, and are a direct attack on American moral values, either in the political or the religious realm of life.” Idem, Our Endangered Values: America’s Moral Crisis (New York: Simon & Schuster, 2005), 197. 102   An die Pfarrherrn, WA 51:365. 99

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as long as he does not repent. Otherwise you participate in his usury and sins and will go with him to the Devil. .  .  . For so St. Paul speaks to Timothy [1 Tim. 5:22]: ‘Do not lay hands on anyone hastily, and do not participate in the sins of others;’ Item Rom. 1 [:32]: ‘those who practice such things deserve to die – they not only do them but even applaud others who practice them.’ .  .  . [L]et him lie in his death as a heathen and do not bury him among other Christians nor accompany his body to the grave if he has not repented. If you do so, you make yourself a participant in his sins as said above. For because he is a usurer and idolater who serves mammon, he is unbelieving and cannot have nor be capable of the forgiveness of sins, the grace of Christ, and communion of saints, but rather has condemned, separated, and excommunicated himself so long as he does not acknowledge his sin and repent.”103 Luther imagines, This speech is somewhat severe, even somewhat terrifying for the small usurers. I mean those who take only five or six per cent. But one cannot be too severe to the great world-devourers who cannot get enough interest. They have given themselves to mammon and the Devil and question it not at all no matter how we cry out. I have said concerning those in particular that they should be left to the Devil in life and death since they have clearly desired it, and there should be no Christian fellowship with them.104

Luther believed that not only was the church called publicly and unequivocally to reject the destructive elements of the growing profit economy, but also to develop a constructive social ethic in response to them. Luther’s endeavor to do this began quite early, already in 1519, with his suggestions for developing a common chest for community welfare. He and his colleagues then developed social welfare policies and legislation that spread rapidly through the legislation of the church orders where the Reformation was enacted.105 In this process, Luther overcame his bias against lawyers as they shouldered his cause and gave “institutional and legal form to the best theological teachings of the Reformation.”106 103

  An die Pfarrherrn, WA 51:367.17–368.32.   An die Pfarrherrn, WA 51:368.33–369.22. 105   See Stefan Oehmig, “Der Wittenberger Gemeine Kasten in den ersten zweieinhalb Jahrzehnten seines Bestehens (1522/23 bis 1547),” Jahrbuch für Geschichte des Feudalismus 12 (1988): 229–69; 13 (1989): 133–79; idem, “Die Wittenberger Bewegung 1521/22 und ihre Folgen im Lichte alter und neuer Fragestellungen,” in Oehmig, ed., 700 Jahre Wittenberg: Stadt, Universität, Reformation (Weimar: Böhlaus, 1995), 97–130; and Sebastian Kreiker, Armut, Schule, Obrigkeit. Armenversorgung und Schulwesen in den evangelischen Kirchenordnungen des 16. Jahrhunderts (Bielefeld: Verlag für Regionalgeschichte, 1997). The concern for communal health is treated in Wolfgang Böhmer and Friedrich Kirsten, “Der gemeine Kasten und seine Bedeutung für das kommunale Gesundheitswesen Wittenbergs,” Wissenschaftliche Zeitschrift Universität Halle, 34/2 (1985): 49–56; and Ole Peter Grell & Andrew Cunningham, eds., Health Care and Poor Relief in Protestant Europe 1500–1700 (London: Routledge, 1997). 106   John Witte, Jr., “An Evangelical Commonwealth: Johannes Eisermann on Law and the Common Good,” in David Whitford, ed., Caritas et Reformatio: Essays on Church and Society (St. Louis: Concordia Publishing House, 2002), 73–87, here 74. See also John Witte, Jr., Law 104

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At the same time, Luther and his colleagues promoted public accountability of large business through government regulation. Here Luther is not rejecting the profit economy out of hand, but rather promoting government control that would limit the interest rate to five per cent in contrast to the usual thirty to forty per cent of the time.107 Luther proposed a state-regulated economy in the form of price-freezes or price controls.108 For Luther, the biblical call to love the neighbor is expressed in society by justice and equity.109

Social Welfare Policies and Legislation The new economic developments of the late medieval period exacerbated widespread poverty, vagrancy, and underemployment. In this context, the medieval schema of salvation that presented poverty as the ideal of Christian life and promised earthly and heavenly rewards to the almsgiver inhibited recognition and alleviation of the social distress of poverty. For example, one of the great French Dominican preachers of Luther’s time, Guillaume Pepin (1465–1533), explained the inequalities of economic life in terms of the medieval ideology of almsgiving and salvation. “Why does God want some in this world to be rich and others poor? .  .  . I say that God has till now ordained that some are rich and others poor, so that each one has the material at hand to merit the kingdom of God. The rich by giving alms to the poor, the poor by patiently doing their work, and praying that the rich will sustain them.”110 The theme that alms serve to atone for sin stretches back to the patristic period. The seventh-century Vita of Saint Eligius, bishop of Noyon-Tournai, states, “God could have made all men rich, but He wanted there to be poor people in His world, that the rich might be able to redeem their sins.”111 The and Protestantism: The Legal Teachings of the Lutheran Reformation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002). 107   Prien, “Lieber mit Gott,” 92–95. Cf. Luther’s Lectures on Genesis, LW 7:160: “Today, with increasing usury, taxes, and greed, we are paying not only a fifth but a quarter and nearly a half. The usurers of Leipzig and the nobles are plundering us in fine fashion; they receive 20 guldens out of a hundred, which is the fifth part.” And LW 8:128: “I recently heard about a certain moneylender who takes 80 guldens out of 100. This is almost more than charging the whole amount. At Leipzig it is the rule to demand four guldens out of 10. Thus it is unavoidable that Germany is being sucked dry. For the princes, the nobles, and the citizens are gradually being sucked dry by the robbery of the usurers.” Cf. also Luther’s denunciation of the “usurers of Leipzig” in a 1539 sermon, WA 47:489–95. 108   See Igor Kiss, “Luthers Bemühungen um eine sozial gerechtere Welt,” Zeichen der Zeit (1985): 59–65; and Schendel, “Martin Luther und die Armen,” 116. 109   See Matthieu Arnold, “La Notion d’Epieikeia chez Martin Luther,” Revue d’histoire et de philosophie religieuses 79/2 (1999): 187–208; 79/3 (1999): 315–25. 110   Larissa Taylor, Soldiers of Christ: Preaching in Late Medieval and Reformation France (New York: Oxford University Press, 1992), 150. Cf. Lindberg, Beyond Charity, 30–33. 111   Cited by James Brodman, Charity and Religion in Medieval Europe (Washington, DC:

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rich could buy salvation with charity.112 Even Juan Luis Vives, the Spanish Catholic humanist known for among other things his effort to provide an impetus to civic welfare, repeated this mantra that there is a “heavenly reward .  .  . prepared as a recompense for almsgiving that proceeds from charity.”113 Late medieval urban efforts to rationalize and secularize poor relief foundered on the church’s theology of charity that posited the soteriological merit of almsgiving and the church’s insistence on managing these funds. Luther’s doctrine of justification by grace alone apart from works cut the nerve of this medieval ideology of poverty. Salvation is received not achieved, and thus salvation is the foundation for life rather than its goal. Since salvation is purely God’s gift, both poverty and almsgiving lose soteriological significance. Furthermore, this also undercut the explanatory function of the medieval ideology of poverty that fatalistically presented poverty and riches as the divine plan. By de-spiritualizing poverty, the reformers could recognize poverty in all its forms as a personal and social evil to be combated. Under the rubrics of justice and equity, Luther and his colleagues quickly moved in alliance with local governments to establish new social welfare policies.114 The first effort in this direction was Luther’s 1521 recommendation to the Wittenberg Town Council for an “Ordinance of a Common Purse” (“Ordnung des gemeinen Beutels”). The Wittenberg Church Order that established a “common chest” for welfare work followed in 1522 and became the model for further Evangelical “common chest” ordinances. Initially funded by the expropriation of medieval ecclesiastical endowments and later supplemented by taxes, the Wittenberg Order prohibited begging; 115 provided interest-free loans to artisans, who when established were to repay them if possible; provided for poor orphans, the children of poor people, and poor women who needed an appropriate dowry for marriage; provided refinancing of high-interest loans at four Catholic University of America Press, 2009), 36–37. Brodman here refers also to “thirteenth-century mendicant writers such as Salimbene and Giordano de Rivalto [who] spoke of alms as a contract, whereby those who received alms were then bound to pray for those who gave it.” 112   Marco H. D. van Leeuwen, “Logic of Charity: Poor Relief in Preindustrial Europe,” Journal of Interdisciplinary History 24/4 (Spring 1994): 589–613, here 598. 113   Juan Luis Vives, De Subventione Pauperum sive De Humanis Necessitatibus, Libri II, ed. C. Matheeusen and C. Fantazzi (Leiden: Brill, 2002), 143. The above examples are reflecting the long tradition stemming from the early church fathers that regarded almsgiving as a “donor-centered,” “pious usury” that atoned for sin, enabled philanthropy, and transferred one’s wealth to heaven. See Boniface Ramsey, O. P., “Almsgiving in the Latin Church: The Late Fourth and Early Fifth Centuries,” Theological Studies 43 (1982): 226–59, reprint in Everett Ferguson, ed., Acts of Piety in the Early Church, vol. 17 (New York: Garland Publishing, 1993), 276–309. 114   See Lindberg, Beyond Charity, 95–110. A table of Reformation common chest and church orders from 1521 to 1545 is in Scharffenorth, Den Glauben ins Leben ziehen, 340–41. 115   The mendicant orders were a great drain of economic resources and hence the major target of this prohibition. See To the Christian Nobility, LW 44:189–91; StA 2:146–47.

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per cent annual interest for burdened citizens; and supported the education or vocational training of poor children.116 To the objection that this was open to abuse, Luther replied, “He who has nothing to live should be aided. If he deceives us, what then? He must be aided again.”117 Other communities quickly picked up these ideas.118 By 1523 there were common-chest provisions for social welfare in the church orders of Leisnig, Augsburg, Nuremberg, Altenburg, Kitzingen, Strasbourg, Breslau, and Regensburg. Initially funded by expropriated endowments from the medieval church, communities soon moved to taxation – including of the clergy – to maintain these programs. The incipient conception of the welfare state119 entailed contributions from everyone able to contribute, and understood the reception of support not as charity but as a social right. “For Luther the fulfillment of the commandment of love clearly has a legal aspect. The needy – among whom are the crippled, blind, lepers, elderly, children, and poor families – have a right to the goods which are indispensable for life, as the gifts of their Creator. Luther had already in 1520/21 emphasized this in his instruction on rights [author’s emphasis] in the Magnificat.120 Therefore all estates, offices and civil services in God’s temporal government, as he said later in the school sermon (1530), “have the commission to see to it that all persons have their rights secured. .  .  . God’s love wills human responsibility for others. This means that in order to minimize needs and injustice, structural changes must be put into effect.”121 These ordinances for poor relief were efforts to implement Luther’s conviction that social welfare policies designed to prevent as well as remedy poverty are a Christian social responsibility. Under the motto “there should be no beggars among Christians,” the Reformation movement set about implementing concern for personal dignity and public alleviation of suffering.122 Luther and 116   Hans Lietzmann, ed., Die Wittenberger und Leisniger Kastenordnung (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1935). An English rendition is in Lindberg, Beyond Charity, 200–202. The 1521 “Ordnung des Gemeines Beutels” and the 1522 “Kastenordnung,” along with a brief introduction, are in Theodor Strohm and Michael Klein, eds., Die Entstehung einer sozialen Ordnung Europas, vol 2: Europäische Ordnungen zur Reform der Armenpflege im 16. Jahrhundert (Heidelberg: Universitätsverlag Winter, 2004), 12–19. See also Stefan Oehmig, “Über Arme und Bettler, Kranke und Waisen und ihre obrigkeitliche Handlung in Wittenberg in der Frühen Neuzeit,” in Hanna Kasparick, ed., “Wer nit arbeitet, soll auch nit essen .  .  . ?” Die neue Frage nach der Arbeit, Wittenberger Sonntagsvorlesungen (Wittenberg: Drei Kastenien Verlag, 2007), 100–24. 117   Lectures on the First Epistle of St. John, 1537; LW 30:278; WA 20:714.25–26. 118   These ideas encountered resistance in Roman Catholic areas because they were associated with Lutheran theology. Cf. Lindberg, Beyond Charity, 82–84; and Carter Lindberg, “La théologie et l’assistance publique, le cas d’Ypres (1525–1531),” Revue d’histoire et de philosophie religieuse 61 (1981): 23–36. 119   Windhorst, “Durch ihr Amt,” 79–80, notes that while the social state was not yet in view in the sixteenth century, the first steps in its direction were promoted by Luther. 120   WA 7:580–584; LW 21:334–39. 121   Scharffenorth, Den Glauben ins Leben ziehen, 329. 122   See Karlstadt’s tract by this title with my introduction and translation in C. Lindberg,

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his colleagues123 taught that the giving of alms was no longer bound up with appeasement for sin, redemption, nor expectation of divine reward, but rather that faith active in love is expressed in regulated, centralized, communally supported and administered social welfare.124

Civic Control of Capitalism While Luther’s efforts to develop welfare legislation were well-received in the cities and territories that accepted the Reformation, his efforts to encourage civic control of capitalism did not gain comparable support. Of course, it is hardly surprising that when interest rates could soar to forty per cent, bankers turned a deaf ear to his call for a five per cent ceiling on interest. Also, Luther’s criticism of capitalism included far more than exorbitant interest rates. He argued that social need always stood above personal gain. “In a well-arranged commonwealth the debts of the poor who are in need ought to be cancelled, and they ought to be helped; hence the action of collecting has its place only against the lazy and the ne’er-do-well.”125 “No one should have his basic standard of living taken away because of debt.”126 But the common good was being undermined by the activities of large businesses that could not be held accountable even by the emperor. Luther experienced that it is easier to motivate assistance to individuals than it is to curb the economic practices that create their poverty. Poverty’s squalor calls out for redress whereas the attractive trappings of business muffle criticism. Yet the effects of early capitalism could be felt. In Wittenberg between 1520 and 1538, prices doubled but wages remained the same. Luther called this disguised murder and robbery. “How skillfully Sir Greed can dress up to look like a pious man if that seems to be what the occasion requires, while he is actually a double scoundrel and a liar.”127 “God opposes usury and greed yet no one realizes this ed., Piety, Politics, and Ethics: Reformation Studies in Honor of George Wolfgang Forell (Kirksville, MO: Sixteeenth Century Journal Publishers, 1984), 157–66. 123   Johannes Bugenhagen was particularly important for the institutionalizing of these concerns. See Kurt Hendel, “Johannes Bugenhagen, Organizer of the Lutheran Reformation,” Lutheran Quarterly 18 (Spring 2004): 43–75. 124   Hans-Otto Schembs, ed., Der Allgemeine Almosenkasten in Frankfurt am Main 1531–1981. 450 Jahre Geschichte und Wirken einer öffentlichen milden Stiftung (Frankfurt am Main: Verlag Waldemar Kramer, 1981), 36. Schembs continues by stating that the Reformation establishment of the common chest in Frankfurt was the start of a new epoch, a turning point in the history of the city and a turning point in the development of social welfare. 125   Lectures on Deuteronomy, 1525; LW 9:243; WA 14:715, 31–32. 126   Brecht, Martin Luther, vol. 2: Shaping and Defining the Reformation, 142. 127   Commentary on the Sermon on the Mount, 1532; LW 21:183; WA 32:450.35–37. Treatise on Good Works, 1520; LW 44:107; WA 6:271.15–17: “Greed has a very pretty and attractive cover for its shame; it is called provision for the body and the needs of nature. Under this

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because it is not simple murder and robbery. Rather usury is a more diverse, insatiable murder and robbery. .  .  . Thus everyone should see to his worldly and spiritual office as commanded to punish the wicked and protect the pious.”128 In his 1525 advice to the Town Council of Danzig, Luther stated that government regulation of interest should be according to the principle of equity. For example, a mortgage of five per cent would be equitable, but it should be reduced if it does not yield this return. At the same time, one should consider persons. The well-to-do could be induced to waive a part of his interest, whereas an old person without means should retain it.129 But these views were of minimal influence. Legislation introduced in Dresden in 1529 prohibited fifteen to twenty per cent interest in favor of a five per cent rate, and in turn influenced the reform of the Zwickau city laws in 1539. Yet such legislation was often violated. That these examples may indicate more failure than success is confirmed by the 1564–1565 controversy in Rudolstadt. The Lutheran pastor there refused to commune two parishioners who lived by “usury.” The theological faculties of Wittenberg, Leipzig, and Jena were requested to give their opinions. They concluded against the pastor, who then had to leave town; and they did not recognize Luther as an authority on this issue. After this there was never again a serious effort to acknowledge Luther’s position on usury. Luther’s followers first ignored and then forgot his position against early capitalism.130

Conclusion Luther’s efforts to turn the early capitalist world upside-down by insisting on government regulation of business was countered by the powerful of his day, the analogues to the CEOs of our financial, energy, and pharmaceutical industries. Luther was not utopian in these matters. Nevertheless, throughout his career Luther fought against what he saw as the two-sided coin of mammonism: cover greed insatiably amasses unlimited wealth.” Luther frequently attacked conspicuous consumption. See for example the Lectures on Genesis where he criticizes the citizens of Wittenberg. LW 8:120; WA 44:667.3–19: “But if we took as much pleasure in thrift, frugality, and temperance as we do in reckless wastefulness, we would be able to save and keep two or three thousand guldens every year. .  .  . But how much wine the gluttons pour down in addition to the beer! How much is consumed by luxury in clothing and other useless things that are brought into our lands by the merchants! Finally what great devourers of money the market days at Frankfurt are! They say that on every one of them 3,000,000 guldens are taken out of Germany. I refrain from mentioning the market days at Leipzig and elsewhere. Yet this does not seem to be comparable to the boundless luxury in clothing, wine, beer, and other things which we throw away in a most disgraceful manner without any benefit.” 128   An die Pfarrherrn, WA 51:422.15–423.2. 129   WABr 3:485–86. 130   Barge, Luther und der Frühkapitalismus, 40–44.

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ascetic flight from money and the acquisitive drive for it. His foundation for this battle was the good news that a person’s worth is not determined by what he or she does or does not possess, but rather by God’s promise in Christ. That is the gospel. But as is well known, Luther held gospel and law together in dialectical tension. The gospel is for “despairing consciences,” and the law is for “hard and stubborn minds.” The preaching office is thus responsible to expose sin, to unmask economic injustice and its perpetrators: For God’s sake, I ask all preachers and pastors that they not keep silent nor refrain from preaching against usury, but that they exhort and warn the people. It has now become impossible to prevent usury by our preaching or even by the temporal government; nevertheless, we might through our exhortation rescue some from such a Sodom and Gomorra. Like Lot, we have to leave some good friends to die there through their own willfulness. However, we must not remain there nor be responsible for their sin and punishment by our silence. Rather, so far as possible, we are to warn them that usury is not a virtue but a great sin and shame. Therefore let each of us be led by our conscience and office to be responsible at times throughout the year to exhort and instruct our congregations against usury and greed, thereby removing the mask from the rogue behind which he adorns himself as if he were righteous and good.131 Christ has instructed us preachers not to withhold the truth from the lords but to exhort and chide them in their injustice. .  .  . [W]e must rebuke our Pilates in their crime and self-confidence. Then they say to us, “You are reviling the majesty of God,” to which we answer, “We will suffer what you do to us, but to keep still and let it appear that you do right when you do wrong, that we cannot and will not do.” We must confess the truth and rebuke the evil.132

That “usurers” were not converting to Luther’s call to repent and change their ways was not a reason to him to cease his exhortations.133 “I have taught and I teach that things are vanity and that results are not achieved by our own plans, etc. .  .  . Are we then to do nothing? But this is no reason to refrain either from acting or from rebuking vanity, either from teaching or from preaching, regardless of how much we see it being despised. .  .  . If I for my part were bound to discontinue my ministry of the Word because I do not see any results except among the very few but only the extreme perversity of almost the whole world and the height of ingratitude, I would long ago have had to be silent.”134 In an essay on Luther as apocalyptic prophet, Heiko Oberman notes that Luther did not see the Reformation as a popular movement that would culminate in success. “The gospel’s primary function is not – as assumed today .  .  . – to change obvious injustice by introducing social legislation to establish biblical justice, but to unmask hidden injustice, thus saving the souls of duped Christians and open-

131

  An die Pfarrherrn, WA 51:331–32   Sermon, 1529; WA 28:360–61. 133   Rieth, “Habsucht” bei Martin Luther, 205. 134   Notes on Ecclesiastes, 1526 (1532); LW 15:113; WA 20:131.31–132.20. 132

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ing the eyes of the secular authorities for their mandate to establish civil justice.”135 The point here, it seems to me, in regard to Hendrix’s Christianization thesis is that Luther did not expect to Christianize the world. Rather, he fully understood that Christian social ethics does not depend upon its results. Works are commanded but anxiety for their outcome is forbidden. “So it is that when the Gospel rejects the righteousness of works, it sets our consciences free, not our hands. .  .  . One must pay attention and do the work, but one must avoid anxiety and affliction. Nor should we prescribe either the manner or the place or the time to God.”136 The best that can be done in the apocalyptic time between the times is prophetic preaching and exhortation to reason and law. Luther would still, as the pseudo-saying goes, plant an apple tree, but this courage is rooted in his baptism and faith, not an optimistic hope to green the world.137 As noted earlier, Luther emphasized that it is not necessary for social well being that the emperor be Christian but that he be able to reason. “Christians are not needed for secular authority. Thus it is not necessary for the emperor to be a saint. It is not necessary for him to be a Christian to rule. It is sufficient for the emperor to possess reason.”138 The civil or political use of the law, God’s law of equity and justice, written on the hearts of humankind, finds positive expression through the use of reason. Luther’s concern is for institutions to become more ethical, but he rejects the idea that they could be Christianized into a perfect society.139 Luther’s writings on economics and social welfare exhibit his realistic view of life and the profound depravity of human nature revealed by greed. Rieth concludes that Luther clearly recognized it would be impossible to set up the kingdom of God directly in the sphere of economics, in history. For the same reason, Luther’s theology may in no way justify the conception that through reciprocal 135   Heiko Oberman, The Impact of the Reformation (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1994), 62. Author’s emphasis. 136   Notes on Ecclesiastes, 1526 (1532); LW 15:70; WA 20:82.19–28. See Helmut Zschoch, “‘Arbeite nicht aus Not, sondern aus Gottes Gebot! Sinn und Grenze menschlicher Arbeit nach Martin Luther,” in Kasparick, “Wer nit arbeitet, soll auch nit essen,” 36–37. 137   See Martin Schloemann, Luthers Apfelbäumchen? Ein Kapital deutscher Mentalitätsgeschichte seit dem Zweiten Weltkrieg (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1994), 249–50, who cautions against misunderstanding this popular saying in terms of “blue-eyed optimism, nihilistic defiance, chiliastic legitimacy, and the Schwärmerei of natural religiosity.” See also Bayer, Living By Faith, 65–67; idem, Luthers Theologie, 8–9, 297–303; and idem, “Rupture of Times: Luther’s Relevance for Today,” Lutheran Quarterly 13/1 (1999): 35–50, here 44: “In the space offered by such faith and hope, such courage to face life, one is not forced to escape from the present twilight between creation and consummation to the alleged clarity of a ‘hope for better times’ working its actuality out in inner-worldly history.” 138   Sermon, 1528; WA 27:418.2–4. 139   Prien, Luthers Wirtschaftsethik, 158 n68 with reference to Jörg Bauer, “Die Rechtfertigungslehre Luthers und soziale Gerechtigkeit,” in Einsicht und Glaube. Aufsatze (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, 1978), 137–53, 149–50.

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engagement of greed and self-interest a balance of power relationships as well as possible realizations of individuals in the economic sphere could be achieved.140 Luther was convinced that greed may only be combated from faith. The faithful in the church have received in the gospel the demand for righteousness in the kingdom of God. Therefore Luther stressed their responsibility, not through a moralistic flight from the world and alienation from history, but rather as an instruction and direction for the formation of the economic realm.141 I would thus tweak Hendrix’s thesis to say that Luther’s goal to infuse the entire society with such faith active in love included structural reform from the beginning.142 In addition, it seems to me that Luther’s theological foundation for social ethics may be distinguished from that of his contemporary reformers by his teaching of the two kingdoms, a teaching that I find difficult to subsume under the heuristic of “Christianization.”143

140

  I am reminded here of the well-known statement by the character Gordon Gekko in the 1987 film “Wall Street,” “Greed, for lack of a better word, is good.” See Phyllis A. Tickle, Greed (New York: Oxford University Press, 2004), 43, 81 n49. 141   Rieth, Habsucht bei Martin Luther, 221. 142   Cp. Hendrix, Recultivating the Vineyard, 42. 143   Cf. John C. Raines, “Luther’s Two Kingdoms and the Desacralization of Ethics,” Encounter 31/2 (1970): 121–48.

Philip Melanchthon on “Christianity” Timothy J. Wengert One of the most enduring contributions that Scott Hendrix has made to Reformation studies came in Recultivating the Vineyard, a book that originated from a student’s question about the use of “Christianity” (the vineyard) by the reformers. Having examined the question across the confessions, Hendrix has left scholars with the tantalizing challenge of seeing how the concept played out among individual theologians and reform centers in Europe. This study will focus on Philip Melanchthon, who received only passing mention in Hendrix’s work. But it will examine not so much the larger question (“Did Melanchthon have an overall interest in Christianizing Europe?”) as the smaller issue hinted at in Hendrix’s beginning point, namely, how Melanchthon used the related terms Christianismus/Christianitas (German: Christentum/Christenheit) in his writing. This simple experiment reveals two things. First, in the early part of his career, Melanchthon used Christianismus as an equivalent to ecclesia catholica to distinguish Wittenberg’s theology from their opponents. Second, throughout his career, but especially in the later years, he employed Christenheit again as an equivalent for ecclesia catholica but also as an ecclesio-political term to limit princely involvement in the church and to depict the church under the cross. These results may thereby offer some help in sharpening a small portion of Hendrix’s argument vis-à-vis Melanchthon. At the same time, these results may also serve to warn those who use the notion of (Constantinian) “Christendom” to criticize Lutheran (and Protestant) theology that such a category hardly explains Reformation ecclesiology or the reformers’ understanding of the relation between church and government.

   Besides a smattering of references throughout the book to Melanchthon as one among the reformers, Hendrix only describes Melanchthon’s political theology. See Scott H. Hendrix, Recultivating the Vineyard: The Reformation Agendas of Christianization (Louisville; London: Westminster John Knox Press, 2004), 60–61.    See, as a classic example, the work of John Howard Yoder, Politics of Jesus: vincit Agnus noster (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1972).

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Christianismus in the Young Melanchthon The Latin word Christianismus occurs already in early ecclesiastical Latin in the works of Tertullian and later in Jerome and Augustine, based upon the Greek Χριστιανισμός. Melanchthon’s use of Christianismus is clustered in the first five years of the Reformation, when he consistently employed it to draw a contrast between Evangelical teaching and monastic, philosophical or sectarian “distortions” of the Christian faith. While the term appeared occasionally in Melanchthon’s private correspondence and in two letters to public leaders, most often we find it in his early attacks on Rome. Its function may indicate a shared, popular utilization in the (humanist) courts and intelligentsia of northern Europe in the early sixteenth century – but one that eventually slipped out of Melanchthon’s own vocabulary. The statistics are these. The word Christianismus occurs only thirty-five times in Melanchthon’s writings, with twenty-nine of those occurrences appearing between 1519 and 1523, six from 1526 through 1535, and none after that time. This contrasts to the 233 times that it appears in Luther’s works. Of course, not being in Cicero’s vocabulary, strict Renaissance Ciceronians would not have used the word, although – despite Erasmus’s charges – Melanchthon never claimed to be a Ciceronian. To be sure, arguments from silence (in this case 

  At least according to Charlton T. Lewis and Charles Short, comp., A Latin Dictionary, q. v. (accessed on 13 August 2010 at http://www.perseus.tufts.edu), where they refer to Tertullian Adversus Marcion 4, 33; Augustine De civitate Dei 19, 23, 1; and Jerome Comm. in Gal. 6, 4.    For this study the digitized version of Melanchthon’s works (Melanchthonis Opera Database, ed. Herman J. Selderhuis [Apeldoorn: Instituut Reformatieonderzoek, 2006]) was used to perform searches of Melanchthon’s writings. Although it does not represent all of Melanchthon’s writings (only CR and SM), there is a broad enough spectrum to remain confident in this analysis. Abbreviations used: CR (Corpus Reformatorum: Philippi Melanthonis opera quae supersunt omnia, ed. Karl Bretschneider and Heinrich Bindseil, 28 vols. [Halle: A. Schwetsch­ ke & Sons, 1834–1860]); SM (Supplementa Melanchthoniana, 4 vols. [Leipzig: Rudolf Haupt, 1910–26]); MBW (Melanchthons Briefwechsel: Kritische und kommentierte Gesamtausgabe: Regesten, ed. Heinz Scheible, 12+ vols. [Stuttgart-Bad Cannstatt: Frommann-Holzboog, 1977– , where the numbers refer to the number of the letters]); MBW T (Melanchthons Briefwechsel: Kritische und kommentierte Gesamtausgabe: Texte, 9+ vols. [Stuttgart-Bad Cannstatt: Frommann-Holzboog, 1991– ]).    Because scholars continue to debate the meaning of “Humanism,” it is important to begin with a definition of the term, taken from Paul Oskar Kristeller. His broad definition allows scholars to focus on the commonalities among thinkers without making prejudgments regarding a specifically humanist approach to theology or philosophy. Thus, figures as diverse as Erasmus, Reuchlin, Melanchthon, Luther, Calvin, and Cajetan can all be rightly characterized as humanists because of their commitment to returning to the biblical and classical sources (ad fontes) and the high respect for proper (classical) Greek and Latin language and literature (bonae literae). These hallmarks of humanist endeavors meant that humanists often shared and cultivated a common vocabulary.    According to a search in Luthers Werke im WWW (http://luther.chadwyck.com).    This peculiar obsession with Cicero’s Latin did cause no small ruckus when Erasmus saw

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twenty-five years of silence) are always risky, nevertheless the fact that Melanchthon did not use the term at all after 1535 may provide historians a clue similar to Sherlock Holmes’s dog that did not bark. Confronted with a familiar, though non-classical, Latin term – one that was in use by his colleagues and opponents (including the Confutatio of the Augsburg Confession)  – Melanchthon stopped utilizing this term. Reasons for its disuse may become clearer through an examination of the ways Melanchthon actually employed the term. He sometimes was simply echoing another source. A reference in article twenty-seven of the Apology (1531) simply reflected the language of the Confutatio, which had argued that monastic vows were “most Christian.” In a letter to Caspar Aquila dated 17 November 1527 Melanchthon simply quoted Aquila’s charge from an earlier letter.10 In another letter, Melanchthon made reference to Guillaume Budé’s De transitu hellenismi ad christianismum libri tres (Paris, 1535).11 Other letters, however, give more insight into how Melanchthon understood this word. To Landgrave Philip of Hesse at the end of August or beginning of September 1526, Melanchthon reminded the newly minted Evangelical prince: “And Christianismus is less found in rites but in fear of God, faith, love, and obedience to magistrates. Would that the preachers would teach this more diligently than they scream about the pope!”12 Here Melanchthon contrasted the attention to rites (and the radical preachers’ desire to get rid of them) to what he defined as the heart of Christianismus. Remarkable here is the non-churchly, but still theological, meaning of Christianismus that Melanchthon developed. Christianismus and the heart of Wittenberg’s message were one and the same. A private letter to Friedrich Myconius attacked Anabaptists as fanatics and seditious and urged the reformer: “you may also admonish people in sermons how much evil is in this sect, which has no sure teaching concerning the center of Chrisfit to attack it. See my discussion of Melanchthon and Camerarius’s reaction in Human Freedom, Christian Righteousness: Philip Melanchthon’s Exegetical Dispute with Erasmus of Rotterdam (New York: Oxford University Press, 1998), 148.    Cf. CR 27:154 & 187, where it refers to the consensus of the ancient church.    Ap XXVII.67: “This is what he [Paul in 1 Timothy 5] calls ‘first faith’ – not in a monastic vow but in Christian [Christianismi] one.” The Confutation (CR 27: 175–76) stated: “Falsa est ergo sententia, qua cultum monasticum damnant ut impium, qui est christianissimus.” 10   MBW 625 (T 3:214–16, here 215.9–12): “Nec videri debeo propterea dissentire a christianismo, ut tu scribes. Quisquis tandem est qui sic de me pronunciat, cur ‘iudicat de alieno servo’ [Rom. 14:4]? Christi hoc iudicium est, non est hominum. Sed decrevi has calumnias pati ac perferre propter deum.” 11   Melanchthon to Joachim Camerarius, dated 2 September 1535 (MBW 1622 T 6:446– 47, here 447.22–24). 12   MBW 491 (T 2:469–77, here 476.49–51): “Et christianismus in ritibus minime est situs, sed in timore dei, fide, caritate et obedientia erga magistratus. Quae utinam tam sedulo docerent concionatores quam strenue vociferantur in papam.” In the visitations of 1527, Melanchthon upbraided Caspar Aquila for this very thing.

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tianismus.”13 Melanchthon took a similar dig at Zwingli and his abuse of the Lord’s Supper in a letter to Archbishop Albrecht of Mainz, written in Augsburg in July 1530, by contrasting Christianismus to Zwingli’s “pagan” understanding of the Lord’s Supper, because he refused to connect the sign to consciences and to God’s will toward us (paraphrasing Augsburg Confession XIII).14 Two letters hint at the origins of Christianismus. In a letter to Laurentius Corvinus (dated 19 February 1521), Melanchthon attacked the monks, “a new type of Christians,” who were teaching superstitious rather than godly studies. Instead, he suggested, “You may choose that form of Christianismus from Christ himself, rather than to draw from I do not know what kind of rough sketches.”15 A letter to Tilemann Plettener, which served as a preface to the 1521 Loci communes and was written in March, associated Christianismus with the Bible. “A person errs in seeking the form of Christianismus elsewhere than from canonical Scripture.”16 Once again, Melanchthon directly connected Christianismus to teaching from Christ and Scripture – ad fontes – and contrasted it to “monastic” errors. A year earlier, in a postscript to Luther’s first Galatians commentary, Melanchthon associated Luther’s work with the strengthening of the reader’s Christianismus, the common usefulness for all people and the love of God.17 In this case, Christianismus was something like a rewriting of the phrase: fides ecclesiae catholicae. Nevertheless, the emphasis for Melanchthon was again on proper teaching and, in this case, the benefit of reading Luther. Turning from his correspondence to the published record, which stretched from 1519 to 1523, we discover a few more characteristics of Melanchthon’s usage. In his Themata circularia of 1520,18 which attacked the sacrifice of the Mass, 13

  MBW 1197 (T 5:218–19, here 219.16–18), dated 31 October 1531: “Quod ideo scripsi, ut eo firmiore animo fanaticis istis ac seditiosis hominibus adverseris et in concionibus admoneas homines, quantum mali sit in ea secta, quae nullam habet certam doctrinam de summa christianismi.” 14   MBW 1002 (T 4/1:476–85, here 484.204–7): “Ita corrumpit Cinglius sacramenti usum et gentilitatem [eccl. Latin: Paganism, heathenism] quondam ex christianismo facit ac docet haec signa nihil pertinere ad conscientias et ad voluntatem Dei erga nos apprehendendam.” CR 1:840 omitted Zwingli’s name and read instead a more general “corrumpunt .  .  . faciunt .  .  . docent.” 15   MBW 125 (T 1:256–57): “Neque vero pietatis studia voco quae monachi isti, novum christianorum genus, meditantur, superstitiosa verius, quam pia. Ipsam christianismi formam ex ipso Christo malis quam ex nescio qualibus åêôydïéò haurire.” 16   MBW 132 (T 1:267–72, here 271.29–32), dated March 1521: “Nam cum in illis absolutissimam sui imaginem expresserit divinitas, non poterit aliunde neque certius neque propius formam cognosci. Fallitur quisquis aliunde christianismi formam petit, quam e scriptura canonica.” 17   MBW 65 (T 1:148–49, here 149.22–25) from August 1519: “Quod si pro tuo christianismo et communi omnium utilitate et in deum amore feceris, Lutherum tuum ad hos commentarios accuratius retractandos, et in reliquas quoque divi Pauli epistolas diligentius scribendum non mediocriter animabis.” 18   These were the typical baccalaureate disputations for Wittenberg, according to the Liber decanorum: Das Dekanatsbuch der theologischen Fakultät zu Wittenberg, ed. Johannes Ficker

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Melanchthon stated, “It follows likewise that no external sacrifice is in Christianismus.”19 Here the term is equivalent to Christianitas or the German Christentum and could be translated, “the entire church catholic.” We find a similar use of the term in Melanchthon’s 1521 pseudonymous defense of Luther, Oration of Didymus Faventius against Thomas Palcentinus in Favor of Martin Luther, Theologian.20 In his Annotationes in Johannem, published in 1523, Melanchthon even equated Christianismus and ecclesia directly in comments on John 17:20. Christ prayed for his followers to be sanctified by faith in the Word, “whence you can easily glean what is Christianismus or the church.”21 Although this last reference equates church and Christianismus, Melanchthon tied the definition of both things to pure doctrine, indicating another important aspect of Melanchthon’s use of the term, already noted above. In another early (pseudonymous) work, Melanchthon linked Christianismus directly to justification by faith alone. “In this kind of promises the sum of Christianismus is posited.”22 Melanchthon contrasted this to Alveld’s twisted glosses of Scripture. In this early phase of his career as a reformer, Melanchthon used the word Christianismus most often in contrast with what he viewed as the other options vying with the gospel. Sometimes, it stood in contrast to the monks and their teaching and practice. In a 1520 open letter attacking monastic vows, De tribus votis ad Carthusianum quondam Epistola, Melanchthon states, “I, on the contrary, will compare the optimum form of Christianismus, by which we children [of God] live, with the best condition of monks. .  .  .”23 In the 1521 Loci communes, (Halle: Niemeyer, 1918), 1:148: “Circulariter autem Disputent Magistri omnes secundum eorum Ordinem Singulis sextis ferijs, Exceptis vacantijs generalibus, In quibus disputant Baccalaurej ab hora Prima usque ad horam tertiam.” Cited in Theodor Kolde, “Wittenberger Disputationsthesen aus den Jahren 1516–1522,” Zeitschrift für Kirchengeschichte 11 (1890): 448 (accessed through Google books). 19   CR 1:126. 20   Didymi Faventini [Philip Melanchthon] adversus Rhadinum pro Luthero oratio (Wittenberg: Michael Lotther, 1521), in CR 1:286–358, here 338: “Nam cum in Christianismo cuiusvis arbitrio permitti debeant cerimoniae. .  .  .” 21   CR 14:1208: “Precatur Christus pro universa Ecclesia, ut unum sint fide cum Deo et charitate inter se omnia Ecclesiae membra. Item ut sanctificentur vere, id est, verbi fide; item ut perdurent cum tentabuntur. Unde facile colliges, quid sit Christianismus aut Ecclesia. Quid enim sit sanctificatio, ipse exponit, dum ait: Sanctifica eos vere. Sentit enim, sanctificationem non esse externam aliquam observationem, sed eam, quae fit verbo Dei in corde.” 22   Johann Feldkirch [= Philip Melanchthon], Contra Romanistam fratrem Augustinum Alveldensis (1520), CR 1:181: “Est enim ea sententia pollicitatio quaedam, ut sunt pleraque in scripturas, cui innixae Christianae mentes, neque mundi, neque Satanae insultus formident. atque [sic!] in hoc pollicitationum genere summa Christianismi posita est, quas vos insanis et carnalibus glossematis ad vestras nugas detorquetis.” Earlier in the tract, Melanchthon also used the term (CR 1:173): “Nam ut summa Christianismi inde pendet, ut quam rectiss. Christi sacerdotium intelligamus, non potest non impiissimus censeri, qui illud quovis modo obscurat, quod tu non solum obscuras, sed plane in universum obliteras.” 23   CR 1:193: “Ego contra optimam Christianismi formam, qua liberi vivimus, cum optima conditione Monachorum comparabo, ita, ut multa vobis largiar, nonnihil adimam,

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Melanchthon returned to this usage, now applied ironically to the claims of monks, “a peculiar Christianismus.24 A few pages later, he returned to theme, this time labeling the divisive nature of monastic claims to live a higher Christian life a “divided Christianismus.”25 More often, however, Melanchthon contrasted Christianismus to specific theological options harmful to the Wittenberg gospel. While, as we have seen, the later correspondence mentioned Zwingli and the Anabaptists, the earlier published material zeroed in on monks and, above all, bad theology, especially (though not exclusively) as represented by Erasmus of Rotterdam, whose entire ethical program revolved around Christianizing Europe. In the Oration of Didymus Faventius against Thomas Placentinus in Favor of Martin Luther, Theologian, Melanchthon contrasted Christianismus to grammatical minutiae, urging his opponent to stick to that rather than philosophy or theology.26 He later accused Erasmus of using ceremonies and traditions to confuse Christianismus with Judaism.27 Finally, his opponent’s defense of the pope simply hastened the very extinction of Christianismus using tyranny.28 In all cases, however, the term is embedded in polished humanist prose, replete with classical Greek and Latin nostra adseram, si qua fieri potest parte.” See also from the same tract CR 1:194 (“Nam si quid iis votis in Christianismo proficitur, libenter concesserim, praeferendum vestrum vivendi genus”); and CR 1:195: “At rursus non permittam tanti fieri, ut in ea sola summam Christianismi positam censeam. Non continuo Christianus est, qui sibi quocunque tandem modo a Venere temperat: alioqui quid magis pium vel cogitari posset Messanis, Thebanis, item Milesiis virginibus, quae incredibili animi magnitudine mori, quam pudicitiae laudem amittere maluerunt. Immensa res Christianismus est, et quam adsequi hominum captus nequit.” 24   CR 21:127–28 (Loci, 1521): “Quondam monasteria nihil nisi scholae errant, degebant coelibes sua sponte scholastici et quamdiu libebat, utebantur cum condiscipulis communiter omnibus rebus, obsequebantur parebant liberaliter praeceptoribus, una psallebatur, orabatur, disserebatur, habebaturque totum vitae genus, non pro peculiari quodam Christianismo, pro statu perfectionis, ut nunc loquuntur, sed potius pro imperfectorum tyrocinio ac rudimento esset.” 25   CR 21:137–38 (Loci, 1521): “Iam in tot genera vivendi scissus Christianismus, quid refert Christianae caritatis, et simplicitatis? Alii laici, alii monachi, alii clerici sunt, et in his innumerae sectae sunt, quae tolerari possent fortasse, nisi et studiis, et ambitione certaretur.” 26   CR 1:300: “De syllabarum numeris, de arsi, de thesi, de ecthlipsi, de caesuris disputare debebas, non de theologicis ac philosophicis rebus, quas ignoras. Tuae partes erant, docere, unde sit elegis, unde phalaeciis nomen, non quae literae Christianismum forment.” 27   CR 1:307: “Quid si sublimia illa attingam de absolute ac vere pio dei cultu, de sanctificando divino nomine, de sabbato, quas leges isti plane ad scenicam quondam hypocrisin et stultas cerimonias [sic!] referent, ut a Iudaismo nequeas Christianismum discernere.” See also CR 1:354: “Alioqui si ex hominum constitutionibus, opinionibus et consuetudine pendeamus, quid erit Christianismo incertius?” 28   CR 1:326: “Nunc venio ad eam actionis partem, de qua certissimam victoriam sibi promittunt inimici, nempe ad caussam pontificiam, ubi cognoscetis, Principes, haud Paulo certius, quam magnae, quam piae rationes impulerint Lutherum ad suscipiendum hoc Christianum bellum, ut vobis, ut orbi terrarium Pontifices imposuerint, ut suis traditionibus ac legibus, sua tyrannide Christianismum extinxerint.”

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references, showing that Melanchthon associated the term with sophisticated forms of argumentation. A similar line of reasoning showed up in Melanchthon’s attack on the condemnation of Luther by the University of Paris from 1521, but here he contrasted their use of philosophy to Christianismus. “The gospel has been obscured, faith extinguished, by the received doctrine of works, and in place of a Christian people we are a people not even of the law but of the ethics of Aristotle, and out of Christianismus, against every sense of the Spirit, some philosophical basis for life has been made.”29 In the Loci of 1521, Melanchthon attacked the Parisian theologians for leaving people uncertain of God’s mercy. “Christianismus is nothing except that kind of life which is certain of God’s mercy.”30 The (humanist) criticism of scholasticism, however, was not the only tack Melanchthon’s use of Christianismus could take. Indeed, in his speech delivered on the Conversion of St. Paul in 1520, Melanchthon took aim at both the philosophers and theologians of his day, where philosophers included moral philosophers like Erasmus, as Melanchthon’s definition of philosophia here implied.31 “Truly, I wish this to be established for all Christian minds, that Christianismus is precisely different from either the philosophy or theology of our people. There is another road to virtue, another end of good things, another εὐθυμία [happiness] of human beings which Paul prescribes, different from what is taught by the schools of the philosophers.”32 Nowhere was this attack on Erasmian moral philosophy clearer (especially to Erasmus, who attacked it in his Discussion of Free Choice) than in Melanchthon’s Loci of 1521. He began by taking to task those who sought a form of Christianismus other than that found in Scripture, criticizing the way some had made their biblical interpretations depend 29   Adversus theologorum Parisinorum decretum pro Luthero apologia (1521), in CR 1:398–416, here, 400: “Evangelium obscuratum est, fides extincta, recepta operum doctrina, et pro Christiano populo ne legis quidem, sed moralium Aristotelis populus sumus, et ex Christianismo contra omnem sensum spiritus facta est quaedam philsophica vivendi ratio.” See also CR 1:405: “Non enim temporum nostrorum causis prodidit. Non enim illorum temporum ratio ferebat et adhuc purior Christianismus, ut de paucioribus, quam nunc dubitaretur.” 30   CR 21:187 (Loci, 1521): “Nec dubito quin multas animas necarit, quae ad desperationem isto carnali, Sophistico, Parisiensi dogmate adactae sunt. Disperdat dominus omnia labia loquentia mendacium. Christiana mens facile experientia magistra discet, nihil esse Christianismum, nisi eiusmodi vitam, quae de misericordia dei certa sit.” 31   For more on Melanchthon’s ongoing criticism of Erasmus, see Timothy J. Wengert, “Famous Last Words: The Final Epistolary Exchange between Erasmus of Rotterdam and Philip Melanchthon in 1536,” Erasmus of Rotterdam Society Yearbook 25 (2005): 18–38. In humanist usage the term philosophia meant above all moral philosophy. 32   Adhortatio ad Paulinae doctrinae studium (1520; Koehn, no. 54), in CR 11:34–41, here 39: “Verum, hoc velim omnibus Christianis mentibus persuasum, prorsus aliud esse Christianismum, quam vel Philosophiam, vel nostrorum hominum Theologiam. Alia ad virtutem via est, alius bonorum finis, alia hominis εὐθυμία, quam praescribit Paulus, quam quae Philosophorum scholis docetur.” The Greek εὐθυμία is found not only in the works of Pindar and Aristotle but was the title of works by Democritus and Pythagoreus.

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upon philosophy instead and singling out Origen, Erasmus’s favorite church father, for special condemnation.33 Then Melanchthon honed in on the doctrine of free choice itself, “an ungodly doctrine,” which “obscured Christ’s benefits.” “Although Christian teaching directly contradicts philosophy and human reason, nevertheless philosophy gradually insinuated itself into Christianismus. .  .  .”34 Alongside the bound will, Melanchthon also defined Christianismus in terms of Christian freedom over against all laws and ceremonies. “For what else is in the entire gospel except the proclaiming of this freedom. Finally, this freedom is Christianismus, because whoever do not have the Spirit of Christ, cannot perform the law at all and are cursed by the law’s substance.”35 Finally, in the 1523 Annotationes in Johannem, he specifically attacked not only “masters of ceremonies” but also “those [like Erasmus] who make out of Christianismus some civility and content themselves with the appearance of human virtues.”36 This short investigation of Melanchthon’s use of Christianismus has uncovered several important aspects of his thought. First, although he could on occasion 33

  CR 21:82: “Fallitur quisquis aliunde christianismi formam petit, quam e scriptura Canonica. Quantum enim ab huius puritate absunt commentarii? In hac nihil reperias non augustum, in illis, quam multa quae a philosophia, ab humanae rationis aestimatione pendent, quae cum iudicio spiritus prorsus ex diametro pugnant.” 34   CR 21:86: “Et in hoc quidem loco, cum prorsus Christiana doctrina a philosophia, et humana ratione dissentiat, tamen sensim irrepsit philosophia in Christianismum, et receptum est impium de libero arbitrio dogma, et obscurata Christi beneficentia per prophanam illam et animalem rationis nostrae sapientiam.” See also CR 21:122: “Ignorantque tum sabbatum tum Christianismum, isti liberi arbitrii adsertores, et inimici crucis Christi, suis se operibus, suis conatibus iustificantes.” Eramus’s complaint about Luther’s assertiveness found an ironic twist here. 35   CR 21:195: “Beati omnes qui fidunt eo, non servabit vos iustitia vestra, non servabit sapientia vestra, sed hic filius servabit, rex vester, propugnaculum vestrum etc. Sunt huiusmodi multa in scripturas, quae hanc nobis libertatem commendent. Nam quid in universum aliud est Evangelium, nisi huius libertatis praeconium. Postrema libertas est Christianismus, quia qui spiritum Christi non habent, legem facere neutiquam possunt, suntque maledictionum legis rei.” See also CR 21:198 (“Valeat igitur quod diximus, non esse iudicialia aut ceremonias ita sublatas, ut peccet, si quis ex illis quidpiam usurpet. Sed quia Christianismus libertas quaedam est, uti illis, vel non uti penes nos est, non aliter atque edere aut bibere penes nos est”) and 201 (“Sed Mosaica ne lege sola uti debeat iudex Christianus? Hic respondeo penes iudicem esse, uti vel non uti Mosi lege. Est enim rerum externarum dispositio quaedam, quae ad Christianismum nihil pertinet non aliter, atque edere ac bibere”). 36   CR 14:1210: “Diligenter consyderandum est, quis primus laedat Christum. Is Iudas est, unus de numero Apostolorum, qua re significatum est, quod sint et principes et nocentissimi hostes Evangelii ii, qui nomen Christi praetexunt, et verbum Dei causantur, cuiusmodi semper errant impii Doctores. Sunt autem impii doctores non tantum ceremoniarum Magistri, sed et ii, qui ex Christianismo civilitatem quondam faciunt, contenti humanarum virtutum specie. Porro, haec est natura impiorum doctorum, ut cum ab Evangelio iudicentur, tueri se vi humana contendant, quia Deo non fidunt. Hoc est quod Iudas cohorts accersit.” For discussion of this charge, also made in his 1527 commentary on Colossians, see Timothy J. Wengert, Law and Gospel: Philip Melanchthon’s Debate with John Agricola of Eisleben over “Poenitentia” (Grand Rapids: Baker, 1997).

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use it as a synonym for ecclesia catholica, he tended rather to identify it with specific teaching (Wittenberg’s gospel) and to contrast it with Wittenberg’s early opponents: monks, scholastic theologians, and (without naming names) Erasmus. Later he would on rare occasions use the contrast with Zwingli, Anabaptists or radical preachers. But then, after 1535, at least in the thirty-five volumes that can be easily searched, the word never again appeared. Of course, Melanchthon was still raging against his opponents and contrasting their theology to true doctrine. But, as a study of his use of ecclesia catholica and related terms, such as fides and doctrina, would demonstrate (something that goes beyond the scope of this essay), he abandoned a term in use by some humanists and his Roman opponents for a more biblical focus: the church and its faith.37

The Absent Pair: Christianitas and Christenthumb If the word study of Christianismus yielded some interesting use by the young Melanchthon, Christianitas (English: Christianity) and Christenthumb (and its other sixteenth-century spellings; English: Christendom) leave the researcher with an even greater conundrum. Not only did Holmes’s dog not bark; it seems there was no dog in the stable at all! That is, Melanchthon’s digitized works provide next to no examples of the terms. This contrasts with Luther, where the digitized Weimar edition provides these rough numbers: Christianitas occurs around 435 times and Christenthumb around 160 times.38 In Melanchthon’s case, once one eliminates the references in the Confutation and in Eck’s remarks at the Regensburg Colloquy in 1541,39 there is only one case (in his 1520 attack on monastic vows) where Melanchthon wrote (with not a little irony) that “there is also some Christianity (Christianitas) among us.”40 Some twenty years later, the word also showed up in an exordium of an oration, where it functioned as little more than a clever synonym for ecclesia catholica.41 In the case of Christen37   For some preliminary comments on Melanchthon’s ecclesiology, see Gordon Lathrop and Timothy J. Wengert, Christian Assembly: Marks of the Church in a Pluralistic Age (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2004). 38   These are approximate numbers, since occasions where either the editor or some other sixteenth-century figure quoted in the WA were not culled out of the overall numbers. 39   See CR 27:157 & 184; and CR 4:43. In his defense of Luther against the Parisian condemnation of 1521, Melanchthon quoted a section of the condemnation (itself a quotation of Martin Luther’s Babylonian Captivity of the Church, WA 6:562.8–10) that included the word (CR 1:387). 40   CR 1:200 (Philippi Melanchthonis de tribus votis ad Carthusianum quendam Epistola, 2 June 1520): “Versamur non pauci extra Monasteria in studiis sacrarum literarum multo maiore negocio, quam religiosi ulli; quae sane probabilis coniectura est, esse aliquid christianitatis etiam apud nos.” 41   CR 11:531 (Oratio de Alfrangano et mathematicis disciplinis Ioannis Regiomontani, 1540?): “Novum equidem, haud mediocre periculum facere videor, qui in urbe hac insignissima, in

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thumb, there are no instances where Melanchthon used this term in documents that he wrote by himself. A stray reference in the Reformatio Wittebergensis (a joint production of Melanchthon, Caspar Cruciger Sr., Luther, Bugenhagen, and Georg Major, where Melanchthon functioned as the chief drafter) 42 and a comment in some notes on Matthew’s gospel first published after Melanchthon’s death in 1561 (where the authorship of the German phrases in this Latin text is not at all clear),43 along with one use in Martin Reinhart’s 1522 translation of the Loci communes,44 and that is all. In the Reformatio Wittebergensis it simply stood for the ecclesia catholica of all times and places and stood in a list that included pagans and Jews. In other words, everyone was subject to attacks from the devil that undermined trust in God’s Word. In short, Melanchthon never found reason to use either term. If he was interested in recultivating the vineyard at all, he clearly had another name for it.

Christenheit: Melanchthon’s Word of Choice The one word that Melanchthon used consistently throughout his career was the German equivalent of Christianitas, namely, Christenheit. There are around one hundred instances where he employed the term scattered throughout works that stem directly from his pen. There were also the many references found in joint letters (where Melanchthon may or may not have been the chief drafter) or imported into German translations of his work by Justus Jonas and others (to say nothing of references by others in letters and other documents from the era included in the CR). One such “foreign” use stands out. The title of the German translation of Loci communes of 1522 reads: The Central Articles and Most Important Points in the Entire Holy Scripture .  .  . a Wonderfully Good Booklet, Useful for All Es-

scholis istis egregie laudatis, et non iniuria bene famatissimis, ex quibus toti ferme Christianitati salus nascitur, coram viris erudissimis, coram hominibus profundas doctrinas audire solitis, repente verba facturus sum, quippe qui non modo bidebus plurimis, verum annis duobus, et amplius huiuscemodi legendi officium posthabui.” 42   MBW 3793 (CR 5:578–606, here 594), dated 14 January 1545: “Der Teufel hat diese Anfechtung im Paradiese angefangen, und hernach die Heiden, auch Israel, und das Christenthumb also geplaget, daß sie Gottes Wort aus den Augen gethan, und eigne Gedanken von Gott gedichtet.” 43   CR 14:592: “Saepe auditis discrimen inter haec tria: Promissionem, praecepta de operibus moralibus, von nötigen Tugenden, Et ceremonias, Kirchengespreng: vel inter fidem, Opera moralia, nötige Tugenden vnd Ceremonien. Et nosse hanc distinctionem valde necessarium est, quia usitatum est, quod homines delabuntur ad ceremonias, et has putant esse totam religionem, Die gantze heiligkeit, Christenthum vnd Gottesdienst, sicut saepe conqueruntur Prophetae, et refutant hunc errorem, sicut in Psalmo 49. dicitur: Audi populus meus, non in sacrificiis arguam te, etc.” 44   SM 1/1:223.

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tates of the Entire [gantze] Christenhait.45 In contrast, the Latin title simply read Common Topics of Theological Matters, or Theological Outlines.46 Indeed, the phrases ganze Christenheit or gemeine Christenheit demarcate one specific use of the word that Melanchthon held in common with many others.47 While not always parallel to ecclesia catholica, the term clearly intended to include the entire range of folk within the universal church and not simply a local one.48 A joint missive to the Elector Frederick the Wise, written in 1521 by the reform-minded teachers in Wittenberg while Luther was in Wartburg and (at least) signed by Melanchthon, referred to “the entire commune of common Christenheit.”49 A report of Melanchthon’s interview with some Anabaptists includes a question to the imprisoned leaders why they object to infant baptism when it was found not only among “papistic, Lutheran and Zwinglian” folks (as they called them), “but also by the entire Christenheith [sic!] and the ancient church as far back as one can read or discover.”50 Justus Jonas’s 1543 translation 45   SM I:xxiv: “Die haubt artickel vnd furnemesten punct der gantzen hayligen schrift .  .  . ayn wunderguts biechlein, vnd allen Stenden der gantzen Christenhait dienstlich (Augsburg: Grimm, 1522). 46   CR 21:59–60: Loci communes rerum theologicarum, seu hypotyposes theologicae (Wittenberg: Lotter, 1521). 47   Just within the CR there are many examples of both. Gemeine occurs in MBW 3738 (CR 5:533, letter from Elector John Frederick to the Wittenberg theologians [Luther, Bugenhagen, Cruciger, Major, and Melanchthon], dated 23 November 1544); CR 4:24, 95, 510–11, 588 (letters surrounding the Regensburg Colloquy from 1541, including letters from Emperor Charles V and others); CR 4:163 (response of Bucer and others to the Emperor, dated 12 April 1541); throughout the Confutation of the Augsburg Confession (14 times as either ganze or gemeine (CR 27, passim); and CR 1:504/507 (letters of the canons of the All Saints’ Chapter in Wittenberg to the Elector and a letter of the Elector to Christian Beyer). Ganze Christenheit appears as well, not only in the Confutatio but also, for example, in CR 2:44 (a letter of Johannes Dolzius to the Elector John of Saxony), CR 2:307 (a note of Justus Jonas on private masses from 1530), and in MBW 874 (T 4/1:76.61–63; Elector John to the Wittenberg theologians, dated 14 March 1530). 48   A fine example of this comes in MBW 4179, a memorandum to the Elector John Frederick, from Bugenhagen, Cruciger, and Melanchthon, dated 5 March 1546 (CR 6:72–73, here 72): “Und ist wahr, daß wir aus vielen großwichtigen Ursachen sehr erschrocken und betrübt sind, daß der ehrwürdige Herr D. Martinus, unser lieber Vater und praeceptor, aus dieser Kirchen und Schulen weggenommen, da die ganze Christenheit und diese Kirch und Schule sein noch länger bedurft hätte, und wir nun sind als die verlassenen einsamen Wai­ sen.” 49   MBW 185 (T 1:390–98, here 392.3–6): “Czum ersten, wie das ein große sache ist und das ganze commun gemeiner christenheit betrifft, sollen wir uns nicht ubireilen; den es mocht durch uns als den kleinsten hauffen swerlich erhalden werden.” See also MBW 185 (T 1 397.154–156). During the same debates over the Lord’s Supper during Luther’s absence, the same term was used by the conservative canons of the All Saints’ Foundation (CR 1:504) and Elector Frederick in a letter to Christian Beyer (CR 1:507). It is highly unlikely that Melanchthon did anything more than sign the letter. The arguments and the style clearly came from someone else. 50   MBW 1671 (T 6:519–24, here 520.23–27, protocol for Elector John Frederick, dated 1 & 6 December 1535): “Magister Philippus Melanchton hat sie weitter gefragt, warumb sie sich also nicht allein von der papistischen, Lutherischen, Zwinglischen etc. wie man sie nen-

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of the Loci communes also includes several references to the gantze Christenheit, despite there being no equivalent word in the Latin text.51 For example, in comments summarizing the Lord’s Prayer, Jonas simply added to the Latin text that this prayer teaches “how we ought to pray for the entire Christenheit.”52 Similarly, the German translation of the Loci of 1521, mentioned above, also included several references to the ganze Christenheit in its text, although these seem to reflect to comments about Christianismus from the original Latin text.53 The German version of the Apology, also translated by Justus Jonas, contained the phrase, often to translate the word ecclesia (church) in the Latin original.54 A host of memoranda written for the Saxon court and other political figures and not necessarily drafted by Melanchthon, also include the phrase.55

net, sondern auch von der ganzen christenheith und der alten kirchen, so weith man zurucke lesen odder finden kan, absondern, und eine eigen sect anfahen .  .  . ?” 51   CR 22:92, 389, 479, 536, 539 and 576. 52   CR 22:576: “So leret nu diß edel vnd thewre Gebet (das Vater unser), welches vns der Herr Christus selbs gestellet hat, mit gantz kurtzen worten, wie wir beide, umb geistliche vnd leibliche Güter bitten sollen. Wie wir bitten sollen für die gantzen Christenheit, für das Predigampt, vnd die heilige gemeine Kirchen, für die Regiment vnd geminen Fried in der welt, für gegenwertige vnd zukünfftige Not etc.” For another, independent printing of this text see SM 5/1: 339–40 (Kurze Auslegung des Vaterunsers 1547/1542) and the introductory comments on pp. XCIII-XCIV. 53   SM 1/1:7, 73 and 77 (cf. 78). 54   CR 28:90 [ed. 2–6], 179 [ed. 1], 233 (all editions, using the phrase gemeine Christenheit to translate universa ecclesia), 324 (purely an addition by Jonas). 55   Besides the joint letter of the reform-minded theologians from 1521, mentioned above (MBW 185 [T 1:390–98, here 392.1–6, 393.10–13, and 397.154–156; 12 December 1521 to Elector Frederick, signed by, among others, Karlstadt, Jerome Schurff, Melanchthon, and Nicholas v. Amsdorf ]), there are two letters (six uses), written by the Wittenberg theologians for Elector John from the time leading up to the Augsburg Confession surrounding the development of the so-called Torgau Articles (MBW 875 [T 4/1:77.6–10 & 78.16–18; 79.49– 80.53; 80.63–64; dated March 1530] and MBW 883 [T 4/1:96.3 and 98.73–76, dated ca. 27 March 1530]). Jonas, who seemed to have preferred the term, used it twice in a letter he wrote to an unknown knight (and signed jointly by him and Melanchthon), MBW 1209 (T 5:236–38, here 237.27–29 & 238.53–54, dated 1531). As questions of the unity of the church arose in the runup to the Smalcald War, especially connected with religious colloquies, the word again pops up (MBW 1769 regarding the papal call for a council [T 7:194 from Luther, Bugenhagen, Cruciger, Jerome Schurff, Melchior Kling, and Melanchthon to Elector John Frederick dated 6 August 1536], MBW 2238 on the quest for unity [T 8:484.259–264; signed by Melanchthon, Luther, and Jonas to Elector John Frederick and dated 1 July 1539], MBW 2352 on priestly celibacy [T 9:82.462–83.68, Wittenberg’s theologians to the Elector, dated 18 January 1540], MBW 3794 on papal authority [CR 5:647, Wittenberg’s theologians to the Elector, dated 14 January 1545] and MBW 4253 (CR 6:121, a memorandum for Elector John Frederick preparing for the second Regensburg colloquy, signed by the Wittenberg theologians and dated 30 April 1546). An appeal from Wittenberg’s theologians to (now) Duke John Frederick insisted that Christianity stretched beyond the limits of territorial churches (MBW 6565 [CR 7:1072–75, here 1073; dated 14 September 1552]): “Weiter von wegen gemeiner Christenheit in vielen Landen, welchen dises Erledigung fröhlich und nützlich ist erstlich zur Stärkung des Glaubens in der Lehre, dieweil sie sehen, daß Gott öffentlich

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Several memoranda (including the Reformatio Wittebergensis of 1546), which do go back to Melanchthon’s pen, also use the term.56 Perhaps the most telling of these came in Melanchthon’s critique of the Augsburg Interim of 1548. Melanchthon pointed out that what the Interim permitted (communion in both kinds and the marriage of priests) was described as somehow a break with Christian tradition and Scripture, when the opposite was in fact the case. Fourth, [we object] that the two exceptions, namely communion in both kinds and priestly marriage, are made as if these practices were against the Christian religion and teachers of the church, which is quite remarkable, because, thank God, it is completely obvious that these two articles are based upon the divine Scripture and have been in usage of the gemeine Christenheit and that the changes were introduced as innovations against God’s order and the usage of the catholica ecclesia.57

Here Melanchthon left no doubt that he took the phrase gemeine Christenheit to be equivalent to ecclesia catholica. In works that Melanchthon alone authored and signed, we also find several examples, many of which echo the Latin ecclesia catholica. In 1533, he used it in a memorandum for Elector John Frederick in relation to the call for a free council.58 In 1534, Landgrave Philip of Hesse was reminded that the doctrine of the Lord’s Supper was important for the “gantzer christenheit.”59 A report on the negotiations at the 1541 Regensburg Colloquy to Elector John Frederick put the words in his opponent’s mouth as a charge against Melanchthon for undermining the whole of Christenheit.60 anzeigt, daß er dises Lehre, die durch E. F. G. Erbeit in Kirchen gepflanzet ist, und die E. F. G. bekennen, nicht will vertilgen lassen.” 56   MBW 3793 (CR 5:586; from the Wittenberg theological faculty to Elector John Frederick, dated 14 January 1545 [cf. 604, where Christenheit was defined as spanning the times from the apostles to the present]), MBW 5208 (CR 7:14, a report to the regional diet in Meissen dated 6 July 1548 concerning the Augsburg Interim). 57   MBW 5208 (CR 7:12–45, here 14; 6 July 1548; report of Prince Georg von Anhalt, Caspar Cruciger, Johannes Pfeffinger, Melanchthon, Daniel Greser, Georg Major, and Johannes Forster to the electoral councilors and regional diet in Meissen): “Zum Vierten, daß die zween Punct außgezogen, nämlich communio unter beider Gestalt, und Priester Ehe, als wären die christlicher Religion und Kirchen Lehrern entgegen, welches nicht wenig zu verwundern, weil doch Gottlob offentlich am Tage, daß diese beide Artickel in göttlicher Schrift gegründet und im Gebrauch gemeiner Christenheit gewesen, und die Aenderung wider Gottes Ordnung und Gebrauch catholicae eccelsiae aus Neuerung eingeführt.” 58   MBW 1334 (T 5:430–33 here 433.30–33; 16? June 1533): “Zw letzt halt ich, solt gut seyn, das man kayserliche Maiestet mit vleyß vermanet, das sie wolt bedencken dis, wie ym reich bewogen wer, eyn frey concilium zw halden, das auch die hohe not der gantzen christenheyt fordert.” 59   MBW 1492 (T 6:202–3, here 203, 27–28; 16 September 1534): “Denn e. f. g. wissen, das gantzer christenheit an disem artikel [of the Lord’s Supper] viel gelegen. .  .  .” A second reference in the same letter (T 6:203.49–52) came in the form of a blessing. See below. 60   MBW 2754 (CR 4:577–86, here 584; dated 13 July 1541): “Granvel sagt, wo ich diesen Artikel nicht annähme, verhinderte ich die ganze Reformatio und so großen merklichen Nutze der ganzen Christenheit. Auch schickte Margrav Joachim nach mir, mich zu bereden.”

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The word seldom occurs in Melanchthon’s published work, but we do find it in a narrative about an Evangelical Spaniard who prayed for both his brother (who executed him) and the whole Christenheit61 and in the German version of Examen ordinandorum, which contrasted God’s protection of the church to the devil’s desire to gobble up the entire Christenheit.62 Finally, in a preface to Luther’s Warnung an seine lieben Deudschen, reprinted in July 1546 during the run up to the Smalcald War, Melanchthon wrote of the entire Christenheit in connection with two themes that we will examine below: the centrality of good doctrine for the whole of Christenheit and the raging of the devil against it.63 In Melanchthon’s correspondence after the Smalcald War, the phrase also occurred in letters to King Christian III of Denmark, to the counts von Henneburg, to John Frederick the Middler, to Joachim von Anhalt, and to Elector August of Saxony.64 Of these, some are formulaic phrases often found in Melanchthon’s correspondence with princes. But some relate to other important categories: a plea for unity of the church (to John Frederick the Middler), the need (Noth61   CR 20:516 (From Ware Historia. Wie newlich zu Newburg an der Tonaw eyn Spanier, genant Alphonsus Diasius, oder Decius, seinen leiblichen Bruder Johannem, alleyn vß haß wider die einige, ewige Christliche lehr, wie Cain den Abel, grausamlich ermördet habe. Geschrieben von Herrn Philippo Melanthon [Nuremberg: Johann von Berg], 1546): “Darum gedenckt er [ Johann], durch Gottes gnad, dabei zu bleiben, vnnd also in rechtem glauben Gott anzurüffen, für sich, seinen Bruder vnnd für die gantze Christenheyt, vnnd dauon zeugnuß geben, wo er gefragt, oder andere zu leren beruffen werde.” 62   CR 23:LXIX (German version of the Examen, the section “Von vnterschied der Bepst­ lichen Meß, vnd des rechten Ampts, in Christlichen Kirchen”): “Vnd dazu gibet Gott den Kirchen Hüttlin vnd Herberge in etlichen Landen, Vnd schützet die, wider den Teufel, Türkcken vnd andere Tyrannen. Wiewol die Teufel aus haß wider Christum, gerne die gantze Christenheit auff ein mal vff fressen, vnd alles wüst machen wolten.” 63   MBW 4319 (CR 6:190–97, here 193; 10 July 1546; preface to the reader for a new printing of Luther’s Warnunge an seine lieben Deudschen [Wittenberg: Lufft, 1546; reprinted in Nuremberg, Lübeck and elsewhere]): “Ist hoch unser Lehre am Tage, und müssen alle Verständige, so nicht wider ihr Gewissen reden wollen, bekennen, daß viel hoher Artikel der ganzen Christenheit nöthig, recht und rein erklärt sind, davon zuvor grosse schädliche Jrr­ thum in aller Welt gepredigt worden. .  .  . [196] Und wundert mich sehr, daß weise Leute sich dazu haben bewegen lassen, diesen Krieg zu erregen. Aber es ist nicht allein Menschen Werk, die Teufel wüthen und wollten gern noch größer Zerstörung und Jammer in der Christenheit anrichten.” The phrase comes up in several letters from this time as well. See MBW 4391 (CR 6:113; 17 April 1546 – an appendix to letter to Nicholas v. Amsdorf ): “.  .  . also in rechtem Glauben Gott anzurufen für sich, seinen Bruder und die ganze Christenheit”; MBW 4460 (CR 6:273–74, here 274; to Georg v. Anhalt, dated 11 Nov. 1546): “Denn es seyn der Fürsten Sachen unter sich wie die sind, so bitten Ew. F. G. diesem armen Flecken um in ist, und gewesen ist, die obgleich beiweilen menschlich Gebrechen mit untergelofft [untergelaufen], dennoch viel großer Arbeit mit aller Treu gethan, zu gut ganzer Christenheit.” 64   To Christian: MBW 5915 (CR 7:673, dated 5 October 1550), MBW 6029 (CR 7:789, dated 25 March 1551), MBW 7519 (CR 8:502, dated 7 June 1555); to the counts von Henneburg: MBW 6267 (CR 7:1175, dated 8 September 1551); to John Frederick the Middler: MBW 8373 (CR 9:310, dated 1 October 1557); to Joachim von Anhalt: MBW 8462 (CR 9:400, dated 24 December 1557); to Elector August of Saxony: MBW 8543 (CR 9:470, dated 4 March 1558).

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durst) of Christenheit (to Joachim von Anhalt), and the contrast between the papacy’s innovations and good doctrine (to August). In one letter to Christian III, Melanchthon commended the enclosed copy of Luther’s German works (volume three, dedicated to Christian) for its service to all of Christenheit.65 These categories – the relation of Christenheit to princes, to a certain necessity or need and to doctrine – rounds out this examination of Melanchthon’s use of the term. In letters to princes, indeed, the term appears quite often, due in part to the fact that such letters made up a great deal of Melanchthon’s German writings. Moreover, many of the references come in the form of greetings or benedictions to the letters. A fine example (one of many to him) comes in a letter addressed to Christian III: “May Almighty God .  .  . keep your royal majesty .  .  . in good health and graciously protect and rule all of Christenheit for the good.”66 That especially Christian III received such formulaic blessings is not surprising, given that his realms were outside the Holy Roman Empire and, thus, represented the wider Christenheit. The notion in the above citation, that the well-being of Christenheit rests in the hands of God who protects both king and church, was crucial to Melanchthon’s ecclesiology and reminded those in government that it was not their work and effort so much as it was God’s grace that preserved Christenheit. This was, however, not the way that others used the term with princes. There, as in a letter from Jerome Baumgartner to the Nuremberg City Council dated 31 October 1530, it was the ruler (in this case, the Emperor), who was “overseer and protector” of Christenheit.67 By contrast to Baumgartner’s flattery, a joint letter 65   MBW 5915 (CR 7:673–75, here 673; 5 Oct. 1550; to Chr. III): “E. K. M. ist der dritte Theil der Bücher des ehrwürdigen Doctoris Martini Lutheri, so neulich gedruckt, zugeschrieben, darin viel Stück sind, die ganzer Christenheit, auch bei den Nachkommen nütz­ lich seyn werden.” 66   MBW 6029 (CR 7:758–59, here 759; 25 March 1551 to Christian III): “Der allmächtige Gott .  .  . wolle E. K. M. .  .  . in Gesundheit erhalten, und gnädiglich bewahren und regiren zu Gut der ganzen Christenheit.” Other examples of such benedictions include, to Christian III: MBW 3880 (CR 5:730), MBW 4119 (CR 6:15), MBW 4576 (CR 6:381), MBW 7518 (CR 8:498), MBW 7532 (CR 8:510) and MBW 8305 (CR 9:216–17); to Philip of Hesse (in connection with negotiations over the Wittenberg Concord): MBW 1492 (T 6:203.27–28 and 49–52), MBW 1724 (T 7:99.13–20) and MBW 1726 (T 7:102.14–16); and to Duke Albrecht of Prussia: MBW 3352 (CR 5:206). 67   CR 2:429: “Vogt und Beschirmer der Christenheit.” See also CR 2:28, 828–33, 897– 98, 974–75, 981, and CR 7:639 for other examples. In a lecture on the Sunday texts (in this case Maundy Thursday; CR 24:613–14), Melanchthon recalled Maximilian I’s comments on the necessity “Das die Christenheit ein haupt hette, daran sie sich halten kondte, und das ein solch ansehen hette, das die andern herrn ein schew dafur hetten” and contrasted this appeal for papal authority to Christ’s authority. (See also a note to Elector August, dated July 1559 [MBW 9000 (CR 9:869 & 876)].) To be sure, in a University notice shortly after the death of Charles V (CR 9:706–18, here 707 & 710–11), Melanchthon could associate Charles with such protection, but as the Emperor’s own words. An out-and-out rejection of papal authority over Christenheit comes in the letter to Elector August (MBW 9000 [CR 9:876, dated July 1559]: “der Herr Christus ist und bleibt das Haupt seiner Christenheit, Ephes. 1. .  .  . Diese

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to John Frederick (not necessarily drafted by Melanchthon but signed by him) in connection with the calling of a council, insisted, “Still, everything is in the hands of God who desires to rule the hearts of all governing authorities and teachers to his praise and to the blessedness of Christenheit.”68 Of course, princes could harm Christenheit, as in the case of the tensions over the selection of a new bishop in Pomerania,69 or they could help protect it by allowing for evangelical teaching and proper education,70 but they were not in charge of it. As these last references demonstrate, Melanchthon also associated Christenheit with good teaching. In translations of the Loci communes by Georg Spalatin (of the first edition of 1521) and by Justus Jonas (of the third edition of 1543), we find clear links between Christenheit and, especially, the doctrine of justification by faith alone. Jonas’s translation insisted that “all God-fearing hearts in Christenheit have continually experienced and will forever experience that this comfort [of forgiveness] is certain and most highly necessary.”71 The same was true of infant baptism, since the children make up “a large part of true Christenheit, and the actual people of God, the church and the saints.”72 In Spalatin’s earlier

Wort, Statthalter und Haupt der Christenheit, werden viel zu weit gebraucht zu falscher Erhöhung päpstlicher Gewalt.” 68   MBW 4073 (CR 6:135–37, here 137; to the Elector John Frederick, dated ca. 24 November 1545 and signed by Luther, Bugenhagen, Cruciger, Major, and Melanchthon): “Man darf sich auch vor dem Concilio so hoch nicht besorgen; denn der Papst leidet selbst kein Concilium. Darüber, obgleich ein vermeintes Concilium etwas beschließen würde, so werden solche grobe Articul seyn, daß es zu Spott word. Doch ist alles in Gottes Hand; der wolle aller Regenten und Lehrer Herzen zu seinem Lob der Christenheit Seligkeit leiten. Amen.” 69   MBW 3559 (CR 5:381–88, here 387; to the dukes of Pomerania, from the Wittenberg theological faculty, dated 14 May 1544): “Aber dennoch werden wir durch unser Ampt gedrungen, daß wir hernach über der Fürsten Unfleiß klagen, und diejenigen, so die Fürsten hierin zu Schaden der Christenheit durch Geiz verleiten, mit harten Schriften strafen.” See also, ibid, 384–85. 70   MBW 1818 (T 7:292.8–15 and 294.67–74; Luther, Jonas, Bugenhagen, von Amsdorf, Cruciger, and Melanchthon to JF v. Sachsen, dated by MBW to 5/6 December 1536); MBW 3977 (CR 5:812; to Albrecht of Prussia, dated 1 August 1545 from Melanchthon and Camerarius); MBW 2810 (CR 4:659; 17 September 1541; to the city council of Görlitz on behalf of a student, Caspar Reynmann); MBW 3352 (CR 5:206; dated 19 October 1543 to Duke Albrecht of Prussia on behalf of Andreas Samuel); MBW 4969 (CR 6:733–35, here 734; Joachim v. Brandenburg, 25 November 1547); 71   CR 22:403: “Und alle gottfürchtige hertzen je und je in der Christenheit erfaren haben, und noch fur und für erfaren, das dieser Trost gewis und am höchsten von nöten ist.” Another attack on doubt in Christenheit was made in Jonas’s translation of Melanchthon’s Apology of the Augsburg Confession (CR 28:234). 72   CR 22:467: “Derhalben die getaufften Kinder ein grosser teil der waren Christenheit, und warhafftig Gottes Volck, Kirche und Heiligen sind.” A similar connection occurred in the Marburg Articles (CR 26:126). In a letter to Philip of Hesse, dated 4/5 June 1536 by MBW, Luther, Melanchthon, and Bugenhagen described the Anabaptist doctrine as dividing Christenheit by excluding children from it. See MBW 1748 (T 7:155.134–139).

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translation, Christenheit and Christian doctrine are set in opposition to philosophy on several occasions.73 In work that more clearly reflected Melanchthon’s own usage, we discover an even clearer opposition between Roman practices and those of Christenheit. In rejecting the Augsburg Interim, the Wittenberg theologians (Cruciger, Johannes Pfeffinger, Greser, Major, Forster, and Melanchthon) reject Confirmation because it was not a part of the traditio catholica, was not instituted by Christ, was not practiced in Christenheit continuously, and lacked both God’s command and promise.74 The Reformatio Wittebergensis raised similar questions about ordination practices that bound people to false doctrine.75 In 1530, a first draft of the preface to the Augsburg Confession contrasted works righteousness to Luther’s rediscovery of the gospel. Whereas Luther had given good instruction about many things, including “how one should comfort the conscience through faith in Christ,” which many intelligent and educated people held to be Christian and concerning which people had in the past preached and written much false and incorrect doctrine on this point, “so, nevertheless, this point concerning the grace of Christ should be the most important preaching and teaching in Christenheit.”76 Melanchthon made a similar comment in the Confessio Saxonica of 1553.77 In the lectures on Matthew, published a year after his death in 1561, Melanchthon (or Paul Eber, to whom Melanchthon’s notes were given) defined righteousness, attacking hypocrites who imagined they were “the true pillars of 73   SM 1/1:9–10, 48, 69. This followed Melanchthon’s own use of Christianismus. In the Apology of 1531, translated by Jonas, we find a contrast between the Sophists who have strewn a horrible, idolatrous teaching into Christenheit. 74   MBW 5208 (CR 7:12–45, here 32; 6 July 1548 to the regional diet in Meissen and the electoral counselors): “so ist gleichwohl ja nicht traditio catholica von Christo eingesetzt, oder durchaus je und allewege gehalten .  .  . in der Christenheit gehalten, und hat weder mandatum noch promissionem.” 75   MBW 3793 (CR 5:578–606, here 586; the Wittenberger Reformatio, a memorandum for John Frederick, dated 14 January 1545 and written by Melanchthon and signed by him and Luther, Bugenhagen, Cruciger, and Major): “Darum ist von nöthen zu bedenken, wie der Christenheit zu rathen sey; und so ihnen die Ordinatio soll befohlen werden, müssen sie sich erst von der Lahr erklären. Denn wo sie Verfolger christlicher Lehr bleiben, und nicht wollen ordiniren ohne Verpflichtung zu falscher Lehr und zu Verfolgung der Wahrheit: so kann man die Ordinatio bei ihnen nicht suchen. So sie aber rechte Lahr wollen annehmen und helfen erhalten. .  .  .” 76   MBW 889 (T 4/1:119–22, here 122.41–43, dated ca. 20 April 1530): “Darinn ehr [Luther] von vielen grossen und wichtigen sachen solchen bericht gethan, wie man die gewissen durch glawben an Christum trosten solle, das viel gelarter und redlicher leut seyn lahr fur christlich und nottige gehalden und befunden, das man zuvor viel falscher und unrechter || 122 lahr von disem stuk, wie man gnad und vergebung der sund erlangen soll, geprediget und geschriben hatt, so doch dises stuk in der christenheit die furnemist predig und lahr seyn soll von der gnade Christi.” 77   CR 28:492: “Denn was ist in der Christenheit mehr von nöten zu wissen, denn was Sünde, vnd was fur ein grosser vnterscheid sey, zwischen denen, welches die welt allein sünde acht, vnd welches sünde fur Gottes gericht sind?”

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Christenheit.”78 The only other doctrine that Melanchthon attached to Christenheit was infant baptism. In 1536, Melanchthon compared correct teaching in Christenheit to the Anabaptist opposition to infant baptism, especially in his Adversus Anabaptistas.79 Finally, a cluster of citations employed Christenheit in terms of usefulness (Nutz) and needs (Nothdurst or Noth). These uses point to a more uniquely Evangelical phrase regarding poor (arme) Christenheit. Such expressions did not occur at all in the smattering of writings from other sixteenth-century figures found in the Corpus Reformatorum. Only Justus Jonas worried about the “small bunch” (kleine Haufen) that make up Christenheit and introduced into his translation of the Apology (article IV on justification) how necessary this doctrine was in Christenheit.80 In a letter jointly signed by Luther, Bugenhagen, Cruciger, and Melanchthon in connection with the election of Nicholas von Amsdorf as bishop, the Wittenberg theologians argued for renewed examination of the theology of candidates as a dire necessity for Christenheit.81 The Reformatio Wittebergensis also stressed Christenheit’s need for good bishops. In a plea to the city of Altenburg, Melanchthon and Georg Major begged the city fathers to help a poor student if not because of Melanchthon’s crude letter then for the sake of the poor youth and the need [Nothdurst] of Christenheit.82 The phrase was also sprinkled through Melanchthon’s correspondence, where he wrote about what was useful in Christenheit 83 and needful84 – namely good, Evangelical instruction in languages, the arts, and theology. 78   CR 14:588: “Quot modis igitur antecelluit iusticia in homine Christiano? Quatuor modis. Primum Poenitentia, id est, veris doloribus propter peccata. Non est securitas in Davide sicut in Saul. David agit poenitentiam et dolet, Saul contemnit iudicium Dei, vel in poena irascitur Deo. Tales sunt universaliter hypocritae, furchtloß, stoltz, vnd meinen sie sind die rechten seulen der Christenheit etc.” 79   CR 3:30 and 33. See also the joint letter referred to above. 80   CR 1:634 (dated 24 August 1523 to Elector Frederick) and CR 28:92 (editions 2–6 of the German). 81   MBW 2835 (CR 4:689; dated beginning of November 1541 to John Frederick): “Gleichwohl ists der Christenheit Nothdurst [modern German: Notdurft]; und wird der Fleiß bei der Ordination nicht geschehen, so wird mit der Zeit eine große Barbarei in Deutsch­land werden.” 82   MBW 3497 (CR 10:167; dated 2 April 1544). 83   MBW 2875 (CR 4:742; to Duke Albrecht of Prussia, dated 11 January 1542, on the prince’s necessary service for finding a position for Christoph Jonas); MBW 5915 (CR 7:673; to King Christian III of Denmark, dated 5 October 1550, on the usefulness of Luther’s writings); MBW 8584 (CR 9:519–20; to Christian III, dated 10 April 1558, on the need for Christian teaching, languages and arts); MBW 8719 (CR 9:609–10; to Duke Georg of Silesia, dated 8 September 1558, recommending Franz Rosentrit and the need for instruction in the three classic languages and other arts). 84   MBW 1826 (T 7:308.1–2; to John Frederick [?], dated December [?] 1536, on the need for a free council); MBW 2367 (T 9:109.19–22; to the city council of Quedlinburg, on the need for pastors and schools); MBW 3056 (CR 4:874; to the city council of Memmingen, dated 3 October 1542, recommending Johannes Hommel and the need for education); MBW

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Since these were things that were useful for Christenheit and that it lacked, Melanchthon could describe Christenheit as poor (arm). Again, except for Jonas’s comments about the small bunch in Christenheit, no “foreign” source used the phrase in Corpus Reformatorum.85 Joint letters by the Wittenberg theological faculty used the phrase occasionally. In a letter to the dukes of Pomerania about their fights over the bishopric of Camin, the Wittenbergers urged the princes to “further, above all else, God’s honor and the salvation and needs of poor, scattered Christenheit.”86 Shortly after Luther’s death, the Wittenberg theologians complimented Elector John Frederick for his concern for “the poor Christenheit.”87 To Elector August, reflecting on the great bitterness in the church, Melanchthon and Paul Eber fretted that a general council of Evangelicals might not bring unity, given Matthias Flacius’s penchant for attacking everything, which did nothing to help “the poor, overwhelmingly distressed Christenheit.”88 In a letter penned by Melanchthon on behalf of the pastors assembled in Smalcald in 1537 to John Frederick and Philip of Hesse, Melanchthon closed with this blessing: “May God uphold your electoral and princely graces graciously at all times to his praise, to your blessedness and to the protection and comfort of poor Christenheit.”89 7659 (CR 8:623; to Elector August of Saxony, dated 1 December 1555, on the need for discussion of certain doctrines); and MBW 7760 (CR 8:720; a response to a court preacher from Maximillian II’s court, dated 24 March 1556, on the necessity of right teaching and understanding over against the questioner’s demand for a single judge of doctrine [699]). 85   There are, however, examples of its use outside of the Wittenberg circle. For example, in his Von Doktor Martin Luthers Lehren und Predigen, (in Flugschriften gegen die Reformation (1518–1524) [Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1997], 159), Thomas Murner referred once to the arme Christenheit. Likewise, in his Hochverursachte Schutzrede, Thomas Müntzer also used the phrase once (http://www.mlwerke.de/mu/mu_003.htm, accessed 30 August 2010), and a second time in his Auslegung des zweiten Kapitels des Propheten Daniel (http://www.philoswebsite.de/index_g.htm?autoren/muentzer_thomas_g.htm~main2 accessed 30 August 2010). 86   CR 3559 (CR 5:382; dated 14 May 1544): “.  .  . vor allen Dingen Gottes Ehre und der armen zerstraueten Christenheit Heil und Nothdurft fördern.” Melanchthon used the same phrase in his letter to the counts von Henneburg (MBW 6267 [CR 7:1175], dated 8 September 1551). 87   MBW 4179 (CR 6:72; dated 5 March 1546). 88   MBW 8732 (CR 9:617–29, here 626–27; 24 September 1558).”Auf solche á? íçóôßáí ist auch zu Frankfurt guter Meinung gearbeitet. Soll aber des Gezänks kein Ende seyn, und man kann von wegen der großen Verbitterung zu keinem General Synodo kommen: so ist dennoch gut, daß die Chur und Fürsten und andre Stände, die unterschrieben haben, Einigkeit in ihrer christlichen Confession unter sich erhalten, und darzu consistoria und iudicia Ecclesiae verordnen und gebrauchen. Denn es ist der armen hochbetrübten Christenheit damit nicht geholfen, daß Illyricus jetzund da etwas anficht jetzund dorte, dieses, und das sey nicht genugsam geredt.” 89   MBW 1853 (T 7:350–52, here 352.57–59; Preachers in Smalcald to JF v S [Phillip v. Hessen, etc.], dated 24 February 1537, written by Melanchthon): “Got bewar e. Chur- und f.g. allezeit gnediglich zu seinem lobe und zu ir seligkait und der armen christenhait zu schutz und trost.”

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Letters written by Melanchthon alone also elucidate the scope of his use of this phrase. In 1542, in a missive to Elector Joachim II, who was with his troops, Melanchthon expressed his own concern for the poor Christenheit.90 Eight months later, in writing to the city council of Nördlingen, he hoped that his small work would be for God’s honor and the benefit of the poor Christenheit.91 Twice more that year, once to Philip of Hesse and once to Duke Albrecht of Prussia, he described the turmoil within poor Christenheit.92 Especially important reflection came in the former: “Christenheit must exist under suffering and attack, against which the world, which lives in loathing of God, rages with all manner of wantonness. .  .  .”93 His epistolary blessings to Christian III also referred at times to poor Christenheit.94 Yet Melanchthon was not alone in using this phrase. Indeed, Martin Luther himself made it famous in two Reformation hymns, “Gott sey gelobet und gebenedeyet” (1524) and “Erhalt uns Herr” (1542).95 But these were hardly the only times that Luther used the term. First in 1528, in his tract on rebaptism, Luther accused the Anabaptists of not coming to the aid of “poor Christenheit” by taking from it the comfort of the sacrament of baptism.96 An account of Luther’s illness in Schmalkalden in 1537 mentioned his concern for “the poor Christenheit” as he made his way toward Wittenberg.97 In 1541, in Wider Hans Worst, he called the churches the possessions [gueter] of “poor Christenheit.”98 90

  MBW 2966 (CR 4:822; 18 May 1542): “Denn ich nicht allein aus den Historien, sondern auch aus göttlicher Schrift viele Ursachen habe, für die arme Christenheit, welche wahrhaftig ist Gottes Volk, allerlei zu sorgen.” 91   MBW 3147 (CR 5:22, dated 17 January 1543). 92   MBW 3352 (CR 5:205–6, here 205; dated 19 October 1543, to Duke Albrecht of Prussia). 93   MBW 3208 (CR 5:74–77, here 76; dated 28 March 1543): “Es sollten aber wir selbst einander deß treuer und tröstlicher seyn, Aber Christenheit muß in Elend und Anfechtung seyn, dagegen wüthet die Welt, die in Verachtung Gottes lebet, mit allerlei Muthwillen, bis die Strafen kommen, die wahrlich jetzund schrecklich vor Augen sind.” 94   MBW 6013 (CR 7:751; dated 9 March 1551); MBW 7804 (CR 8:744; dated 1 May 1556); MBW 7903 (CR 8:810; dated 30 July 1556); MBW 8508 (CR 9:432–33; dated 26 January 1558); and MBW 8594 (CR 9:528; dated 22 April 1558). See also a benediction for Wolfgang von der Pfalz, dated 25 July 1556 (MBW 7900 [CR 8:806]). 95   WA 35:453 (“Herr deyn heylig geyst uns nymer las, der uns geb zu halten rechte mas, Das deyn arm Christenheyt leb yn frid und evickeyt”); and WA 35:468 (“Beweis dein Macht, HERR Jhesu Christ, Der du Herr aller Herren bist, Beschirm dein arme Christenheit, Das sie dich lob in ewigkeit”), respectively. 96   WA 26:148.37–149.4. 97   WA TR 3:393.31–32 (no. 3543B): “Eadem hora bekummert er sich sehr hefftig, wie auch hernach zu Tanbach vnd zu Gotha, vber die arme christenheit, das ihr doch Gott das liebe edle wortt des euangelii nicht wieder nehme.” 98   WA 51:524.28–33 (Wider Hans Worst, 1541): “Denn sie [die Papisten] sind .  .  . fur Gott, nach der heiligen schrifft urteil, die rechte Mordgrube vnd Teuffels hure, Dar aus folget, das sie die Kirchen, das ist der armen Christenheit gueter (als die Ertzkirchen reuber vnd Gottes Diebe) zu sich gerissen, mit frevel innen halten, dafuer noch zu jrem schaden verfolgen, sie an leib und ehre, zeitlich vnd ewiglich verderben.”

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The following year, in a report of his sermon on the occasion of Nicholas von Amsdorf ’s consecration as bishop of Naumburg, Luther equated a good bishop with the seeking for the prosperity and welfare of poor Christenheit.99 Three sermons from 1544 also used the term, always in contrast to the work of the devil, heretics, and enemies of the church.100 Finally, in 1545, he employed it in his Wider das Papsttum zu Rom, stating facetiously that the popes do everything out of love and concern “for the poor Christenheit.”101 For both Luther and Melanchthon, the phrase reveals an aspect of their ecclesiology, what I have elsewhere called an ecclesiology of the cross.102 For them the true Christenheit was always poor, always under attack, always in need. Indeed, as Melanchthon described in his world history, the Chronicon Carionis, but also elsewhere, the church has been involved in a perpetual struggle against evil ever since Cain killed Abel. At the same time, as Peter Fraenkel described in his preeminent book on the subject, for Melanchthon the church is an association of teachers and learners from Adam to the present.103 The “curriculum” of this ecclesial “school” was, for Melanchthon, true teaching of the gospel ( justification by faith alone) and the sacraments. Moreover, the teacher in the school was, at the most profound level, the Holy Spirit, and the headmaster none other than Christ himself. For as much as the teachers and leaders (including governing officials) of Christenheit can support this work, they do not constitute it. Thus, to use Hendrix’s own metaphor for it, they work in a vineyard owned by another. Or, in other words, Melanchthon had to mix the blessings and prayers for princes and others with prayers for (poor) Christenheit. At the same time, because the life of Christenheit rested in good teaching, its care could never simply devolve to human efforts or political solutions; God was in charge. The weakness and need of Christianity were not, for Melanchthon, new things first arising in the sixteenth century. Nor could the effort of the cultivators do away with its threats or deficiencies. Christenheit was bound to be poor from Abel through Elijah, from Jesus through the apostles right down to Luther. Whatever else these four terms meant for Melanchthon, they encompassed more than local churches and stretched throughout time and space to include all Christians everywhere. Phrases such as gemeine Christenheit or ganze Christenheit and the use of Christianismus in general point toward the creedal phrase, ecclesia catholica. This latter expression, however, hardly implied that the Wittenbergers possessed the church. Indeed, it revealed most clearly their conviction that the 99

  WA 49:xxviii.   WA 22:415.12–15 (based upon notes from a 1537 sermon); WA 49:586.35–38; and WA 52:732.36–733.1. 101   WA 54:210.30–34. 102   Timothy J. Wengert, “Caspar Cruciger Sr.’s 1546 ‘Enarratio’ on John’s Gospel: An Experiment in Ecclesiological Exegesis,” Church History 61 (1992): 60–74. 103   Peter Fraenkel, Testimonia Patrum: The Function of the Patristic Argument in the Theology of Philip Melanchthon (Geneva: Librairie Droz, 1961). 100

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church was bigger than they were, that it stretched to all times and places and included not simply themselves or their compatriots but folks of all cultures and times, stretching back to Adam and Eve. Thus, cultivation (by prince or pastor) of this ecclesia catholica was at best a secondary phenomenon, not to be confused with God’s work in Christ, the proclamation of which lay at the heart of all Christian doctrina. Christenheit like Christianismus, as Melanchthon had reminded Landgrave Philip of Hesse, “is less found in rites but in fear of God, faith, love, and obedience to magistrates.” Taken together, this means that Melanchthon’s use of this cluster of terms points to a further nuance in Hendrix’s thesis about the re-Christianization of Europe. On the one hand, Melanchthon placed such work not in his hands but in God’s. Thus, it became for him a matter of good teaching (about humankind and this very God) and reliable sacraments. He located the heart of Christianity not in rites or institutions but in the gospel and faith. This contrasted most profoundly especially to the use of the same terms by his opponents (especially as found in the Confutatio). It also contrasted sharply to Erasmus’s program of moral reform and the establishment of a Christian Europe. On the other hand, especially in his use of arme Christenheit but elsewhere as well, Melanchthon did not view the work of establishing good teaching, preaching, and schools as a matter of progress (which could be implied in the term re-cultivating) but as a constant process that had been going on among believers since the Fall. Of course the Wittenbergers were busy cultivating the vineyard in the face of threats external to it, but so had Elijah facing the prophets of Baal, Christ rebuking the Pharisees, Paul against the pseudo-apostles, Augustine against Pelagius, and, in these last days, Luther against the monks. This struggle was hardly a new phase of Christianity; rather it was the same old story of the battle between God’s mercy and human self-justification.104 In that way, perhaps, the Wittenberg message stood apart from its competition. Unlike others, who embarked on such recultivating for the sake of improving or reestablishing Christenheit, folks like Melanchthon insisted that things would not get any better and that the struggle over God’s mercy in Christ would continue until Christ came to reform the church. In the meantime, theologians could encourage princes and church leaders to confess and defend the faith.

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  This theme, first analyzed by Peter Fraenkel, receives further explication in my “Philip Melanchthon on Time and History in the Reformation,” Consensus 30/2 (2005): 9–33.

Three Phases of “Christianization” (?) among Reformation Radicals James Stayer Scott Hendrix’s book Recultivating the Vineyard: The Reformation Agendas of Christianization provides an instructive panorama of medieval Latin Christendom, the Lutheran, Reformed, radical, and Catholic Reformations, and the subsequent era of confessionalization. He uses as connecting thread the notion of “Christianization” introduced by Jean Delumeau in his controversial book of 1977. Delumeau had asserted that medieval Christianity failed to win the popular strata, who remained more or less pagan, and that the Christianization of the masses began with the Catholic and Protestant Reformations of the sixteenth century. Hendrix does not accept this low estimate of the Latin church of the Middle Ages – in this he represents the consensus of scholarship. However, he refashions the conception of Christianization, making it an affirmation of the several Christian agendas of the Lutherans, Reformed, radicals, and Catholics of the Reformation era, which congealed into the politically divided world of confessional Europe and energized the worldwide Christian missions of the post-Reformation world. This amounts to a well-informed presentation of current scholarship on Western Christianity emphasizing the decisive significance of the several reform impulses of the sixteenth century. The tone is invariably irenic and ecumenical, representing the prevalent mood of mainstream denominational Protestantism in early twenty-first century North America. In one sense this is a weakness, because it tends to efface the vast gap that separates the religious experience of the early modern era from that of our own time. Hendrix’s book is reliably informative and appreciative of the various religious and scholarly approaches that it examines. In many of the areas Hendrix surveys his reading is more extensive and up to date than my own, as I suspect would be the experience of many other specialists in late medieval and early modern Western Christianity. Three areas present themselves, however, where I can do more than merely appreciate Hendrix’s re-working of the Christianiza

  Jean Delumeau, Catholicism between Luther and Voltaire. A New View of the Counter-Reformation (London: Burns and Oates; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1977).

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tion model. They are: Luther studies, the relationship of Christianity and Judaism, and the radicalisms of the Reformation.

Luther In 2000 I published a book titled Martin Luther, German Saviour: German Lutheran Theological Factions and the Interpretation of Luther, 1917–1933. Scott Hendrix is a good deal more likeable but rather less convincing than the scholars I studied for that book: Karl Holl, Karl Barth, Friedrich Gogarten, Paul Althaus, Werner Elert, Emanuel Hirsch, and Erich Vogelsang. His approach to Luther stresses Luther’s Christianization agenda rather than Luther’s theology – in other words, his object to transform the life of his followers rather than merely to teach them correct doctrine. Undoubtedly Luther had a place for regeneration in the beliefs he expressed in his writings, a place for Christian love as well as Christian faith. However, this stress on practice, this Christianization agenda, has to be understood in the framework of an anthropology that is hard to imagine in a Lutheran pastor in twenty-first century North America. Luther believed that even among professing and practicing Christians only a small minority was “genuine,” that is, “true” Christians on their way to salvation in heaven. These were persons who had received a saving faith in Jesus Christ, not because they followed the precepts laid down in Scripture but as a free gift from God. Once they were aware of having this gift of salvation, then out of pure joy and love of God, they would act as channels of God’s love to their fellow human beings. They would spread this love in the world gratuitously in the manner of their Father in heaven, who made his sun to shine and his rain to fall on both the just and the unjust. To the extent that Luther had an agenda of Christianization, it was only as an instrument of God, working within the constraints of extremely pessimistic or negative assumptions about human anthropology. The Evangelical theologians of Germany in the years 1917 to 1933 held that Luther was the most “profound” theologian of his age because he had the lowest estimate of the estate of humankind among all his theological contemporaries. Many of them supplemented their presentation of Luther’s theology with insights from Calvin that extended the systematic logic of Luther’s writings. Calvin wrote that “a small and contemptible number [of genuine Christians] is concealed among a vast multitude [of nominal Christians], and a few grains of wheat are covered with a heap of chaff.” By rejecting the medieval teaching of purgatory, the clas   James M. Stayer, Martin Luther, German Saviour: German Evangelical Theological Factions and the Interpretation of Luther, 1917–1933 (Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2000).    John Calvin, Institutes of the Christian Religion, in Queen’s University, Intellectual Origins of the Contemporary West (Pearson Custom Publishing, 2007), vol. 1, 387.

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sical theologians of the Reformation made the prospects of salvation of most Christians much less promising than they had been before the initiation of the agendas of Christianization of the Lutherans and the Reformed. They denied the relatively reassuring medieval belief that the normal Christian in the parish would get to heaven eventually, even if only after thousands of years of purification in the material fires of purgatory. The radicals, generally, did have a program of “improvement of life,” and asserted that their path produced “fruits” of godly living that were lacking in the members of the established Protestant churches of the Reformation. They, too, however, in setting up “gathered churches” assumed that the saved were a small minority among the damned. Hendrix applies the conception of “Christianization” to affirm the Christian credentials of all the competing groups of the sixteenth-century struggle. Ironically, the one thing they all agreed upon was that they were not all authentically Christian; and the Lutherans, Reformed, and radicals all agreed that Christians were few and far between inside “Christendom.”

Tanakh, Old Testament, and New The relationship between the Old Testament (known in the Jewish tradition as the Tanakh) and the New Testament was important in various ways in the Lutheran, Reformed, and radical traditions. None of the three can be accurately described as “New Testament Christianity,” and there are major problems in describing their agendas as “Christianization.” Martin Luther at Wittenberg was above all a professor of Old Testament. The Reformed in their debates with Anabaptists always insisted on the authority of the Old as well as the New Testament. Some, although not all, of the radicals stressed the preeminent authority of the New Testament. Thomas Müntzer, however, in his annotations on Tertullian endorsed the church father’s denunciation of the Marcionites, who rejected the Old Testament, and then went on to deplore similar tendencies in his own age. Anti-trinitarian Anabaptists in Italy took a critical approach to the traditional texts of the New Testament by suggesting that the nativity stories in Matthew and Luke were later spurious interpolations by St. Jerome, since there were no corresponding accounts in Mark or John. The idea must have been plausible enough to the people who advanced it; but obviously it has not gained acceptance in biblical scholarship. The New Testament can be construed as a relatively slight appendix to the Tanakh. In the Revised Standard Version English Bible, the books of the Tanakh occupy about 1000 pages, the books of the New Testament about 300 pages. The New Testament is written on the assump

  George Huntston Williams, The Radical Reformation, 3rd edn., Sixteenth Century Essays and Studies, 15 (Kirksville, MO: Sixteenth Century Journal Publishers, 1992), 874.

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tion that an older Bible already exists – consider the many references in the speeches of Jesus to “the Law and the Prophets” [Torah and Nevi’im] and such striking matters as the allusions to Psalm 22 in the accounts of Jesus’ crucifixion in Matthew and Mark, as well as the statements at the beginning of the book of Proverbs that God and Wisdom are co-creators of the world, which anticipate similar statements at the beginning of the Gospel of John. Hendrix’s Christian ecumenism falls short of the more generous renunciations of claims of the exclusive validity of Christianity in contemporary mainstream Protestantism (e.g. John Hick, Gordon Kaufman). (Here there is value in the disclosure that the author of this piece is a member of a Reform Jewish congregation.) It is pointless to debate the comparative worth of Judaism and Christianity. Clearly, the New Testament is, among other things, a sustained attack on Pharisaic/rabbinical Judaism. But the popular Jewish contention that Christianity, unlike Judaism, is not quite monotheistic does not stand up very well in view of the constant presentation of divine emanations in the Tanakh, as well as its visible airbrushing of pre-monotheistic elements in ancient Jewish religion. The Shema (Deuteronomy 6:4) no doubt meant something different to its original writers and editors than in later Judaism, beginning with the Second Temple period. But if we are to make Luther into a normative biblical scholar and to insist in the manner of Luther’s The Jews and their Lies (1543) that the Tanakh must be read as a prophecy of Christ, then we perpetuate the age-old quarrels between the two sister religions, Judaism and Christianity, and give them a spurious religious respectability. Yet all of this is implicit in the notion of “Christianization,” whether in the usage of Delumeau or that of Hendrix. Implied, if not stated explicitly in this terminology, is the view of Karl Barth that Christianity is not just another religion: religion is humankind seeking God; Christianity is God seeking humanity, proclaiming his Word to humanity. In the aftermath of the Holocaust the New Testament’s tirades against Christianity’s Jewish sibling have something distasteful about them. This was recognized at the Second Vatican Council. Only a few brave mainstream Protestants, however, have explicitly recognized the religious insufficiencies of any conception of “Christianization.”



  Matthew 27:35; Mark 15:34.   Proverbs 3:19: John 1:1–3.    John H. Hick, God Has Many Names (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1980); Gordon D. Kaufman, God, Mystery, Diversity. Christian Theology in a Pluralistic World (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1996).    The Jewish Study Bible, ed. Adele Belin and Marc Zvi Brettler (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2004), 379–80.    Stayer, Luther, 58. 

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Radical Agendas Turning to the radical expressions of the Reformation, my special area of scholarship, this essay will examine three radical episodes that left a strong mark on Reformation history: the so-called German Peasants’ War of 1525; the pastorate of Thomas Müntzer at Allstedt and Mühlhausen, 1523–25; and the Anabaptist regime of Jan van Leiden in Münster from April 1534 to June 1535. Each was a highly noteworthy expression of Reformation radicalism. We shall see how they appear when considered as expressions of “Christianization.” It should be remarked that, although each was informed by the eschatological or apocalyptic perspective of living in the last, dangerous days of history (a view they shared with Martin Luther), each had a program for radical Christian living on earth. Some radicals indeed delivered a message dependent on the second coming of Christ – one thinks of Müntzer’s disciple Hans Hut, or Melchior Hoffman and Jan Matthijs of Haarlem, the prophets whose movement helped to create the Anabaptist regime in Münster – but this does not apply to the radical episodes that we shall now examine. In his book Scott Hendrix generally gives a very well informed presentation of Reformation radicalism. One exception to this is his attribution of “chiliasm” or “millennialism” to the sixteenth-century radicals.10 Although it does occasionally occur, it is very rare. The normal expressions of Reformation radicalism did indeed play out under the apocalyptic horizon of God’s direction of history, but they were not dependent on supernatural interventions into history.

Peasants’ War in Upper Swabia and the Black Forest In discussing the Peasants’ War of 1525 Hendrix works from the favorable presentation of the insurgents and their objectives in Peter Blickle’s The Revolution of 1525 (1981).11 This is, of course, worlds apart from the traditional Lutheran view of the Peasants’ War as murderous and anarchic in accord with Martin Luther’s polemic in Against the Murdering, Thieving Hordes of Peasants (1525). Blickle’s relatively unified presentation of the insurgency of 1525 is based on the conception of the Twelve Articles of Memmingen as its “conceptual glue,” since this manifesto received the endorsement of all rebel bands except for those of northern Switzerland and the Alpine territories of Tirol and Salzburg.12 It can be objected against Blickle that the content of the Twelve Articles was not 10   Scott Hendrix, Recultivating the Vineyard: The Reformation Agendas of Christianization (Louisville and London: Westminster John Knox Press, 2004), 107, 108. 11   Ibid., 101–2. 12   Peter Blickle, The Revolution of 1525. The German Peasants’ War from a New Perspective (Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1981).

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revolutionary and that they were not central to the movement outside of the region of Upper Swabia, where they originated. Blickle’s approach has been criticized for making the movement of 1525 more cohesive than it was, and for giving it a moderate face, despite his calling it a “revolution.” For this reason I will concentrate on the areas to which the Blickle interpretation certainly applies, Upper Swabia and the neighboring Black Forest. The Upper Swabian movement centered on Memmingen, uniting the Baltringen, Allgäu, and Lake Constance bands and expressing itself in the Twelve Articles, the Federal Ordinance, and the pamphlet To the Assembly of Common Peasantry. It began with an assemblage of the subjects of the abbot of Kempten in late January 1525; reached its high point with the “peasant parliament” of the three major bands at Memmingen on 5 March; lost its momentum with the Treaty of Weingarten (17 April), which negotiated the dissolution of the Lake Constance band; and disappeared after 15 July, when the last remnants of the Allgäu band fled without venturing battle against the army of the Swabian League. The Swabian League, the main instrument for Habsburg peacekeeping in southwestern Germany, was also the main force that the German princes used to suppress the insurgency. The movement of commoners in Upper Swabia that threw such a scare into the landlords and secular and ecclesiastical princes in the first half of 1525 viewed itself as part of the popular Reformation. Furthermore, it had good grounds for considering itself as an essential element of the Christianization process. Its program was explicitly Christian and its major spokesman, Christoph Schappeler, could reasonably, were it not for the confessional bent of Reformation historiography, be described as a reformer of middling stature. Swiss by birth, Schappeler had been a priest in Memmingen since 1513. From 1521 he was a supporter of the Reformation; in October 1523 he was one of the outside ministers invited to attend the second Reformation disputation about the mass and images at Zurich. In 1524 and 1525 he was an outspoken opponent of the ecclesiastical tithe in his sermons in Memmingen. The apparent consensus in Peasants’ War scholarship that Schappeler was the author of the Twelve Articles has had a slow and tortuous development. At the beginning of the twentieth century the Anabaptist pastor of Waldshut, Balthasar Hubmaier, was seriously considered as a possible author.13 In 1939 Günther Franz appeared to have settled the matter in favour of Sebastian Lotzer,14 a furrier, literate in German but not in Latin, who had written pamphlets endorsing Lutheranism since 1523. Lotzer became secretary of the Baltringen peasant band. The prevalent hypothesis was that he edited the three hundred grievances from the Baltringen region into the Twelve Articles. The accepted theory 13

  Wilhelm Mau, Balthasar Hubmaier (Berlin and Leipzig: Rothschild, 1912).   Günther Franz, “Die Entstehung der ‘Zwölf Artikel’ der deutschen Bauernschaft,” Archiv für Reformationsgeschichte 36 (1939): 195–213. 14

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until recently was that Schappeler assisted Lotzer by means of biblical marginalia legitimating the several articles. However, the correspondence in content between the Federal Articles, the companion document to the Twelve Articles which appeared together with it in Memmingen in early March 1525, and the pamphlet To the Assembly of Common Peasantry, published in Nuremberg in May, has tipped the argument in favor of Schappeler’s authorship of all three documents. There are similarities in the German dialect of the three prints; more important, the references to Swiss and classical history are consonant with the education and background of Schappeler rather than Lotzer.15 What, then, was the Reformation program that Schappeler wrote into the Upper Swabian peasant manifestos? The prologue to the Twelve Articles defended the new evangelical gospel against the accusation of its enemies that, through the Peasants’ War, it destroyed spiritual and temporal authority. It declared that all demands of the peasantry were based on the aspiration “to hear the gospel and live accordingly,” surely a program of Christianization. Since the gospel taught Christ and peace, any violence and disorder that accompanied the peasant movement was the fault of ecclesiastical and temporal lords who denied justice to their subjects. The first two articles of the twelve gave villagers the right to choose and dismiss their pastors, and adopted the program of tithe resistance – widespread in south Germany and Switzerland since 1523 – that the ecclesiastical tithe should be reserved for local purposes: support of the pastor, alms for the poor, and defense of the land. (The uncustomary small tithe on meat products was to be totally abolished.) Article 12 established the Bible as the standard for all the others; any article shown to be inconsistent with Scripture would be retracted, but new demands could be advanced as the common people’s insight into the Bible became greater. Article 3 attacked serfdom, a burning issue in Upper Swabia, since property in persons was being used by the political class to consolidate small and middle-sized territorial states: “It has until now been the custom of the lords to own us as their property. This is deplorable, for Christ redeemed and bought us all with his precious blood, the lowliest shepherd as well as the greatest lord, with no exceptions.” Other articles attacked the landlords’ practice of encroaching on common property, forests, waterways, and meadows that had previously supplemented the incomes of villagers.16 Although phrased as a defense of justice for the lowly, these demands tended especially to reflect the interests of the upper strata of the villages, peasants with lifetime or hereditary leases, who collectively supervised the common agricultural life of their neighbors. The lesser people of the village – cottagers, landless laborers, 15   Peter Blickle, “Republiktheorie aus revolutionärer Erfahrung (1525),” in Verborgene republikanische Traditionen (Tübingen: Bibliotheca Academica, 1998), 195–210. 16   The German Peasants’ War. A History in Documents, trans. and ed., Tom Scott and Robert W. Scribner (Atlantic Highlands, NJ and London: Humanities Press International, 1991), 252–57.

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and servants – in the crisis of 1525 generally allowed their socially stronger neighbors to define the “common good.”17 If the Twelve Articles reflected the problems and aspirations of villagers at the local level, the Federal Ordinance, probably written by the same author, expresses a republican impulse that is reminiscent of the neighboring Swiss Confederation. Like the Twelve Articles, it was printed in Memmingen in early March 1525. It aimed at establishing a “Christian ordinance and league,” “for the praise and honor of the almighty, eternal God, to call upon the holy gospel and the word of God, and to protect justice and the divine law.” Its goal was to make Upper Swabia into a republic, a confederation of “towns, villages, and rural districts.”18 Just twenty-five years earlier, at the end of a war between the Swiss and the Swabian League in alliance with Austria, the Swiss Confederation had expanded to annex Graubünden, a similarly constituted smaller confederation geographically adjacent to Switzerland and Austria. In 1525 the Upper Swabian insurgents were on their own, and the Swabian League and the Austrians enjoyed an easy victory. Nevertheless, one of the meanings of the Federal Ordinance seems to have been that the Swabian insurgents hoped to “turn Swiss.”19 One of the reasons they failed was that at this time the Swiss Confederation was split religiously between Reformed and Catholics and was incapable of carrying on its earlier expansionist policy. At the time of the adoption of the Federal Ordinance by the three major Upper Swabian bands, they appealed their cause to various arbitrators, Archduke Ferdinand of Austria and Elector Frederick the Wise of Saxony, as well as a list of theologians, virtually all the well known evangelical preachers in south and central Germany: Luther and Melanchthon, Jacob Strauss of Eisenach, Andreas Osiander of Nuremberg, Theobald Billican of Nördlingen, Matthäus Zell “and his companions” in Strasbourg, Conrad Sam of Ulm, Johannes Brenz of Schwäbisch Hall, Michael Keller of Augsburg, Matthäus Alber of Reutligen, Siegmund Rötlin in Lindau, Zwingli “and his companions” in Zurich, Johannes Zwick of Constance, and Matthias Waibel of Kempten.20 Clearly the Upper Swabian peasant confederation identified with the Reformation, indeed considered itself a part of the Reformation. In a communication from this same time with the Swabian League, the Habsburgs’ south German peace-keeping instrument, the leaders at Memmingen declared, “we will demand nothing other than the divine law; and it is our intention to do violence to no one.”21 Ulrich Schmid, 17

  James M. Stayer, The German Peasants’ War and Anabaptist Community of Goods (Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1991), 29–30. 18   German Peasants’ War, 130–32. 19   Thomas A. Brady, Jr., Turning Swiss: Cities and Empire, 1450–1550 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985), 57–72. 20   German Peasants’ War, 125–26. 21   Ibid., 129.

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the leader of the Baltringen band, Lotzer, and Schappeler all declared their opposition to violence at the peasant organizational meeting in early March.22 The Upper Swabian peasants were led by pastors and religious pamphleteers who clung for a few crucial weeks to the idealistic notion that their articulation of the divine law would carry the day by persuading rulers and theologians. The Black Forest band, led by the mercenary, Hans Müller from Bulgenbach, who had already in the previous year worked cooperatively with Balthasar Hubmaier, the radical reformer in the Black Forest city of Waldshut, was from the start more realistic about the need to defend itself against the landlords and rulers whose power it threatened. Upon the fall of Waldshut in December 1525 a document known as the Letter of Articles was left behind by Hubmaier.23 Earlier in Peasants’ War historiography the Letter of Articles was touted as an expression of the radical revolutionary aspect of the peasants’ movement, because it went beyond merely political to economic demands. At present this document, which is known to have been an appendix to a Black Forest version of the Federal Ordinance,24 is regarded as an effort at nonviolent resistance as an alternative to force. It imposed a boycott patterned on ecclesiastical excommunication against potential opponents of the Black Forest band. The band declared its aim to remove the traditional financial and legal burdens resting on the towns and villages of the Black Forest “without any fighting or bloodshed.” Castles and monasteries were to be subjected to a boycott; but their owners were extended the opportunity to escape the boycott if they withdrew from their strongholds and permitted them to be disarmed or dismantled.25 Otherwise the insurgents’ weapon against their feudal superiors was total social and economic ostracism. A few weeks later, 17–23 May, Müller’s band carried out a successful siege of Freiburg im Breisgau with little bloodshed.26 The Black Forest band, however, in the remainder of 1525 proved unable to get political benefit from the military advantage they had won in late May. To return to Upper Swabia, our primary focus, an interesting clue to the way the pastors and pamphleteers, who were so important in the Upper Swabian leadership, assessed the relation between the Reformation and the Peasants’ War comes from the anonymous pamphlet To the Assembly of Common Peasantry, published in Nuremberg in May. Its authorship has been variously attributed to Lazarus Spengler, the Lutheran leader in Nuremberg, and even to Andreas Bodenstein von Karlstadt; but in the 1990s Peter Blickle, the dean of Peasants’ War studies, made strong arguments for the authorship of Christoph Schappeler. 22

  Ibid., 125.   Stayer, German Peasants’ War, 65–69. 24   Gottfried Seebaß, Artikelbrief, Bundesordnung und Verfassungsentwurf. Studien zu drei cen­ tralen Dokumenten des südwestdeutschen Bauernkriegs (Heidelberg: Winter, 1988). 25   German Peasants’ War, 135–37. 26   Ibid., 27. 23

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Broadly accepted in Peasants’ War scholarship at this time is the hypothesis that Schappeler was the author of the Twelve Articles, the Federal Ordinance, and To the Assembly of Common Peasantry. In the Nuremberg pamphlet we seem to have the key to the precarious balance between nonviolent resistance and self-defense that has troubled interpreters of the Upper Swabian Peasants’ War. It must have been written in late March or early April, when it became evident that the army of the Swabian League under one of the great Upper Swabian landlords, George Truchsess of Waldburg, had opted for a military solution of the dispute with the peasantry. The substance of To the Assembly of Common Peasantry concerned the source of rulers’ legitimacy, how rulers can lose such legitimacy, how to get rid of an illegitimate ruler, and with whom to replace him. It amounted to a rationale for resistance to tyranny and an argument for replacing hereditary leaders with republican authorities directly responsible to the Holy Roman Emperor. The author stated that just this was the principle behind the emergence of the imperial cities. The pamphlet was written in an Upper Swabian dialect, laced with Swiss expressions, and made various allusions to the republican experience of the Romans and the Swiss when they had been oppressed by tyrants. The content and phraseology of the Twelve Articles and the Federal Ordinance recur throughout To the Assembly of Common Peasantry, particularly the polemic against serfdom, insisting upon “freedom,” so that common people could not “be sold like cattle.”27 The argumentation suggests that the author was closely acquainted with the theology of Ulrich Zwingli. Luther’s doctrine of the two kingdoms, as expressed in On Temporal Power (1523), is explicitly rejected. “Again and again people speak of two commands: the divine, which concern the soul, and the political, which concern the common good. But God knows those commands cannot be divided, for the political commands which genuinely promote the common good are also divine.”28 On the title page is an illustration that identifies the peasants as “loyal Christians” in opposition to “Romanists and sophists.” The caption for this illustration is the jingle: “Wer meret Schwyz, Der herren gytz” (“Who makes Switzerland grow? The greed of the lords”).29 The hopes for a Swiss rescue from the tyranny of the Swabian League, here so clearly expressed, were of course unrealistic, not least because of the politics surrounding the Reformation in Germany and Switzerland. In Recultivating the Vineyard, after acknowledging the goal of Christianization held by the peasant organizations of 1525, here following the interpretations of Peter Blickle, Hendrix departs from his usual practice of presenting non-Lutheran agendas of Christianization in their own terms. Instead, Luther is given the last word, not from Against the Murdering, Thieving Hordes of Peasants (which 27

  Blickle, “Republiktheorie,” passim.   German Peasants’ War, 269–76, esp.  272. 29   Horst Buszello, Der deutsche Bauernkrieg von 1525 als politische Bewegung (Berlin: Colloquium, 1969), 152. 28

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was denounced even in Evangelical sources in its own time as an intemperate polemic that sanctioned the murderous suppression of the insurgents by the princes), but in his earlier, more restrained Admonition to Peace. A Reply to the Twelve Articles of the Peasants: “[He] urged the authors of the Twelve Articles to ‘stop calling yourselves Christians and stop claiming that you have the Christian law on your side. For no matter how right you are, it is not right for a Christian to appeal to law, or to fight, but rather to suffer wrong and endure evil.’ .  .  . ‘Christians do not fight for themselves with sword and musket, but with the cross and with suffering, just as Christ, our leader, does not bear a sword but hangs on the cross.’”30 In refuge in his native St. Gall, serving as a Reformed pastor, Schappeler seems to have come to more or less the same conclusion as Luther. He wrote that the struggle began as a religiously motivated effort at liberation, but that the peasants’ violence and greed ended by turning South Germany into a Sodom and Gomorrah. “We pray for forgiveness and ask that we who started because of faith will not perish without it.”31 Virtually all sixteenth-century contemporaries accepted the total failure of the Peasants’ War of 1525 as a negative judgment by God on the enterprise. In later centuries, however, the point has been raised that the failure of a historical movement says nothing about its merit. The Marxists of the nineteenth and twentieth century have honored the insurgents of the German Peasants’ War of 1525 as their own forerunners. In contemporary mainstream Protestantism the highest Christian ideals are embodied in nonviolent resistance to injustice in the manner of Martin Luther King, Jr., which he patterned on the Indian liberation movement of Mahatma Gandhi. It seems to me that Hendrix has departed from his usual even-handed presentation in giving Luther the last word on this opposing agenda of Christianization, which Luther so detested not least because contemporary Catholics remarked quite accurately that he himself was one of its inspirations.

Thomas Müntzer’s Prophetic Reformation Thomas Müntzer’s life ended in May 1525 in the midst of the Peasants’ War; but, Luther, Philip Melanchthon, and the Marxists to the contrary notwithstanding, he was not one of its major leaders. His is a separate story. Müntzer is, biographically and theologically, one of the more interesting figures of the German Reformation, even though his importance was somewhat exaggerated in the period of Luther-centric Reformation studies, due to the near obsession 30

  Hendrix, Recultivating, 102.   Quoted in Heiko A. Oberman, “The Gospel of Social Unrest,” in The German Peasant War of 1525: New Viewpoints, ed. Robert W. Scribner and Gerhard Benecke (London: Allen & Unwin, 1979), 48. 31

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with him by Luther and Melanchthon. Müntzer’s brief stay at the University of Wittenberg, where he served as a tutor to one of the students and attended some lectures in 1517 and 1518, provided him with the mastery of Latin and the smattering of Greek and Hebrew that enabled him to present himself as a humanist theologian.32 While in Wittenberg he did not “misunderstand Luther,” arguably paying less attention to Luther than to Melanchthon, Karlstadt, and the humanist Johannes Rhagius Aesticampianus. Here he developed his commitment to the mysticism of Johannes Tauler, as well as the classical rhetorical device “ordo rerum,”33 which he used to organize his theology. However, the decisive turn in Müntzer’s career as a reformer came with his appointment in May 1520, on the recommendation of Luther, to substitute for the absent Johannes Sylvius Egranus as pastor of one of the churches in Zwickau. His subsequent quarrel with Egranus upon the latter’s return marked the emergence of an outlook that he maintained throughout the remaining four and one half years of his life.34 Egranus represented a particularly dry, philological approach to humanist biblical scholarship. As far as he was concerned, only a literal exegesis of the New Testament was authoritative for Christianity; manifestations of the Holy Spirit, like miracles, did not continue after the generation of the apostles. Müntzer claimed that Egranus denied that Israel had the grace of God. For Müntzer the prophetic era of the Old Testament, like the New Testament church of Christ and the apostles, was in possession of the Holy Spirit, and he wanted to help to create a Spirit-filled church in his own “last, dangerous times,” the age of the Reformation. In the Zwickau years and afterward Müntzer identified not only with New Testament figures like John the Baptist but also with Old Testament prophets like Elijah and Jeremiah. The bad example of Egranus alerted Müntzer to information about the heretic Marcion in the writings of the ancient church father Tertullian – like Marcion, according to Müntzer, the Erasmian theologians of his own generation denied the authority of the Old Testament, an error Müntzer did not want to repeat. One of the principles of Müntzer’s “ordo rerum” was the need to attain an understanding of Scripture that resolved apparent discrepancies between the Old and New Testaments. Unwilling to tolerate the increasingly noisy spat of its two pastors, in midApril 1521 the Zwickau council dismissed Müntzer as the younger of the two. A few months later, in June, Müntzer set out for Prague in neighboring Bohe32   Ulrich Bubenheimer, Thomas Müntzer: Herkunft und Bildung (Leiden: Brill, 1989) 145– 86; and Hans-Jürgen Goertz, Thomas Müntzer: Apocalyptic Mystic and Revolutionary (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1993), 43–54. 33   Wolfgang Ullmann, “Ordo rerum: Müntzers Randbemerkungen zu Tertullian als Quelle für das Verständnis seiner Theologie,” Theologische Versuche 7 (1976): 125–40; and Bubenheimer, Müntzer, 210–29. 34   Bubenheimer, Müntzer, 216–29; and Geoffrey Dipple, “Just as in the Time of the Apostles”: Uses of History in the Radical Reformation (Kitchener, ON: Pandora Press, 2005), 74–80.

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mia, where he spent most of the rest of 1521.35 On leaving Prague he issued the personal statement referred to in current Müntzer scholarship as the “Prague Epistle” (the older term was “Prague Manifesto”). Here he deplored the same problems in the Czech clergy that he had seen in Egranus in Zwickau – he summoned the Czechs to make their land the birthplace of a “new apostolic church” that would not “worship a mute God but a living and speaking one.”36 He had developed an aversion to a proclamation based merely on study of Scripture – this was the manner of the false prophets of the Old Testament, as well as the “scribes” whom Jesus denounced in Matthew 23 – and soon he would detect it in the merely exegetical theology of Melanchthon and Luther. In a letter of March 1522 to Melanchthon, Müntzer was demanding from the Wittenberg theologians a gospel proclamation that “proceeds from the mouth of God and not from books.”37 Underlying the growing rupture of Müntzer from the Wittenberg professors was a difference about the meaning of prophecy. Luther seems to have regarded the prophetic writings in the Old Testament as the outcome of prophets such as Isaiah and Jeremiah devoting themselves to the study of Moses – a view with roots in Judaism’s approach to the Tanakh, which regarded the Nevi’im as emerging from study of Torah. For Müntzer this was to be deaf to the voice of the Spirit, who spoke to the Old Testament prophets, just as to the apostles at Pentecost, and now in the latter days to him. Corresponding to this charismatic understanding of revelation, and connected to it in the ordo rerum, Müntzer cultivated a soteriology that drew on the Taulerian mysticism he had found circulating around the University of Wittenberg. Salvation came through inner purgation, through identification with the “bitter Christ,” not the “honeyed sweet Christ” that he thought he detected behind Luther’s theology. At this stage of his career, although he sensed that his concept of Reformation was different from that of Luther and Melanchthon, not to speak of Egranus and Erasmus, Müntzer did not pick a fight with the Wittenbergers.38 He had benefited from their patronage before, and he hoped that the Electoral Saxon government’s support of the Reformation would include his own Reformation. The year of his return from Bohemia, 1522, was difficult for Müntzer, as he tried vainly to establish himself, first in Erfurt and then in the imperial city of Nordhausen, but had to move on because of quarrels with Johannes Lang and Laurence Süsse, clerics with much closer relations to Luther than his own.39 When he got an appointment as pastor in March 1523 at Allstedt, an isolated Electoral Saxon territory, his prospects seemed to have brightened. With sup35

  Goertz, Müntzer, 69–83.   The Collected Works of Thomas Müntzer, trans. and ed. Peter Matheson (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1988) [henceforth CWTM], 352–79, esp.  378. 37   CWTM, 43–46, esp.  4 4. 38   Goertz, Müntzer, 89–91. 39   Ibid., 85–96. 36

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port from the town council and Hans Zeiss, the Saxon administrator at the Allstedt castle, he ventured on a constructive program of Reformation. One of the most striking elements of this program was his reform of ritual, his Evangelical German Mass, which antedated similar ritual initiatives by Luther. This order of service, of course, was wedded to Müntzer’s Spiritualist outlook. In a letter to Fredrick the Wise, his ruler, he justified his new rituals with a quote from Ephesians: “You should be filled with the Holy Spirit, and greet one another with Psalms and songs of praise.” In accompanying writings he clarified that the rites of the church, including the sacraments, did not have intrinsic value but were means of spiritual edification.40 Nevertheless, the services at Allstedt made a great impression on peasants from surrounding territories, including those under Catholic rule. As the neighboring rulers began to imprison and expel their subjects, and the Electoral Saxon authorities sought to evade conflict by respecting Catholic rulers’ right to forbid attendance at Müntzer’s evangelical mass, Müntzer appealed to his temporal rulers to defend the Reformation.41 This was the background of Müntzer’s famous sermon on Daniel 2, when the Saxon princes, John and John Frederick, visited the Allstedt castle in mid-July 1524. Citing such Old Testament examples as Joshua and Jehu, Müntzer called upon the Saxon princes to defend his Reformation, at the same time using Nebuchadnezzar’s dream of the destruction of temporal power by the kingdom of God to emphasize that all of them were living in the last, dangerous times. He urged the princes, “Now if you are to be true rulers, you must govern radically, following the command of Christ. Drive his enemies away from the elect; you are the instruments to do this.” He went on to challenge unnamed “scholars” (obviously the Wittenberg theologians) who “understand Daniel to say that the Antichrist should be destroyed without human hands.”42 What made Müntzer’s rhetoric sound so bloodthirsty was a belief he shared with Luther, namely that God’s elect was a vanishingly small minority, even though Luther and Müntzer used different theological tests to identify the elect. This filled his writings with Old Testament images of heroic bands of the elect putting hordes of the ungodly to flight. Even before Luther heard about Müntzer’s sermon to the princes at the Allstedt castle, he had become increasingly alarmed by the course of the Allstedt Reformation. After a failed attempt to summon Müntzer to Wittenberg for an interrogation about his theology, Luther published an Open Letter against the Rebellious Spirit in Allstedt, in which he warned the Electoral Saxon rulers that Müntzer would resort to violence and had to be stopped.43 In fact, Müntzer had just then set up what he considered a defensive alliance of his followers in the 40

  Dipple, “Just as,” 80–83.   Goertz, Müntzer, 97–112. 42   CWTM, 226–52, esp.  247 (where my translation varies from Matheson’s), 250. 43   Goertz, Müntzer, 138–41. 41

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Allstedt region, to defend refugees from neighboring Catholic lordships against attempts to extradite them.44 He regarded these rulers as having forfeited their legitimacy and declared that their power would “shortly be handed over to the common people.”45 Duke John, the brother of Frederick the Wise, promptly summoned Müntzer, his administrator in Allstedt, and members of the Allstedt council to a hearing in Weimar on 31 July and 1 August 1524. Müntzer’s printing press was shut down and the citizens’ alliance dissolved. Having lost the support not only of the Electoral Saxon government but of Hans Zeiss, its administrator in Allstedt, and the Allstedt council, on the night of 7 August Müntzer fled the town – “over the town’s wall, secretly,” according to Zeiss.46 Within a few days Müntzer arrived at the imperial city of Mühlhausen and joined the resident pro-Reformation pastor, Heinrich Pfeiffer, in an effort to establish the Reformation there. He set up a citizens’ alliance on the Allstedt pattern and undertook to replace the town council, an effort which at first failed and led to the expulsion of both Müntzer and Pfeiffer from Mühlhausen at the beginning of October. In the period of Müntzer’s troubles in Allstedt and Mühlhausen, he and his associate Hans Hut saw to the publication in Nuremberg in fall and winter 1524 of two explicitly anti-Lutheran pamphlets, which are the chief basis of our knowledge of his theology. Subsequently he traveled to southwest Germany, where he observed the beginnings of the Peasants’ War. By December Pfeiffer was back in Mühlhausen; his followers overpowered the council, and the Reformation was initiated. By February Müntzer, too, returned from his wanderings and established himself in one of the churches.47 Mühlhausen, although legally an independent imperial city, was in fact a protectorate of Electoral Saxony, Ducal Saxony, and Hesse, powers that were either Catholic or Lutheran, hence threats to Müntzer. When the Peasants’ War spread to Thuringia in April 1525 and endorsed the Twelve Articles, he regarded it as a heaven-sent deliverance. That very month he wrote to his former parishioners in Allstedt: The whole of Germany, France, Italy is awake; the master wants to set the game in motion, the evil-doers are for it. At Fulda four abbeys were laid waste during Easter week, the peasants in the Klettgau and Hegau in the Black Forest have risen, three thousand strong, and the size of the peasant host is growing all the time. .  .  . Go to it, go to it, while the fire is hot! Don’t let your sword grow cold, don’t let it hang down limply! Hammer away ding-dong on the anvils of Nimrod, cast down their tower to the ground! As long as they live, it is impossible to rid yourself of the fear of men. One cannot say anything to you about God as long as they rule over you. Go to it, go to it, while it is day! God goes before you; follow, follow! 48 44

  Ibid., 113–14.   Ibid., 131. 46   Ibid., 132–33. 47   Ibid., 137–71. 48   CWTM, 140–42. 45

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At the same time the militia of Mühlhausen, led by Pfeiffer and Müntzer, marched around the surrounding territory, sacking monasteries and destroying castles, with the hesitating approval of the town government. In early May Müntzer led a small contingent of three hundred men and eight mounted guns to join the Thuringian peasant army at Frankenhausen. In the days leading up to the final battle Müntzer, with his rainbow banner and self-description as “Thomas Müntzer with the sword of Gideon,” was the most important leader in the insurgent camp. On 15 May 1525 the peasant army was routed by the forces of Philip of Hesse and Duke George of Saxony. Müntzer was apprehended in Frankenhausen; ten days later Pfeiffer was caught trying to escape from Mühlhausen and on 27 May 1525 the two preachers were executed outside the city gates.49 In a final letter to his congregation in Mühlhausen Müntzer urged that further bloodshed be avoided and acknowledged that the peasant bands were not spiritually ready to set up a new apostolic church.50 So what was Müntzer’s “agenda”? Between his capture and his execution he was interrogated with the use and/or threat of torture. One of the results was his affirmation that “he undertook the uprising so that all Christians would be equal and to drive out or kill the princes and lords who would not support the gospel.”51 He said that the aim of his Allstedt alliance was that “Omnia sunt communia” (“everything belongs to everybody”) and that goods should be distributed to everyone according to need.52 This was the reference to Acts 2 and 4, so common among Reformation radicals. It was an affirmation of the practice of the New Testament church. Exactly what it meant beyond that varied with the leader or the group. In his interrogation Müntzer said further that Mühlhausen aimed to secure itself from the neighboring princes by dominating a fifty-mile territorial radius around the city.53 He had obviously given up on princes, to judge by his watchword: “The people will become free and it is the will of God that he alone shall be their lord.”54 Hans-Jürgen Goertz has assessed this statement as at the same time democratic and theocratic.55 Current Müntzer scholarship agrees that he was not a chiliast awaiting the millennium, nor necessarily expecting an imminent second coming of Christ. At an earlier stage in the research much was made of Müntzer’s repeated statement that the New Testament church had fallen after the passing of the students of the apostles.56 On closer examination, however, a Spirit-filled church of the Old Testament weighed even more heav49

  Goertz, Müntzer, 173–91.   CWTM, 160–61. 51   CWTM, 436. 52   CWTM, 437. 53   CWTM, 437. 54   CWTM, 350. 55   Goertz, Müntzer, 206. 56   Abraham Friesen, Thomas Muentzer, a Destroyer of the Godless: The Making of a SixteenthCentury Religious Revolutionary (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1990). 50

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ily with him. His identity figures were John the Baptist from the New Testament, and Elijah, Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, Daniel, and Gideon from the Old Testament. Since Scripture, all Scripture, was a witness to the Spirit, Müntzer’s “flat Bible hermeneutic” made him more of an Old Testament theologian than Luther or Erasmus, with their strong preferences for particular books of the New Testament. Emmet McLaughlin remarks that, with his emphasis on the Holy Spirit rather than the Son, his numerous Old Testament models, and his depersonalizing of the Antichrist, Müntzer “treats ‘Christ’ as a force, or as an equivalent to a purified Christianity, rather than as a personal or cosmic savior.”57 So Müntzer’s peculiar agenda of Christianization amounted to a marginalization of Christ. Given his stress on how few his Gideon’s band of the elect would be, the twentieth century seems almost to have played a trick on his reputation to style him as the Reformation’s hero of democratic revolution – a notion he couldn’t have understood and that probably would have appalled him had he grasped its intent. Christoph Schappeler could perhaps be a model of Christianization in the style of the twenty-first century, but not Thomas Müntzer.

The Davidic Reformation in Münster, April 1534 – June 1535 On 5 April 1534, a small band of defenders of besieged Anabaptist Münster led by their prophetic leader, Jan Matthijs of Haarlem, sallied out to attack the surrounding army. They were quickly surrounded and the prophet was hacked to death, in full view of his despairing followers on the city walls. 5 April was Easter that year; and it was the date that Jan Matthijs had predicted for God’s great punishment on the world, from which only those Christians who had taken refuge in Münster would be spared. The Anabaptist furrier-prophet Melchior Hoffman, now languishing in prison in Strasbourg, had predicted that the world would end in 1533. At the end of 1533 he had been abandoned by his followers in the Habsburg Netherlands, who submitted to the charismatic authority of the baker Jan Matthijs, a forceful but unstable personality who may very well have been mentally ill by modern standards. Meanwhile, in nearby Münster the influential reformer, Bernhard Rothmann, found himself in a struggle for control of the church against a prince bishop, Franz von Waldeck, who was maintaining his allegiance to the old Catholic faith (if for essentially tactical reasons), and also against a town council that aspired to reform its church 57   R. Emmett McLaughlin, “Apocalypticism and Thomas Müntzer,” Archiv für Reformationsgeschichte 95 (2004): 98–131, esp.  112–13. The value of McLaughlin’s article goes well beyond his minimalist redefinition of “apocalypticism” (which I continue to regard as eccentric). Together with Goertz, Müntzer, and Dipple, “Just as,” it has contributed most to my interpretation of Müntzer here.

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on the basis of the Augsburg Confession so as to put itself under the protection of the Lutheran Schmalkaldic League. Rothmann was unable or unwilling to submit to the demands for Lutheran orthodoxy put upon him by the theologians of Marburg University. On 5 January Rothmann and his closest associates submitted to adult baptism by traveling emissaries of Jan Matthijs and thus adopted “Anabaptism” in violation of the law of the Holy Roman Empire. The result of this event was that persecuted Anabaptists from Westphalia and the Netherlands began to emigrate to Münster, now designated by Jan Matthijs as the city of refuge at the imminent end of the world. Throughout January and February Rothmann and his followers engaged, with the support of Münster’s powerful guilds, in a mostly nonviolent power struggle against Catholics and Lutherans for control of Münster’s city government. Bishop Franz made preparations to besiege the city, and many Lutherans and Catholics abandoned their homes and fled. On 23 February Rothmann’s supporters won the annual election to the town council. About 2500 Anabaptists from surrounding lands, including Jan Matthijs and his prophetic subordinate, Jan van Leiden, entered Münster, while the remaining Lutheran and Catholic residents were forced, in view of the coming siege, to opt for adult baptism or to accept exile. In sum about 2000 residents left Münster in February 1534. Now the town, including the Anabaptist immigrants, adopted measures of self-defense against an army of about 3000 besiegers, under a government led by the cloth merchant, now burgomaster, Berndt Knipperdollinck, the lay leader of Rothmann’s supporters. With the failure of Jan Matthijs’ prophecies and his death on 5 April 1534, the surviving leaders, Bernhard Rothmann, Jan van Leiden, and Berndt Knipperdollinck, had to devise plans for the continuing defense of Münster and its 8000 inhabitants. Remarkably, they were able to continue the resistance until 25 June 1535.58 Jan van Leiden, already recognized as a prominent prophet in Jan Matthijs’s lifetime, immediately took control of the situation following the death of his predecessor. He no longer spoke of Münster as the New Jerusalem in which the elect would be sheltered from the destruction of the world, instead calling its inhabitants the new Israel, the people of God, a model for the world. He replaced the city council with a body of Twelve Elders, already in office by 8 April. Half of this group were previous members of the Münster council and at least three were immigrants; former burgomaster Knipperdollinck was “swordbearer” for a system of justice supposedly derived from Scripture. The reality of 58

  For the developments in Münster prior to 5 April 1534, cf. Ralf Klötzer, “The Melchiorites and Münster,” in A Companion to Anabaptism and Spiritualism, 1521–1700, ed. John D. Roth and James M. Stayer (Leiden and Boston: E. J. Brill, 2007), 217–37; Karl-Heinz Kirchhoff, “Was there a Peaceful Anabaptist Congregation in Münster in 1534?” Mennonite Quarterly Review 44 (1970): 357–70; Willem J. de Bakker, Michael D. Driedger, and James M. Stayer, Bernhard Rothmann and the Reformation in Münster, 1530–35 (Kitchener, ON: Pandora, 2009), 1–169.

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the Twelve Elders was prophetic rule by Jan van Leiden with Knipperdollinck representing the fundamental alliance with Münster’s radical Reformation elite. In these early months of the siege the defenders of Münster presented themselves as an apostolic Christian community subjected to unprovoked attack by Bishop Franz, an enemy of the Reformation. Following a failed assault by the besiegers in late May, this tone was struck a few days later in the first of Bernhard Rothmann’s siege writings, the Confession of the Faith and Life of the Congregation of Christ in Münster.59 From the beginning of the siege in February the Münster Anabaptists applied their own version of the community of goods of the Pentecost church as described in Acts 2 and 4. All money, precious metals, and jewels were removed from individual possession and used for the external transactions of the city. Internally, barter replaced monetary exchange. Deacons preserved and distributed the goods of Catholics and Lutherans expelled from the city in February, chiefly to assist immigrants but also, in principle, to aid all needy members of the community. Unoccupied houses and monasteries were occupied by immigrants. However, the equalization of property did not extend to an exchange of houses. Here Jan van Leiden seems to have made an important concession to the resident Münster notables, who had played such an important role in Münster’s turning Anabaptist to begin with.60 Even more distinctive was the introduction of polygamy in Münster in midJuly 1534, a peculiarity which made the Anabaptist regime notorious in its own time and for centuries afterward. The initiative here was that of Jan van Leiden. He convinced the preachers that the right of men to have more than one wife was scriptural – as indeed it was, particularly on the basis of accounts of the patriarch Jacob’s marriage to the two sisters, Leah and Rachel, in Genesis, and that it had never been superseded in either the Old or New Testaments. Furthermore, it was justified by God’s command to men and women at creation in Genesis 1:28: “Be fertile and increase, fill the earth and master it.” Since women were infertile during pregnancy and sexual relations were justifiable only for reproductive purposes, the right of men to have several wives was obvious. In Rothmann’s Restitution, published in October 1534, polygamy was justified particularly on the basis of the lordship of men over women, which supposedly paralleled Christ’s lordship over the church. Certainly the practical situation, namely that in besieged Münster adult men were outnumbered by adult women by a factor of more than three to one, contributed to the decision for polygamy. This situation was the result of various factors – wives left behind to protect family property while husbands escaped the siege, the susceptibility of nuns in Münster to Anabaptist preaching, the greater mobility of male than female serv59

  De Bakker, Driedger, and Stayer, Rothmann, 169–71, 183–85.   Stayer, Peasants’ War and Community of Goods, 123–38, 208–13.

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ants in a dangerous situation, and possibly the greater alertness of authorities on the roads leading to Münster to interdict the immigration of Anabaptist men. A practicality of provisioning during the siege was the organization of the women into male-dominated households. In view of the rather puritanical self-understanding of the Münster Anabaptists, the organization of the large floating female population by polygamous marriages seems to have been regarded as a moral necessity. Moreover, Jan van Leiden used his sixteen marriages to ally himself with some of the most powerful families in Münster. In any event, polygamy seems to have helped rather than hindered Anabaptist Münster’s capacity to defend itself. (While it is probably questionable to assume that most women in Anabaptist Münster opposed polygamy, the new institution of polygamy helped to create under Anabaptist rule another relatively new social institution, divorce; divorce was granted to one hundred women who were able to prove that they had been forced into polygamous marriages against their will.) In late July the introduction of polygamy occasioned an uprising against the Twelve Elders under the former alderman, Heinrich Mollenhecke, but that was suppressed and, on 31 August, with the full participation of the female population, the defenders repulsed the second assault on the city. Although this military victory, under Jan van Leiden’s direction, had been a close thing, it thoroughly demoralized the besieging army and led Franz von Waldeck and his commanders to abandon hopes of conquering the city through assault.61 Shortly after the victory over the besiegers, the prophet Jan van Leiden replaced the Twelve Elders with a kingship, with himself as king. The new royal court was chosen to continue the careful power-sharing arrangement between Münster notables and immigrants. Nevertheless, King Jan’s elevation lowered the position of Berndt Knipperdollinck, a change which Knipperdollinck resented. The objective of the kingship was, above all, the survival of Anabaptist Münster – in which, of course, it failed. Until late October the Anabaptists prepared to break out of the city into the surrounding lands; but the king’s chief military advisor convinced him at that time that there were no prospects of success. From then on Anabaptist Münster sent out missionaries and emissaries to appeal for the help of Anabaptists and Anabaptist sympathizers in Westphalia and the Netherlands. In spring 1535 there were small uprisings in Frisia and Amsterdam with the object of assisting Münster. These actions ended disastrously for the persons involved, and they did much to discredit the Münster leaders in the eyes of Anabaptists outside Münster. Even militants led by Jan van Batenburg, a bastard scion of the nobility, broke away from the failed prophet of Münster and his schemes.62 In besieged Münster a gaudy royal entourage helped 61   De Bakker, Driedger, and Stayer, Rothmann, 171–74; Klötzer, “Melchiorites and Münster,” 240–42. 62   De Bakker, Driedger, and Stayer, Rothmann, 175–82; Klötzer, “Melchiorites and Münster,” 242–49.

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itself to the symbols of authority of the Holy Roman Empire. This probably did not mean that the Münster Anabaptist leadership had delusions of world domination. The interpretation of the royal symbols that is gaining acceptance among scholars is that the Münster kingdom was regarded as a model of the Kingdom of Christ that was to be accepted by Christian people throughout the world. In January 1535 an official declaration from Anabaptist Münster stated that the Anabaptists’ war was solely against the priests and that unbaptized rulers who did not persecute true Christians should be left in peace. Consistent with this was the statement of the leaders, in interrogations following the conquest of Münster, that, had Franz von Waldeck withdrawn his besieging army, he would not have been attacked.63 Nevertheless, the justifications of the militant Anabaptist kingdom went beyond the early statements that Münster’s was a legitimate government resisting unprovoked aggression. The chief source of these justifications was Bernhard Rothmann, the original reformer of Münster, now become theoretician and propagandist for the Anabaptist kingdom. Rothmann’s soteriology was outside the “Protestant predestinarian consensus”; like all Anabaptists in the traditions descending from Melchior Hoffman, he believed that redemption through Christ completely effaced original sin and left Christians entirely free and responsible. There is reason to believe, however, that many of Rothmann’s statements were primarily justifications of King Jan’s self-understanding as the David of the last days, a theme repeated in modified form by David Joris, and denounced as blasphemous by Menno Simons. This is true particularly of A Consoling Message of Vengeance (December 1534) and The Hidden Meaning of Scripture (February 1535), which situated Münster in a distinctive panorama of sacred history stretching from the Flood to the end of the world. God’s Israel began with the covenant with Abraham and extended to Münster’s restitution of the church of Christ. The chosen people fell repeatedly, as in the time of Elijah and the Babylonian Captivity. Christ brought redemption in his earthly mission, but his church stayed intact only for one hundred years following the resurrection. The church fell into desolation for 1400 years and only began to recover with Luther’s Reformation, a recovery which was completed only with the kingdom of Jan van Leiden in 1534. Jan was called to complete the work of Christ. Christ had fulfilled the scriptural promises of salvation, but in the last days King Jan was the David promised in the scriptural texts that foretold the humbling and destruction of God’s enemies. The New Testament church was obliged to suffer, but in the last days the promised David would put aside apostolic suffering and exact vengeance against the persecutors of the church of Christ. Then, after all Scripture was fulfilled, the Davidic king of Münster would hand over his realm to Christ, the peaceful Solomon. Not all parts of this 63

  De Bakker, Driedger, and Stayer, Rothmann, 268 n126.

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theory cohered. As the fall of Münster became more and more inevitable by late spring 1535, Rothmann mused that it might be God’s will for Münster to be trodden under the foot of the beast.64 In his later interrogation Jan van Leiden expressed millenarian ideas that appeared nowhere in Rothmann’s writings.65 When the city fell at the end of June 1535 most of the Anabaptist men were put to the sword, but most of the female majority was spared.

Conclusion: “Christianization” or “Intensification of Religious Commitment”? How well, then, does the concept of “Christianization” apply to these three radical Reformation episodes? In my opinion, it presents serious problems. Martin Luther’s condemnation of Christoph Schappeler’s aspirations for “divine justice” seems to have convinced even the later Schappeler himself. Perhaps, as we look back from the twenty-first century, Schappeler’s aspirations for nonviolent resistance to injustice have much to recommend them, but only from a modern Christian perspective (Quaker abolitionists, Martin Luther King, Jr., and elements of Mennonite thought) that has been enriched by Mahatma Gandhi. Thomas Müntzer’s Spirit-directed Reformation church and Bernhard Rothmann’s polygamous, militant church of the last days were both conceived as Christian by their proponents, but in both of them the Old Testament outweighed its New Testament appendix. Perhaps the chief difficulty in conceiving of these radical agendas as instances of “Christianization” is that they draw so heavily upon Judaism and point forward to twentieth- and twenty-first century interfaith dialogue. A more satisfactory conceptual bridge between the agendas of the Reformation radicals and the other agendas Hendrix discusses in Recultivating the Vineyard might be one that I owe to Michael Driedger, and through him to Gerhard Landauer: “Better than ‘Christianization’, ‘the intensification of religious commitment’ fits the exclusivist visions of many Reformers, and their new attempts to make sense of the biblical inheritance.”66 64

  De Bakker, Driedger, and Stayer, Rothmann, 185–204.   Ralf Klötzer, “Die Verhöre der Täuferführer von Münster vom 25. Juli 1535 auf Haus Dülmen: Edition der Protokolle sowie der vorbereitenden Fragenliste,” Westfälische Zeitschrift 155 (2005): 51–92. 66   Communication of Michael Driedger, 7 February 2010. Cf. Michael Driedger, “The Intensification of Religious Commitment: Jews, Anabaptists, Radical Reform and Confessionalization,” in Jews, Judaism, and the Reformation in Sixteenth-Century Germany, ed. Dean Phillip Bell and Stephen G. Burnett (Leiden and Boston: E. J. Brill, 2006), 269–99; Gerhard Landauer, “Die Konfessionalisierung des Judentums: Zum Prozeß der religiösen Ausdifferenzierung im Judentum am Übergang zur Neuzeit,” in Interkonfessionalität – Transkonfessionalität – binnenkonfessionelle Pluralität: Neue Forschungen zur Konfessionalisierungsthese, ed. Kaspar von Greyertz et al. (Gütersloh, 2003), 250–83. 65

Martin Luther’s Agenda

Clergymen, Princes, and Luther’s Agenda James M. Estes In Recultivating the Vineyard, Scott Hendrix argues that, despite their evident diversity and mutual hostility, sixteenth-century movements for religious reform had in common one feature of such overriding importance – the goal of making Christendom more Christian – that one should resist the recent tendency to talk about “reformations” and continue to refer in the singular to “the Reformation.” Although the argument is presented with great skill and with careful attention to the possible objections to it, it is too early to say whether it will win general acceptance. While no reviewers of the book, at least none that I could find, have raised fundamental objections to its main thesis, some champions of the plural form have simply ignored Hendrix and his argument and continued to insist that only “reformations” will do. Although I agree with Hendrix in preferring “the Reformation,” that is not the issue that I want to address here. More interesting to me are the details of Hendrix’s descriptions of the differing “agendas of Christianization” that were advanced by the various champions of reform. For it is here that one occasionally finds him saying things that are more obviously in need of clarification or gentle correction than is his general thesis. So, as my contribution to the celebration of Professor Hendrix’s seventieth birthday, I am going to argue that in his description of the role Luther assigned to princes in his agenda for making Germany more Christian, he has failed to attach sufficient importance to one of his own most illuminating insights into the phenomenon of Luther the reformer. In his chapter on “Martin Luther’s Agenda,” Hendrix states that in the Address to the Christian Nobility of the German Nation (August 1520) Luther appealed to the German princes “to do something about the abject state of Christendom.” That is unquestionably true. It is also true that the theological basis for this appeal was the so-called doctrine of the priesthood of all believers, which    Most notably Thomas A. Brady Jr., whose latest book is entitled German Histories in the Age of Reformations, 1400–1650 (Cambridge University Press, 2009). For his objections to “the Reformation” (and “German history”), see p.  4. Neither in the notes nor in the bibliography does Brady make any reference to Scott Hendrix or to Recultivating the Vineyard.    Scott H. Hendrix, Recultivating the Vineyard: The Reformation Agendas of Christianization (Louisville; London: Westminster John Knox Press, 2004), 37–67.

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eliminated the traditional distinction between clergy and laity and thus opened the door to direct action by laymen in matters usually reserved to the clergy. But it is not true without serious qualification that Luther attributed to the laity “as much right and obligation to reform Christendom” as the clergy. The same must be said for the related assertion that the purpose of the doctrine of the priesthood of all believers was to “legitimize the reform of Christendom .  .  . by civil authorities who were spiritually equal to [the] clergy and possessed both the divine mandate and the power to accomplish reform.” Even when summoning German princes, as participants in the common priesthood of baptized Christians, to help with reform, Luther did not abolish the distinction between clergy and laity (i.e., between those who exercise the public ministry and those who do not), and he did not ask the princes simply to “reform the church.” Quite the opposite: from first to last Luther was a vigorous proponent and jealous guardian of the right and duty of the clergy to perform the office that God had given them (including that of reform) without undue interference from secular rulers. Moreover, he took the view that bishops and priests who performed their duties as God intended were entitled to the obedience of the flock to which they ministered. To understand what Luther did and did not say in the Address and in all the relevant works that followed, one has to bear in mind that for him the first and most fundamental step toward making sixteenth-century Germany more Christian was to get the responsible leaders of the church to do their job better. This is a subject on which Professor Hendrix has been eloquently instructive. In his book Luther and the Papacy, he describes with great clarity the importance that Luther attached to the obligations borne by the clergy by virtue of their priesthood. Theirs and theirs alone was the responsibility for nourishing the people with the Word of God and for removing all obstacles to their spiritual well-being. Bishops and priests who did this were entitled to obedience; those who did not had no legitimate authority. This definition of the church – namely that it was the place where Christians were led by the faithful preaching of the Word – was fully worked out in Luther’s earliest lectures and sermons (ca. 1513–16), long before he had published the Ninety-Five Theses, decided that justification was by faith alone, or made Scripture the final authority in matters of doctrine. It was the criterion by which he judged the papacy and found it wanting, and in due course it became the theoretical basis for a church without the papacy. 

  Ibid., 43.   Much of this essay treats of matters that I have dealt with in far greater detail in chapters one and five of James M. Estes, Peace, Order, and the Glory of God: Secular Authority and the Church in the Thought of Luther and Melanchthon, 1518–1559 (Leiden: Brill, 2005). In so far as is possible, therefore, the notes that follow refer the reader to the relevant pages in that book.    Scott H. Hendrix, Luther and the Papacy: Stages in a Reformation Conflict (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1981), 1–21. 

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Given this lofty view of the responsibility and authority of the clerical hierarchy, it is no wonder that Luther’s earliest appeals for reform were addressed to it. His decision in the summer of 1520 to appeal to the German princes to play a direct role in reform came only after more than two years of fruitless appeals to pope and hierarchy had persuaded him that “Rome,” which should have been the chief agent of reform, was instead the chief obstacle to it. In the Treatise on Good Works (published several weeks before the Address), Luther included “the spiritual authorities” among those to whom the Fourth Commandment requires obedience, only to insist that those authorities had, by virtue of the gross neglect of their duty, forfeited their right to be obeyed. Indeed, the catastrophic failure of “the pope and his crowd” to provide needed reform meant that “the only way left” was for “kings, princes, nobles” and other Christian rulers to “take the first step in this matter, so that bishops and clergy (who are now afraid [of the pope]) would have reason to follow.” Similarly, in his preface to the Address, Luther said, “[I have] put together a few points on the matter of the reform of the Christian estate, to be laid before the Christian nobility of the German nation, in the hope that God may help the church through the laity, since the clergy, to whom this task more properly belongs, have grown quite indifferent.” But Luther did not go on to say to the princes, “now that the clergy have failed to reform the church, you must step in and do it.” His appeal was far more cautiously and carefully worded than that, and was intended to set limits to governmental action as well as to justify it. In the Address, Luther in fact called upon the German nobility to do two different things and, in so doing, he had to appeal to them in two different capacities. In the first instance, he asked them to take direct action against a long list of ecclesiastical abuses, like the collection of annates and the peddling of indulgences, that he characterized as “robbery and theft.” Even when committed by churchmen, robbery and theft were, he said, secular crimes that fell by definition under the jurisdiction of secular authority. To the traditional objection that the clergy as members of the “spiritual estate” occupied a higher status than members of the “secular estate” (i.e., the laity, including secular rulers) and were thus exempt from secular jurisdiction, Luther replied that according to Scripture all baptized Christians are equal members of one spiritual estate and that therefore all legitimate callings, lay as well as clerical, have equal status as service to God and one’s neighbor. There was thus no distinction of rank that justified exempting clergymen guilty of secular crimes from punishment at the hands of secular rulers. In the second instance, Luther asked the German princes to do something that was not part of their routine jurisdiction as secular rulers, namely to summon 

  Estes, Peace, Order, Glory of God, 7–17, 20.   Ibid., 21–23.



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a church council. A church council was the customary means for dealing with great matters that fell under the jurisdiction of ecclesiastical authority (the regulation and reform of doctrine, liturgy, and all other aspects of the pastoral mission of the clergy), and Luther was far from the only theologian who thought that a council was urgently needed. To the objection that only the pope had the legal authority to summon a council, he responded that this requirement was purely a matter of human (canon) law and thus valid only as long as it did not result in harm to Christendom. But the pope, in order to shield himself from reform, exploited the law by refusing to call a council, with the result that the church was going to wrack and ruin. In this emergency, therefore, the law had to be set aside and someone other than the pope had to convene a council. Theoretically, any baptized participant in the common priesthood could do so, but in practice no one was so able to do so as the emperor and the imperial princes. So, by virtue of their status as “foremost members of the church” (a phrase not coined until much later), the princes had a special obligation to serve their fellow Christians by convoking a council and doing whatever was necessary to permit it to reach a successful conclusion.10 Apart from enforcing secular law against clergymen who had violated it, princes were not to “reform the church” but rather to make it possible for a church council to do so. In his concrete proposals for reform in the Address, Luther upheld (albeit not always with transparent clarity) the distinction between those things that secular rulers could do by virtue their own routine secular authority (punish secular crimes) and those that they could do only in an emergency by virtue of their status as politically prominent participants in the common priesthood of Christians (summon a council).11 In assessing the significance of the Address, it is important to remember that, had the pope done his duty as a good pastor by providing reform, there would have been no need to frame the kind of appeal to secular authorities that one finds in it, and consequently no need to invoke the priesthood of all believers. By 1520 Luther had already concluded that pope and bishops did not preside over the church de jure divino, but he was prepared to acknowledge that they ruled de jure humano, provided that they did so wisely and in accordance with Scripture.12 As we shall see, moreover, he would remain faithful to the principle 

  Ibid., 24–26.   By Philip Melanchthon in 1537, in the De potestate et primatu papae tractatus (Tr. 54). 10   It helped, of course, that there was ample historical precedent for the summoning of church councils by emperors. Here and elsewhere, Luther liked to cite the most famous example of all, Emperor Constantine and the Council of Nicaea. But the crucial element in Luther’s argument was that all baptized Christians have the priestly right to summon a council if one is needed and the pope refuses to call one. 11   Estes, Peace, Order, Glory of God, 26–30. 12   Ibid., 8. 

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that bishops and pastors who did their jobs properly by standing before the people with the Word of God were entitled to respect and obedience.13 Meanwhile, the Christian nobility of the German nation had turned a deaf ear to Luther’s appeal. In the early months of 1521, they gathered in a diet at Worms and, instead of summoning a reform council, authorized the new emperor, Charles V, to issue the Edict of Worms, which outlawed Luther and his followers as notorious heretics. The hostility of the emperor, a number of powerful territorial princes, and the imperial bishops to the kind of reform that Luther wanted would remain a permanent obstacle to a national reformation in Germany. German Lutheranism would survive thanks to the support and protection given it by a growing list of territorial princes and imperial cities that were able to organize and protect “territorial churches” (Landeskirchen). But not until 1525 were there any openly Lutheran princes,14 and not until 1526 did serious efforts at territorial reformation get underway.15 In the interim, papal anathemas and imperial bans notwithstanding, the reform movement continued to spread at the local level, chiefly in cities and towns, making the years 1521–26 the classic period of the German Reformation as a spontaneous popular movement. In these circumstances – in the interval between the rejection of his appeal for a national reformation and the onset of his effort at territorial reformation – Luther contented himself with denouncing as illegitimate the attempts of Catholic princes to halt the spread of reform while at the same time offering his support and encouragement to the efforts of local communities to reform themselves.16 Luther’s weapon against princes who tried to check the spread of evangelical reform was his so-called doctrine of the two kingdoms, which received its earliest public elaboration in the treatise On Secular Authority, To What Extent It Should Be Obeyed (1523). The authority of princes and magistrates, Luther said, is limited to the external, temporal, secular realm, which is to say that it extends only to those things that human reason can “see, know, judge, and modify.” But in the spiritual realm of faith, conscience, and the soul, God himself rules 13   It is perhaps worth recalling here that, from 1530 until his death in 1546, Luther lent his firm support to the so-called Saxon compromise, i.e., the offer of the Saxon government to recognize the jurisdiction of the imperial bishops if they would agree to ordain evangelical pastors, allow them to marry, and permit communion in both kinds. See ibid., 130–33, 166–67. 14   Although he protected Luther, Elector Frederick the Wise contented himself with keeping peace and order and never undertook the active promotion of religious change. The first truly evangelical elector was Frederick’s brother, John the Steadfast, who succeeded him in 1525. In the other homeland of the Reformation, Hessen, Landgrave Philip did not announce his adherence to the evangelical cause until late in 1524. 15   The “green light” for such efforts was the recess of the Diet of Speyer (27 August 1526), which declared that, with respect to the enforcement of the Edict of Worms, the imperial estates would conduct themselves “as each hopes and trusts to justify before God and His Imperial Majesty.” 16   Estes, Peace, Order, Glory of God, 30–33.

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through his Word. This leaves secular authorities with wide leeway to intervene in ecclesiastical affairs in order to uphold public peace and order, but those who venture beyond that by prescribing what their subjects can or cannot believe are usurping a jurisdiction that God has reserved to himself.17 Even if spared such hostile secular interference in matters of faith, however, reform-minded congregations still faced the problem that the bishops, abbots, and other prelates whose duty it was to supply them with good pastors either could not or would not do so. As had been the case with the refusal of the pope to call a council, this was an emergency that had to be remedied with the help of the priesthood of all believers. Luther explained how to do this in his treatise That a Christian .  .  . Congregation Has the Right and Power to Judge All Teaching and to Call, Appoint, and Dismiss Teachers (1523). The sure mark of a Christian congregation, he said, is the possession of the pure gospel. That being so, a congregation must reject the authority of any bishops or prelates who teach what is plainly contrary to the gospel. Having done this, the members of the congregation must, for the sake of good order, designate one of their number to exercise, on behalf of all, the priestly office that is their common possession. Their call alone is sufficient to confirm the validity of his ministry, without confirmation by a bishop. If, Luther continued, bishops were truly worthy successors of the apostles and undertook to appoint decent pastors, one could certainly permit them to do that, but their action would nonetheless require the approval and consent of the congregation.18 As more and more communities embraced reform, the question of a common order for many congregations and communities posed itself. As was natural for the subject of a prince of the Holy Roman Empire, Luther concluded that every self-governing jurisdiction (principality, free imperial city, or whatever) should have its own freely chosen common order. Ideally, he thought, that order should emerge gradually as the result of the voluntary cooperation of the pastors, who would, over time, agree on the procedures and practices to be observed and then, perhaps, choose from among themselves some who would serve as their bishops. But he warned that bishops and priests, whose job is simply that of preaching the Word, have no more authority or power to establish the external order of the church than do other Christians. So they cannot impose laws or decrees on others without their “will and consent.” How that will and consent were to be determined and enforced was not spelled out.19 The writings just summarized have frequently been used to argue that Luther had a firm commitment to congregational polity or “communal” reformation that he subsequently abandoned in favor of princely reformation from above.20 17

  Ibid., 37–41.   Ibid., 33–35. 19   Ibid., 35–36. 20   See, for example, Recultivating the Vineyard, 118–19, where Professor Hendrix discusses 18

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That, however, is an interpretation that can be sustained only by ignoring virtually everything that Luther said and did before 1521 and by reading far too much into the works of 1523 to 1526. Had pope and bishops done their duty as pastors before 1520, or had the German nobility answered Luther’s call in 1520–21, there would have been an effort at a general reformation from above and, had the effort succeeded, Luther would have been perfectly happy with the result even though it had little or nothing to do with communal reform or the priesthood of all believers. In this so-called congregational phase, Luther was simply trying to make the best of the unsatisfactory situation produced by the combination of the failure of the established hierarchy to do its job with the absence of any Lutheran princes to whom he could appeal for help. He was not trying to abolish bishops or carve into stone a requirement for congregational polity. Indeed, by the autumn of 1525, even as he continued to defend the right and duty of communities to reform themselves, Luther had lost patience with the pace and the quality of communal reform. He could already see that local reform efforts and the free cooperation of the pastors were not going to produce the orderly reformation and stable church order that were needed. Competent pastors were in acutely short supply; they did not cooperate as they should in matters of doctrine and liturgy; their tight-fisted congregations refused to pay them an adequate salary or provide them with decent housing; rapacious nobles took church property for themselves instead of devoting it to the support of schools and parishes; and so on at length. In other words, the unregulated development of communal reform was producing disorder and confusion, greatly to the detriment of the church’s pastoral mission.21 At the same time, however, Luther now had, in Elector John of Saxony, a trustworthy Lutheran prince who was willing to take positive action in support of religious reform.22 Once again, Luther distinguished between those things that were the province of secular authority and those that pertained to spiritual authority. In the former category he placed the responsibility for surveying the property of the abandoned monasteries and other ecclesiastical foundations and applying the income from it to the support of churches and schools. In the second category he placed the imposition of uniform doctrine and ceremonies. For both purposes, a visitation was needed. Visitation, however, had always been an episcopal function, and Saxony no longer had a bishop who could perform it. In this emergency somebody had to step into the breach, but neither Luther nor any of his fellow theologians felt entitled simply to appoint themselves visitors without a direct all from God or a “definite command” from the Saxon congregations. (and rejects) Peter Blickle’s allegation that the Peasants’ War (1525) led Luther to retreat from his original commitment to communal reformation. 21   Estes, Peace, Order, Glory of God, 45–46. 22   John’s son, Duke John Frederick, who would succeed him as elector in 1532, was an even more pious and devoted champion of the Reformation than was his father.

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So Luther appealed to the elector, that “out of Christian love (since he is not obligated to do so as a temporal sovereign),” he might use his princely authority to appoint competent persons to exercise the episcopal office of visitation in his domains. In Luther’s view, the visitation commission that was established in 1526 and began its work in 1527 was, like the council he had envisioned in 1520, an ecclesiastical body. It was the theologians on the commission, not the prince, whom he designated as episcopi or bischöfe.23 In other words, he was not issuing the prince a blank check to reform or govern the church but rather was asking him to help the church surmount an emergency by creating the conditions under which the church’s own responsible authorities could do their job. On the other hand, Luther made it clear that he expected the pastors, “willingly, without any compulsion,” to accept the common order imposed on them. If they refused, the visitors would ask the elector to take action against them, for “though he is not obligated to teach and rule in spiritual affairs, he is obligated as temporal sovereign to prevent strife, rioting, and rebellion” among his subjects. The Saxon visitation was, in other words, the beginning of the slow development in Saxony of a church order in which the episcopal function of supervising the parish clergy was assigned to pastors who functioned as visitors and (later) as “superintendents.”24 For the rest of his life Luther regarded the visitors and superintendents as the real leaders of the Saxon church and routinely addressed them as episcopi and archiepiscopi.25 By 1530, organized Lutheran territorial churches were developing rapidly in Electoral Saxony and the Landgraviate of Hessen as well as in many imperial cities, and the list of territories so affected would grow rapidly over the rest of the decade and beyond. Luther was quick to see that these fledgling churches needed to be protected, not only from hostile legal and military action by the emperor and the Catholic princes but also from their own built-in penchant for disorder, as well as from pollution by a variety of dissident groups and tendencies that were pursuing their own agendas for reform. So he came to view the support and protection of Christian princes as a routine necessity rather than an occasional need. Indeed, in the years from 1530 to 1534, Luther elaborated a view of the office of Christian magistrate that was the functional equivalent of Philip Melanchthon’s teaching concerning the cura religionis of secular rulers. The Christian prince, acting on the advice of competent theologians, was so to order the external affairs of the church that his subjects were not only provided 23

  Estes, Peace, Order, Glory of God, 46–47, 49–51. The term Notbischof, much used by scholars to describe the role that Luther assigned to princes in summoning councils or appointing visitation commissions, in fact occurs only four times in Luther’s writings, all in the period 1539–42. In each case it was a matter of the prince being asked to intervene after all routine “episcopal” effort had failed. Ibid., 208 n87. 24   Ibid., 50–52. 25   Ibid., 208.

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with true doctrine and suitable forms of worship but also protected from false doctrine and worship. It was by thus aiding and protecting the pastors in the performance of their ministry that the prince made his contribution to Christianization.26 This is how Luther described that contribution in 1530: The first [princely virtue] is that they can secure justice for those who fear God and repress those who are godless; as the psalmist says: “How long will you judge unjustly and prefer the persons of the godless?” Who can fully count the number of the rich virtues and profits that follow from this first virtue? For if God’s Word is protected and supported so that it can be freely taught and learned, and if the sects and false teachers are given no opportunity and are not defended against the teachers who fear God, what greater treasure can there be in a land? .  .  . [A] God-fearing pastor or preacher .  .  . can help many thousands of souls, both in eternal life and in this life. For by his word he can bring them to God and make of them able and apt people, serving and honoring God and wholesome and profitable for the world. .  .  . To support or protect a poor, pious pastor is an act that makes no show and looks like a small thing. But to build a marble church, to give it golden ornaments, and to serve dead stone and wood – that makes a show that glitters! That is a virtue worthy of a king or prince! Well, let it make its show! Let it glitter! Meanwhile my pastor, who does not glitter, is practicing the virtue that increases God’s kingdom, fills heaven with saints, plunders hell, robs the devil, wards off death, represses sin, instructs and comforts every man in the world according to his station in life, preserves peace and unity, raises fine young folk, and plants all kinds of virtue in the people. In a word, he is making a new world! He builds not a poor, temporary house, but an eternal and beautiful Paradise, in which God Himself is glad to dwell. A pious prince or lord who supports or protects such a pastor can have a part in all this. Indeed, this whole work and all the fruits of it are his, as though he had done it all himself, because without his protection and support the pastor could not abide.27

Of the motives for the development of Luther’s affirmation of the cura religionis of Christian princes, the most relevant in the present context was the perceived threat to the established evangelical order from missionary Anabaptists. By 1530–31, Luther was thoroughly alarmed by reports of “infiltrating and clandestine preachers,” who sneaked into homes and parishes and, without legitimate call or command, challenged the authority of the local pastor, to whom God himself had assigned the authority to preach, administer the sacraments, and care for souls. This, he said, cannot be allowed. No one, no matter how pious or upright, has the right to preach to the people without the knowledge and consent of their pastor. It is no use arguing that all Christians are priests, for not all priests are pastors. To be a pastor, one must not only be a Christian and (therefore) a priest but also have a call and command to officiate in a specific locality. This is the decency and order in the churches that St. Paul has enjoined (1 Cor 14:40). Neither strangers nor unauthorized laymen have any right to challenge the authority of a legitimate pastor who does his job properly under 26

  Ibid., chapter 5.   LW 13:52; WA 31/1:199–200 (Commentary on Psalm 82).

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the supervision of his superiors. Otherwise anyone, “even perchance a drunk from the tavern,” or (even worse) a woman, might claim the right to interrupt the pastor and undermine his authority. “What pig sties could compare in goings-on with such churches.” Therefore, for the sake of good order in church and society, secular authority must punish all those who preach without command and call.28 Or, to put it another way, if Germany is to be more Christian, godly princes and lords must shield pastors, preachers, and other clergymen from all threats to the orderly and effective exercise of their ministry. At the same time, however, they must not seek to lord it over the clergy and govern the church according to their whim. The distinction between the two realms and the two offices, spiritual and secular, has to be maintained. The more he felt the need to rely on the support and protection of the civil authorities, the more insistently (and sometimes vehemently) Luther argued this point. In his Commentary on Psalm 82 (1530), Luther argued that the primary purpose of secular rule is to seek God’s Word above all things and promote the preaching of it. Significantly, however, he also included a pointed assertion of the independence and authority of the preachers of the Word. Their primary loyalty is to God and not to princes or the public. It is, moreover, part of their duty publicly to exhort and rebuke princes as well as their subjects, and they are not to be charged with sedition when they perform that duty responsibly. “A preacher is neither a courtier nor a hired hand.”29 Similarly, in his Commentary on Psalm 101 (1534/35), Luther urged Christian princes to imitate the example of King David, who served God by establishing true faith and worship in his domains. At the same time, however, Luther went out of his way to insist on the continuing importance of the distinction between secular and spiritual authority. It is the devil who tries to subvert the order of both church and state by ceaselessly attempting to “cook and brew” the two kingdoms into one another. “Papists and schismatic spirits” want to be experts on secular government, while “secular rulers want to teach Christ how to run his church and spiritual government.” The productive cooperation between secular and spiritual authorities is undermined if either tries to meddle in the affairs of the other.30 For the rest of his life Luther remained fearful that the integrity of the church’s ministry would be compromised by blundering interference either from evangelical princes and their officials or from factions in the congregations. In 1538, for example, he expressed these fears in one of a series of sermons on the first two chapters of the gospel of John. Secular government, he said, is the domain of princes and lords, who rule with an iron sword that inflicts physical punishments. Church government, by contrast, is the domain of pastors, who wield 28

  Estes, Peace, Order, Glory of God, 187–92.   Ibid., 182. 30   Ibid., 201–202. 29

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“the word or verbal sword,” which touches only consciences. The two must never be mixed. But “princes, kings, nobles in the countryside, and judges in the villages all want to wield the verbal sword by telling the pastors what and how they should preach and how they should administer their churches.” And not just princes and nobles but burghers and peasants as well want to control their pastors and have both swords. This is all the work of the devil, who wants to destroy both the secular and the spiritual kingdoms by bringing about the confusion of the two.31 In several letters of the 1530s and ’40s, Luther expressed his displeasure at specific instances of unwarranted secular interference in spiritual jurisdiction. In January 1543, for example, he administered a stern dressing-down to the town council of Creutzberg, which wanted to dismiss a pastor whom the visitors had found to be of sound doctrine and good life but who had displeased many in his flock by his harsh denunciation of their sinful lives.32 Luther admonished the councillors to remember that “the offices of pastor and preacher .  .  . belong neither to us nor to any man .  .  . but only to God our Lord, who .  .  . has established them for our salvation.” Concerning his pastors and preachers, Christ says (Lk 10:16): “He who rejects you rejects me.” Officials, judges, and councillors, Luther continued, are not lords over the office of pastor or preacher, and it is intolerable that they should dismiss a competent and faithful pastor purely because of their frivolous whim. They must, rather, live in peace with him and grant him the free exercise of the office given to him by God, who will demand an accounting of it from him in the Day of Judgment. Here Luther cited Hebrews 13:17, rendering it as follows: “Obey your leaders (pastors), for they must render account for you.”33 In October of the same year, Luther expressed his annoyance that Duke Maurice of Albertine Saxony and his officials had, on their own authority, presumed to devise an order of excommunication that would be enforced by secular officials. The prince’s court, he wrote, should stick to its proper business and leave church government to those to whom it has been entrusted and from whom an account will be required. This confusion of the two kingdoms is the work of Satan. Under the papacy, the church interfered in secular government, but “in our time” secular authority wants to interfere in the church.34 Meanwhile, back in Wittenberg, Luther was dealing with cases of flagrant secular interference in the affairs of his own church. The interference came not from the elector and his court but from the members of the faculty of law at the 31

  Ibid., 207.   WABr 10:255–58. 33   The complete text, as found in Luther’s Bible, reads: “Obey your teachers and follow them, for they watch over your souls as those who will render account for them.” Luther frequently used “teacher’ (Lehrer) as a synonym for “pastor.” 34   WABr 10:436 (Luther to Daniel Greiser, 22 October 1543). 32

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university. Luther faced them not primarily as a member of the faculty of theology but rather as one of the clergymen entrusted with the “government” of the church of which the jurists were members. He was preacher at the town church, where his friend and fellow theologian, Johann Bugenhagen, was pastor and thus technically his superior. During Bugenhagen’s long absences from Wittenberg (e.g., from June 1537 to July 1539 in Denmark), Luther filled in for him as pastor, so in practice they jointly governed the church at Wittenberg. From 1539 Bugenhagen was general superintendent (i.e., bishop) of the electoral district in which Wittenberg was located, and Luther sometimes referred to both Bugenhagen and himself as “bishops of this church.”35 As for the jurists, in addition to lecturing at the university, they were influential members of the elector’s Hofgericht and, after its establishment in 1539, of the Wittenberg consistory.36 They aroused Luther’s ire because of their attachment to that “pile of stinking papal filth,” canon law.37 To the jurists canon law was, along with Roman law, a revered component of the “common law” of the Holy Roman Empire, rich in principles and procedures that made it an indispensable complement to Roman law in the adjudication of civil cases. For Luther, however, canon law was above all the hated embodiment in law of papal tyranny. For that reason he had famously thrown a copy of it onto the bonfire outside the Magpie Gate at Wittenberg in December 1520. He knew that there were “good things” in it (remnants of the wholesome legislation of the ancient church, for example), and he had no problem with its use as an adjunct to civil law in civil cases, but he wanted no part of it as the law of the church.38 He was, therefore, hugely indignant at the jurists’ attempts to impose on the Saxon church the observance of two provisions of canon law on marriage that he judged to be contrary to Scripture and sound reason. So indignant indeed, that on two separate occasions (February-March 1539 and January 1544) he attacked them from the pulpit with brutal vehemence.39 The first disputed provision of canon law was the one stipulating that a widowed man who remarried was guilty of “digamy” and thus ineligible to hold spiritual office (even though the marriage itself was legitimate).40 The issue 35

  In a sermon of 1544, for example; see WA 49:302–3; LW 58:66.   Originally intended to be a body with broad authority to supervise the ecclesiastical life of the Wittenberg district of Saxony, the consistory was in fact a marriage court with two theologians and two jurists as sitting members. 37   For Luther’s controversy with the Wittenberg jurists over canon law, see James M. Estes, “Luther’s Attitude Toward the Legal Traditions of His Time,” Lutherjahrbuch 76 (2009): 77–110. 38   Estes, “Luther’s Attitude Toward the Legal Traditions,” 78 with note 4, 88–94. 39   In 1539 there were two sermons (23 February and 2 March); in 1544 there were three (6/13/20 January). For the rather complicated and cumbersome documentary basis for the discussion of these sermons, see ibid., 102 n76 and 103 n78. These five sermons are now available in English translation; see LW 58:3–29, 53–87. 40   Estes, “Luther’s Attitude Toward the Legal Traditions,” 101. In contrast to bigamy, 36

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arose in 1535, when the widowed Sebastian Fröschel, deacon (assistant pastor) at the town church in Wittenberg, remarried. “The filthy jurists” argued that he was no longer qualified for pastoral office, and one of them complained to Luther that he could not in good conscience receive communion from a digamist.41 In one of the sermons of 1539, Luther responded that the canon in question was completely without scriptural warrant and that enforcing it would achieve nothing apart from dishonoring a legitimate marriage and depriving the church of a good pastor. In one of the sermons of 1544, moreover, he added that if Fröschel’s ecclesiastical superiors, namely Luther and Bugenhagen, found him fit for clerical office, that was that. It was no business of the haughty, arrogant jurists to disdain Luther as preacher and scorn Bugenhagen’s authority as bishop by insisting that their “piddling [papal] canon” had to be obeyed as law.42 The second casus belli was the attempt of the jurists to restore the canonical rule, long since banished from Saxony, that a couple who secretly became engaged, without parental knowledge or approval, had nonetheless entered into a marriage that could not be dissolved by the subsequent decision of either party to marry someone else. This issue arose when, in the first week of January 1544, the Wittenberg consistory ruled that Kaspar Beyer, a law student whom Luther had befriended, was obliged to marry the young woman to whom he had become secretly engaged in 1541 rather than the one to whom he had become publicly engaged (with enthusiastic parental approval) in 1542. It is not clear how the jurists who, like the theologians, had only two votes in the consistory, managed to impose their view in this matter, but it is abundantly clear that Luther’s wrath was directed solely at them. Indeed, he was so enraged that he made the Beyer case the occasion for a decisive showdown with the jurists.43 For reasons that were already well known to the jurists and that he now summarized at length in the three sermons of January 1544, Luther sided with Roman law and (strenuously interpreted) biblical testimony in his insistence that public engagements entered into with parental consent were the only valid way to prevent hot-blooded young people from rushing into ill-considered unions, with unhappy consequences for everyone involved. To dismiss parental approval as irrelevant was, in Luther’s view, to deny parents the authority over their children given them by God in the Fourth Commandment.44 So clandestine engagements were not only unwise, they were impermissible because God had forbidden them, and they were not under any circumstances to be tolerated or approved. To uphold the validity of Kaspar Beyer’s first engagement was to imwhich consisted of having two wives at once, digamy consisted of having two or more wives in succession. 41   See WATr 4:320.16–23 (no. 4451), 390:9–17 (no. 4588). 42   WA 47:676–77; LW 58:26–27. WA 49:305; LW 58:68. 43   Estes, “Luther’s Attitude Toward the Legal Traditions,” 103. 44   Ibid., 102.

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pose on his conscience the dual burden of obedience to a bad human law and non-compliance with divine law.45 What right did the jurists have to do this? That, not the pros and cons of clandestine betrothals, was the real issue at stake. As Luther saw it, the jurists were deliberately refusing to remain within their proper sphere of responsibility, which was secular matters. Instead they were determined to intervene in spiritual matters and rule over consciences, which are in Christ’s kingdom and are the divinely appointed responsibility of theologians and pastors. For four hundred years, he said (i.e., during the period that he regarded as the life-span of the medieval papacy), jurists had ruled the church and despised the theologians. Now that their power had been taken from them and they were not permitted to govern the church, they were upset and wanted to recover the ground lost to the theologians. In pursuit of this aim, they were doing the devil’s work of trying to restore papal laws that “perplex consciences” by imposing on them restrictions or burdens that were not in accordance with God’s Word or sound reason.46 Luther treated this not simply as a violation of the God-given jurisdiction that all clergymen have in the spiritual realm of conscience but also as an assault on his personal authority as preacher in the congregation of which the jurists were members. “They are meddling with me in my jurisdiction. I won’t put up with that.” The Wittenberg church, he insisted, was his and he would have to give answer for it in the Day of Judgment. He exercised authority in that church, “not as Doctor Martinus but rather as a servant of Christ, acting on his orders,” and for that reason he should be obeyed. He would tolerate no clandestine engagements in his church; indeed, he would abandon his pulpit rather than do so. “I was not put here so that jurists might teach me what it means to govern and to console consciences.” If the jurists do not mend their ways, “we will drive them out of the church to the devil, and they shall know that the consistory is not to be subject to their law but rather to the authority of the pastor [Bugenhagen].”47 In January 1545, thanks largely to the skilful mediation of the electoral court, Luther and the jurists came to an agreement in which the latter repudiated clandestine betrothals. Kaspar Beyer married his preferred bride and Luther was content that the consciences in his care remained free.48 Thus ended Luther’s last and most vehement defense of clerical autonomy in the exercise of the church’s ministry. The evidence just summarized indicates clearly that the Luther who repeatedly appealed to Christian princes to “do something about the miserable state of Christendom” was the same Luther who never ceased to attribute to bishops and pastors primary responsibility for governing the church and making Germany more Christian. In the end, the princes had to intervene so extensively 45

  Ibid., 106–7.   Ibid., 104–6. 47   Ibid., 107–8. 48   Ibid., 109. 46

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and do so much over so long a time that it is perfectly proper to speak of a “princely reformation” or (wordier but better) of a “reformation under the aegis of the princes.” Late in his life, Luther himself spoke rather more freely about “princely reformation” than he had in 1520.49 But, in promoting this development, Luther was nonetheless determined that pastors were not to be turned into mere employees of a church that had become a government department. The whole purpose of princely support was to guarantee to them the free exercise of the office that God had given them and that no one could take from them as long as they preached sound doctrine and otherwise performed competently in the judgment of their superiors in the church, i.e., the fellow pastors to whom the episcopal function of oversight had been assigned.50 To put it another way: throughout his entire career Luther remained the Luther whose belief in the supreme importance of the proper conduct of the clergy Scott Hendrix so clearly depicted in Luther and the Papacy but did not emphasize as much as he might have in Recultivating the Vineyard.

49

  In 1545 Luther, looking back over the years to 1520–21, observed that the refusal of the pope to summon a council had made it necessary for some of the imperial princes and cities, “driven by the dire need of the church,” to undertake “visitation and reformation” in their lands. See Estes, Peace, Order, Glory of God, 209–10, with notes 96–98. 50   Luther’s fellow reformers understood his intentions perfectly well. Johannes Brenz is a prime example of this. In devising the ecclesiastical polity for the Duchy of Württemberg that became the model for much of the rest of Lutheran Germany, Brenz took great care to keep the prince’s ecclesiastical bureaucracy distinct from his secular bureaucracy, so that the supervision of the clergy in the exercise of their clerical office would be in the hands of qualified theologians and superintendents rather than secular officials. See James M. Estes, Christian Magistrate and Territorial Church: Johannes Brenz and the German Reformation (Toronto: Centre for Reformation and Renaissance Studies, 2007), 129–30.

Martin Luther and Idolatry John A. Maxfield  One of the most compelling features of Scott Hendrix’s interpretation of Martin Luther’s agenda to Christianize Christendom is his fresh analysis of the German reformer’s concern to root out what he perceived as a widespread infestation of idolatry in the vineyard of the Lord. Building his argument from Luther’s writings and then citing Carlos Eire’s important book War against the Idols, Hendrix holds that “for Luther, as for the Reformed tradition, the Reformation was a war against idols.” But while in Eire’s treatment Luther functions as a foil, a dam resisting the quickening stream running from Erasmus to Calvin that came to define the Reformed and not the Lutheran tradition, in Hendrix’s view, Luther, too, was radical in his critique of idolatry in the church of his day. Luther sought not merely some conservative brand of “church reform” or reform of doctrine, but a radical reform of the life and piety of Christians and corporate Christianity, replacing “idolatrous ritual with evangelical forms of worship and piety: going to church, using the catechisms, praying regularly through Christ instead of invoking saints, devoting assets and time to assisting others in place of fasting, pilgrimages, and the like.” In this essay I would like to explore further Luther’s war against idolatry by delving into it as a central theme in Luther’s thought and work, and a vital one for understanding his theology, describing the reformer’s repudiation of both papal and Protestant forms of idolatry and the means by which he sought to remove idolatry from the hearts and lives of his parishioners, students, and readers of his various writings. Luther sought to replace idolatry with forms and practices of Christian faith and life that conformed to the commands and prom   I would like to thank Robert Kolb and Ronald K. Rittgers for their helpful criticism and comments on a previous draft of this chapter.    Scott H. Hendrix, Recultivating the Vineyard: The Reformation Agendas of Christianization (Louisville; London: Westminster John Knox Press, 2004), 51.    Ibid., 64. Earlier in his text Hendrix described Luther’s goal as “an ideal construct: a true or perfect Christian who would be motivated by nothing external but whose faith and love would arise spontaneously from an encounter with the divine word. .  .  . [T]he target of his reforming agenda was the people of Christendom rather than the medieval church” (42); and “Luther’s agenda was more radical than church reform” (44).

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ises of God. In fact it was this same concern to oppose every form of idolatry – as Luther understood it – that led the German reformer to dissociate himself and his movement so sharply from those he came to dismiss as fanatics and despisers of the sacraments: what has come to be known as the Reformed tradition, aptly characterized by Eire for its rejection of any conveying of spiritual blessing through material means. I agree with Hendrix’s analysis of the Reformation as cohering in the goal shared by most reformers – Catholic, Lutheran, Reformed, and various radicals – to “make Christendom more Christian.” But I will also argue that contradictory understandings of that goal and of the forms of idolatry that stood in its path were the fundamental reason for disunity among Evangelical reformers in a way that is not fully explored in Hendrix’s treatment. Rather surprising is that in the literature on the Reformation, the portrayal of Luther as waging a “war against idolatry” is so rare. An admittedly unscientific investigation through the search engine in the digitized version of the Weimar edition of Luther’s works churned up nearly 1500 hits just for variants on the words Abgoet and Abgotterei (idol and idolatry), so the concept in Luther’s writings appears to come up fairly often. Yet in various studies on Luther’s theology the concept of idolatry does not play a very significant role. And as I have noted briefly, in Carlos Eire’s study on the “theology of idolatry” in the Reformation, the treatment of Luther focuses on his dissonance from the Protestant tune: While some Protestants cast down the “idols” of Rome, Luther cast out the image breakers from Wittenberg. .  .  . By the time Calvin came to Geneva in 1536, to run his own crusade against “false religion,” the streams of piety were flowing, inalterably, along three different courses. The Catholic stream continued to flow as it had for centuries, suffused with the immanence of the divine. The Lutheran stream, for all its protests, meandered close to these waters. Though they opposed much in medieval piety, Lutherans, for the most part, were not too interested in separating the material from the spiritual, or in promoting a radical change in worship. Stressing instead an opposition to “works-righteousness,” they steered a middle course between transcendence and immanence, and remained open to the use of material objects in worship as long as they were regarded with indifference. The Reformed stream flowed hard and fast in a different direction, surging with transcendence. The central focus of Reformed Protestantism 

  For example, in Bernhard Lohse, Martin Luther’s Theology: Its Historical and Systematic Development, trans. and ed. Roy Harrisville (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1999), “idol” and “idolatry” do not appear in the subject index and do not appear to function as a category of analysis, though Luther’s opposition to Andreas Karlstadt’s appeal to the Mosaic prohibition of images is described (144–49). Paul Althaus, The Theology of Martin Luther, trans. Robert C. Schultz (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1966), includes only a brief treatment of Luther’s conception of works-righteousness (Althaus uses the term “moralism”) as idolatry (125–27). An exception to this observation about the literature is Oswald Bayer, Martin Luther’s Theology: A Contemporary Interpretation, trans. Thomas H. Trapp (Grand Rapids; Cambridge, UK: William B. Eerdmans, 2008), which includes a brief but penetrating analysis of sin as a person’s “turning in on oneself,” characterized as idol worship (110–12; see also 177–84), and an important section on “God and Idol” (135–39).

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was its interpretation of worship – more specifically, of the relationship between the spiritual and the material.

Eire in this introductory statement is staying true to his central thesis, namely, the tracing of a tradition coming to its fullest expression in John Calvin who, “in defending the heritage of the Reformed attitude toward idolatry, forged a new, scripturally based, theological metaphysics in which the boundaries between the spiritual and the material were more clearly drawn than ever.” The line of descent runs from the humanist-reformer Erasmus (who was conservative only in that he declined to break with the papal church) through Luther’s erstwhile colleague Andreas Bodenstein von Karlstadt (who was radical in that he was willing to promote or at least not deny the right of the people, and not just the authorities, to remove images), to the Reformed tradition as developed by Ulrich Zwingli and later John Calvin. Expanding the ditty that “Erasmus laid the egg that Luther hatched” Eire notes of these reformers that their theology “resembled their parent more closely in some respects than Luther’s ever did.” Eire is quite correct in excluding Luther from this family tree of sixteenthcentury reformers nourished by Neoplatonic streams and committed to a concept of divine transcendence shaped more by this theological metaphysics than by Holy Scripture, which they interpreted through “metaphysical assumptions” comprehended in the principle that “the finite cannot contain the infinite.” But by focusing his exploration of the theology of idolatry in the Reformation on reformers’ opposition to material images and other externals of the medieval Catholic cult he overlooks the significant ways that Luther continued to expose and teach against idolatry in Christendom even after he had rejected Karlstadt’s iconoclasm and, more importantly, the spiritualism of his reinterpretation of the sacraments of baptism and the Lord’s Supper. For Eire, “the Protestant attack on Roman Catholic ‘idolatry’ begins with Andreas Bodenstein von Karlstadt. .  .  . It was he, not Luther, who first criticized medieval piety as misdirected and evil .  .  .” Luther is portrayed as inconsistent in his objections to the misuse of images while opposing Karlstadt and others in their removal. Thus while Eire correctly demonstrates the chasm that developed between Luther, Karlstadt, and the Reformed tradition regarding the nature and threat of idolatry, he does not explore fully the concept of idolatry operative in Luther’s thought and work. In a similar way, Luther’s concept of idolatry and its centrality in his theology and reform agenda is ignored or sidelined through the literature focused more specifically on religious images and iconoclasm in the sixteenth century. Here    Carlos Eire, War against the Idols: The Reformation of Worship from Erasmus to Calvin (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), 2.    Ibid., 3.    Ibid., 28.    Ibid., 3.    Ibid., 55.

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too there is a clear rationale for the lacuna – Luther did not believe that images are inherently idolatrous, as he noted with increasing fervency in response to Karlstadt and others, beginning in 1522 upon his return from the Wartburg and definitively by 1525. Also, Luther disdained the violence of iconoclastic riots and the legalism he interpreted in Karlstadt’s and others’ demands to remove all images, believing that they betrayed and were destructive to the gospel he was fighting so hard to bring to the center of Christian piety. In the final analysis Luther viewed images as indifferent matters.10 So images would remain – or rather, some of them – in churches loyal to the Lutheran version of evangelical reform, and thus Luther’s war against idolatry does not play a significant role in the literature on iconoclasm.11 Nevertheless, Luther did criticize the abuse of images in the Christian piety of his day and – as I will detail below – he responded to Karlstadt that his own efforts were removing the idols in human hearts (where idolatry truly exists, as a distortion and corruption of Christian worship and piety) much more effectively than Karlstadt’s removal of images from churches ever could. More importantly, Luther’s horror over iconoclastic violence did not deter him from persisting in his protest against the other forms of idolatry that he believed were much more a threat to Christian faith and life. In short, Luther’s own war against idolatry has been ignored not because it was insignificant or undevel-

10   As Luther stated toward the end of his public confession of faith appended to his last treatise in the sacramentarian controversy with Ulrich Zwingli and his allies (1528), “Images, bells, eucharistic vestments, church ornaments, altar lights, and the like I regard as things indifferent. Anyone who wishes may omit them. Images or pictures taken from the Scriptures and from good histories, however, I consider very useful yet indifferent and optional. I have no sympathy with the iconoclasts.” LW 37:371, emphasis added; StA 4:256.19–22. On Lutheran approaches to and retention of religious images see Carl C. Christensen, Art and the Reformation in Germany (Athens, OH; Detroit, MI: Ohio University Press and Wayne State University Press, 1979); Joseph Leo Koerner, The Reformation of the Image (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004); Sergiusz Michalski, The Reformation and the Visual Arts: The Protestant Image Question in Western Europe (London and New York: Routledge, 1993); and, most recently and engaging the previous literature, Bonnie Noble, Lucas Cranach the Elder: Art and Devotion of the German Reformation (Lanham, MD: University Press of America, Inc., 2009). 11   Susan Karant-Nunn notes that Lutheran areas, too, significantly changed both the centrality and the purpose of religious images in their churches: “.  .  . very few holy figures who had lived after the ages of the Church Fathers continued to enjoy respect – and certainly not veneration. Incidences of iconoclasm were very rare and confirmed to the beginning of the Reformation. Whatever their views on images, few governors of church or state would brook popular aggression. But they themselves progressively, inexorably, had most images removed during the course of the century, leaving in place (or adding) only those that illustrated either the life of Christ or major points of Lutheran theology. These were intended to edify the people, not to arouse even pious emotion.” Susan C. Karant-Nunn, The Reformation of Ritual: An Interpretation of Early Modern Germany (London and New York: Routledge, 1997), 123–24; see also her response to Christenson and others, 254–55 nn184–85.

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oped but because a different approach has tended to catch the interest of theologians and historians.

The Central Theme in Luther’s War against Idolatry Luther’s understanding of idolatry was emerging already in his early lectures, particularly in his lectures of 1515–1516 on Romans. At its core idolatry is, in Luther’s understanding, a matter of the heart’s imagination. The young professor bemoans that many worship God not as he is but as they imagine him to be, refusing their duty (that is, obedience to God’s will as revealed in his Word) while choosing works for themselves that purport to honor God. Thus they create for themselves an “imagined God [who] is the kind who has regard for you and your ways.” He calls this “spiritual idolatry of a more refined type,” widespread and built on the “pious intentions” of those who are blinded by their own self-righteousness, “unable to believe anything but that they are doing extremely well and that they are pleasing to God.”12 Later in the lectures Luther conveys a definition of such idolatry that roots it in the very nature of the human condition apart from God’s grace: Just as grace has placed God in the place of all things it sees, even its own interest, and prefers Him to itself and seeks only those things which belong to God and not its own things, so nature, on the other hand, sets itself in the place of all other things, even in the place of God, and seeks only those things which are its own and not the things of God. Therefore it is its own first and greatest idol. Second, it makes God into an idol and the truth of God into a lie, and finally it makes idols of all created things and of all gifts of God. .  .  . This is spiritual fornication, iniquity, and a terrible curving in on itself.13

Thus human nature leads the creature of God to seek its own, and this idolatry of the self acts prudently, choosing what is good for the self. It is “a prudence which directs the flesh,” that is, our concupiscence and self-will, which enjoys itself and uses everyone else, including God Himself. .  .  . This prudence makes man feel that he himself is the final and ultimate object in life, an idol, on whose account he does, suffers, attempts, plans, and says all things.14

12

  LW 25:158–60; WA 56:178.4–179.25.   LW 25:346; WA 56:356.30–357.12. 14   LW 25:350; WA 56:361.11–17, on Rom 8:7, with Luther arguing, “It would be better to use the word ‘prudence’ (prudentia) throughout this chapter than ‘wisdom’ (sapientia) as both blessed Augustine and the Greek text do. For there is general agreement that the term prudence is used by all people to apply to our actions while wisdom is applied to our thinking.” The Greek text has φρόνημα, the Vulgate sapientia. 13

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So in these lectures prepared prior to the indulgence controversy and his theological dispute with the papal magisterium, the concept of idolatry was already functioning in a polemical way: Luther addresses a self-righteous piety, embedded in human nature, that he believes is all too widespread in the Christianity of his day, criticizing it publicly before his students in the lecture hall at Wittenberg and seeking to form in them a piety that recognizes idolatry as an inherent temptation in the human experience. This idolatry emerges from within the human heart and not, at least not primarily, from anything external. Idolatry is a problem of the heart and its core is the “prudent” putting of self and its interests above God and his Word. By early 1522, when the reform movement at Wittenberg was well under way and Luther’s break with the papal church was complete if not yet permanent, this polemic against idolatry had expanded significantly to include every manner of false teaching and churchly abuse exposed in the well-known flood of pamphlets that poured forth from the reformer’s pen. Yet at its core Luther’s protest against idolatry in Christendom remained a sharp critique of human willfulness in the face of God and his Word. Thus in a treatise published in early July 1522, Against the Spiritual Estate of the Pope and the Bishops Falsely So Called, a successor pamphlet to an aborted and no longer extant treatise with the illuminating title Against the Idol at Halle,15 Luther attacks a form of external idolatry, namely that of the Roman papacy and its false bishops’ tyranny over Christians and Christendom, but his polemic turns once again on a problem of the heart – human willfulness that sets itself in the place of God and his Word. In the opening of the treatise Luther addresses the mass- and indulgence-offering bishops (the “bishops falsely so called” of the title) who have condemned him as a heretic. As the excommunicated reformer addresses this papal hierarchy he calls himself “an ecclesiastic by the grace of God in defiance of you and the devil,” noting that he has been deprived of his churchly titles by “papal and imperial disfavor,” but this is of no concern – these titles were merely indications that he had been a “papal creature.”16 Now he renounces all such titles: 15   See the introduction to the treatise (LW 39:241–45) and its basis in the arguments of Gottfried Krodel (against the editors of the Weimar edition), summarized in LW 48:344–50 and fully articulated in Lutherjahrbuch 33 (1966): 9–81. Luther’s letter to George Spalatin protesting the Elector’s decision to prohibit publication of Luther’s original treatise, directed against Albrecht of Mainz, illustrates that his concern to avoid unrest in the promotion of reform had its limits: “I will not put up with your statement that the Sovereign will not allow anything to be written against Mainz or anything that could disturb the public peace. I would rather lose you, the Sovereign himself, and the whole world. .  .  . If I have resisted [the] creator, the pope, why should I yield to his creature? Your idea about 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!” LW 48:326; WABr 2:402.4–10. 16   LW 39:247–48; WA 10/II:105.17–19; 106.10–14. On this concept of “papal creatures” in Luther’s thought at this time see the previous note and Luther’s very personal but also

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“For these masks were my greatest shame before God. I too was once in error .  .  . a liar, a cheater, a seducer, and a blasphemer against God’s pure teaching, as you are now.” Luther exclaims that he will no longer allow the bishops – “or even an angel from heaven” – to judge his teaching, “for it is God’s and not mine.”17 Rather, he will fulfill the divine command to reprove the bishops on the basis of God’s Word. God does not know them or their office, for they “neither teach nor perform any episcopal duties.” Their tyranny is worse than that of worldly tyrants, for “spiritual dominion, when it is unholy and does not support God’s word, is like a wolf and murderer of the soul, and it is just as though the devil himself were ruling there.”18 Interpreting 2 Peter 2:11–19 as a severe, prophetic judgment on the papal bishops, Luther writes, “St. Peter calls them ‘blots and blemishes.’ They revile and condemn the truth they do not know. As a result they are drowned in their nature, truly animal-like and sensual men who have never tasted the Spirit.”19 With a form of verbal iconoclasm Luther links the papal bishops with the Moabite prophet Balaam’s seduction of Israel into idolatrous fornication with BaalPeor (Nu 25:1–9, 31:16), drawing on an interpretive tradition stemming from Augustine that this idol was identical to that known in the early Roman tradition as Priapus, a statue of a naked young man with a wreath placed on his uncovered genitals, and “all brides had to places themselves upon this shameful unchastity.” Such blasphemous perversities Luther judges to be “the result of God’s wrath and of human blindness – there is nothing that can be thought up which is so shameful that people cannot be persuaded to do it, if only the most blessed name of God is attached to it.”20 But as Moses taught the people neither to add to nor to detract from God’s teaching, threatening them with the judgment that God had displayed upon the people at Baal-Peor (Dt 4:3), so Luther concludes, Why should Moses make such an example of Baal-Peor – that they should neither add [to] nor take anything from God’s commandments – if he did not want to show that this idol is human teaching? Human teaching always takes away from God’s commandments and adds its own commandments – just as the pope has now taken away all of God’s commandments and substituted his own.21

public letter to his father Hans, which prefaced his November 1521 treatise On Monastic Vows, LW 48:335; WA 8:575.23–32. Hendrix utilizes this concept and the latter passage to illustrate Luther’s emerging “apostolic identity” and claim to personal leadership of the evangelical movement in this period. Recultivating the Vineyard, 54–55. 17   LW 39:248–49; WA 10/II:106.14–17; 107.3–14. 18   LW 39:252; WA 10/II:110.29–111.5. 19   LW 39:258–59; WA 10/II:116.3–36, quotation at lines 33–36. 20   LW 39:260–61; WA 10/II:118.11–119.14, quotations at 119.6–10. 21   LW 39:262; WA 10/II:119.34–120.5.

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Throughout this treatise the reformer applies his core conception of idolatry as self-will over against God and his Word to the Roman papacy and its bishops, who neither teach nor know God’s Word. “Holy canon law” is thus “a shameless portrait of spiritual unchastity. .  .  . They think that with this spiritual unchastity they now serve God even better than before, just as though God had become a Priapus – whereas true service to him is offered only by faith and by God’s work brought about by his grace, and spiritual chastity is only maintained by his divine word.”22 Luther sarcastically labels as the “virtues of bishops” the proclamation of papal bulls and indulgences instead of God’s Word, the princely wealth of papal bishops, the financial profiteering of the indulgence peddling and the false promise of God’s forgiveness attached to indulgences, the papal pretence “to change vows for the sake of money.”23 The response of “all devout Christians” that Luther calls for can only be described as iconoclastic – though its focus is not on physical images but on destroying the mental image of the papal magisterium. For in Luther’s view it has become an idol: Just as you would deal with a physical Priapus or idol, so you should also deal with the bulls of Balaam and the soul-murderers in Rome. Just think what a great service you render to God when you destroy the idols and sanctify his divine name by cleansing it of idolatry. Therefore, anyone who has the desire and the opportunity may tear up and destroy such bulls, if he is able to do so with a good conscience and understanding. To destroy idols, as Moses commands so often in Deuteronomy, is the best service one can render to God. Gideon smashed Baal, Judges 8 [6:27], and King Asa smashed Priapus, I Kings 5 [15:13]. They were highly praised and honored for it by God. But in these days the sheep have to beware of the shepherd more than of the wolves.24

In a section added to the treatise in two editions of 1523,25 subtitled “Doctor Luther’s Bull and Reformation,” Luther goes on to label as “God’s dear children and true Christians” all who work to bring an end to this tyranny of an idolatrous episcopal government, while those who obey this tyranny “are the devil’s own servants and fight against God’s order and law.” Yet Luther in this section issues a qualification, namely that “such destruction and extinction” of the false episcopal government in Germany should happen not by violence (“using the fist and the sword”) but rather by teaching. Citing Daniel 8 (“‘by no human hand’ shall the Antichrist be destroyed”), Luther admonishes, “Everyone should speak, teach, and stand against him with God’s word until he is put to shame and collapses, completely alone and even despising himself. This is a true Christian destruction and every effort should be made to this end.”26 The admonition is just one paragraph and its rhetorical force hardly counters or even succeeds in 22

  LW 39:264; WA 10/II:122.19–24; 123.7–15.   LW 39:270–78, 285–86; WA 10/II:133.13–139.36; 145.26–146.28. 24   LW 39:271; WA 10/II:134.2–13. 25   See LW 39:278n26. 26   LW 39:278–79; WA 10/II:140.1–29. 23

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qualifying the heady iconoclastic rhetoric of what precedes and also follows. Yet its presence in this added text provides a subtle indication that Luther in 1522 and 1523 was dealing no longer solely with the task of countering the papacy and its bishops. He was also dealing with the challenge of a reform movement in Wittenberg and its environs that had taken the war against idolatry in directions Luther found misguided and destructive to his own agenda of a Christendom centered in God’s Word and most importantly in the gospel.

Luther’s War against Idolatry and the Repudiation of Karlstadt and the Sacramentarians The earliest division of the Reformation bears the marks of a squabble among colleagues turned bitter. It happened within the German evangelical movement centered at the University of Wittenberg when Luther returned from protective exile in the Wartburg to take up personal leadership of the movement in March 1522. Scholars have reconstructed a fairly coherent narrative of events and apparent motivations that led to this division: Karlstadt and the Augustinian friar Gabriel Zwilling were advocating specific reforms from the pulpit of St. Mary’s Church, including the removal of images from the churches, and seeking support from the city council. By early December 1521 a few riots had broken out that involved destruction of images and altars and verbal abuse of clerics. On Christmas Day Karlstadt celebrated the first evangelical mass, not only distributing the elements in both kinds as Luther had forcefully advocated, but also laying aside clerical vestments and dressed as a layman, thus confusing Luther’s understanding of the universal priesthood of believers with an undermining of a distinct pastoral office, which Luther did not advocate. In January the city council passed a reform ordinance that instituted various changes in worship. But the Elector of Saxony, citing the disturbances and lack of agreement even among those advocating reforms, called for a halt to reforms and a return to the status quo ante. Luther returned to Wittenberg against the elector’s wishes but apparently in response to the call of the congregation to intervene. He mounted the pulpit of St. Mary’s Church to preach his famous Invocavit sermons on eight successive days beginning on 9 March, effectively taking up leadership of the evangelical movement. In the aftermath Zwilling submitted but Karlstadt did not. Karlstadt eventually was repudiated by his colleagues and left Wittenberg in 1523 to practice his own version of evangelical reform in Orlamünde, where his theology and practice continued to develop in ways contrary to Luther’s confession and the reform movement in Wittenberg.27 As Hendrix notes, disa27

  On the development of Karlstadt’s theology in this period, see especially Ronald J. Sider, Andreas Bodenstein von Karlstadt: The Development of His Thought, 1517–1525, Studies in

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greement among scholars regarding the character of Luther’s renewed leadership in Wittenberg and on the division itself is grounded not so much in varying interpretations of the events but in their own ideological preferences: “Historians who have rehabilitated the integrity and good intentions of Karlstadt have sometimes criticized Luther, while some theologians have celebrated Luther’s conservatism and his opposition to ‘radicals’ everywhere.”28 Hendrix argues that the goal of Luther’s actions is missed by this labeling and that Luther’s Invocavit sermons and subsequent leadership demonstrate that his concern was not simply to slow down the pace of reform but was motivated “by his conviction that reform was not exclusively an external matter.”29 This judgment corresponds precisely to Luther’s understanding of idolatry. Events subsequent to March 1522 clearly demonstrate that Luther acted on this understanding both by continuing his own work of removing idols from the hearts of Christians by means of pastoral teaching, and by repudiating Karlstadt’s insistence that all images be removed from the churches, which Luther viewed as misguided and even legalistic – that is, a return to the idolatrous piety of worksrighteousness. As Luther and Karlstadt’s personal relationship deteriorated in the next several months, leading to their final embittered break in 1525, their writings demonstrate that not differing tactics for successful reform but rather a different and even contradictory understanding of idolatry was at the heart of their division. Luther’s preaching to combat idolatry in the hearts of Christians and celebrated through false forms of Christian piety is exemplified in a sermon he preached on 14 September 1522 for the Festival of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross, which also appeared in seven pamphlets printed in Wittenberg from 1522 to 1524 and later was incorporated (in two separate sermons) into Luther’s Church Postil.30 Yet despite this significant printing history and the original delivery of Medieval and Reformation Thought 11 (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1974), 202–303; and Amy Nelson Burnett, trans. and ed., The Eucharistic Pamphlets of Andreas Bodenstein von Karlstadt, Early Modern Studies Series 6 (Kirksville, MO: Truman State University Press, 2011). 28   Hendrix, Recultivating the Vineyard, 38. On the early Wittenberg movement see especially Martin Brecht, Martin Luther: Shaping and Defining the Reformation, 1521–1532, trans. James L. Schaaf (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1990), 25–172; Eire, War Against the Idols, 55– 73; James S. Preus, Carlstadt’s Ordinaciones and Luther’s Liberty: A Study of the Wittenberg Movement, 1521–22, Harvard Theological Studies 26 (Cambridge, MA and London: Harvard University Press and Oxford University Press, 1974); Sider, Andreas Bodenstein von Karlstadt, 148–73; and Ronald J. Sider, ed., Karlstadt’s Battle with Luther: Documents in a Liberal-Radical Debate (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1978). 29   Hendrix, Recultivating the Vineyard, 38. 30   Introduction and text in WA 10/III:CLVII-CLX, 332–41. To this text I have compared the digitized version “D” (Wittenberg, 1522) from the Universitäts- und Landesbibliothek Sachsen-Anhalt, http://digitale.bibliothek.uni-halle.de/vd16/content/titleinfo/999692. In Luther’s Church Postil (Kirchenpostille), the first part of this sermon appears for this festival (with Jn 12:23–33 as the appointed Gospel), while the second part, devoted to the distinction of law and gospel, is included as the second part of a different sermon on the Gospel for the

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the sermon during the time that Karlstadt was being repudiated in Wittenberg, the sermon does not appear to have been treated in the literature on the developments of the early evangelical movement.31 In its pamphlet form the sermon appears with the title A Sermon on Relics, decorated with excess/ On the Holy Cross in the Churches. Over a simple woodcut image of the crucifixion appears an epigraph: “Don’t adorn the picture, only remember the poor.”32 In the body of the sermon the reformer announces his topic by highlighting in its first sentence that there is a great abuse that has sprung up from the holy cross. He recounts the historical circumstances of its origin in the (Byzantine) Roman emperor Heraclius’s order to portray the cross on his banner in commemoration of his victory over Persia, and then launches into his warning against the idolatrous piety of his day: Now as you know, in every matter that God addresses, always the evil spirit has wanted to mimic God and do it as well, so that there is nothing so great that the devil does not want to do it and to pull the people from the right way to misuse and foolishness. We see this with his holy cross, also with his dear saints, yes, even with his holy name. As you know that God has commanded us to honor the saints, here the devil has led us to make a commotion [ain geplerr gemacht] and had us lift up our eyes so that we have fallen before the dead and have left the living forgotten.33

From this introduction Luther proceeds to display the abuses associated with the holy cross and then to speak on its proper use. First, Christ has not commanded that his physical, wooden cross be taken up by Christians, but rather they are commanded to deny themselves, take up their (own) cross, and follow Christ (Mt 16:24). Instead of this, wooden crosses are endowed in churches and exterThirteenth Sunday after Pentecost (Lk 10:23–37). As the printed sermon makes clear, Luther originally preached on both Gospel texts, though the first only implicitly and topically; he marks the transition to the parable of the Good Samaritan with the exhortation, “So muss ich dann nach folgen, gleich wie Cristus seyn leyden hat getragen gantz und gar umbsunst, nit im sunder uns, also mustu auch thun und im nachfolgen, gantz und gar umb sunst leiden und nit ain schalckhafftig auge haben, nit mit gerucht, das dich got darum preyssen sol, sonder dem nechsten zu lieben, das das Euangelium auff komme, das man dir nachfolge und ain gut exempl nem, also muss es in der liebe daher geen. Das ist nun von dem hailigen creütz gesagt, nun auffs Euangelium.” WA 10/III: 337.27–338.2. 31   I have found the sermon treated only in Lennart Pinomaa, Die Heiligen bei Luther, Schriften der Luther-Agricola-Gesellschaft A16 (Helsinki: Luther-Agricola-Gesellschaft, 1977), 81–82. 32   “Ain Sermon von den hayltumben unnd gezierd mit uberfluss/ Vom hailigen Creutz in den kirchen. Geprediget von Doctor Martini Lutter. Im Jar. M. D. XXii. Nit zyer die bildtnus Gedenck nun der armen. [Holzschnitt] Vuittemberg.” WA 10/III:CLVIII. 33   “Nun wie ir wisst das in allen stucken die got angeen ymmertzu der böse geist hat wellen got nach machen und auch nach thun, das nichs ist So gross dem teüfel, hat es auch wellen nach thun und die leüt also von dem rechten weeg ziehen auff missbrauch und narrhait, das sehen wir an seynem hailing creütz, auch an seinen lieben hailigen, ja auch an seinem heyligen namen, wie ir dann wisst das uns got begoten hat die hailigen zu eeren, da hatt uns der teüffel ain geplerr gemacht und die augen empor gehaben, das wir auff die todten gefallen sein und haben der lebendigen vergessen.” WA 10/III:332.8–16.

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nally shown reverence through decorations of gold, silver, and precious stones, “even unto superabundance, as here at Wittenberg the spike on the crown of thorns is endowed and many fees and revenue [vil zynss unnd rendt] directed toward it.”34 Now it would not be good, Luther goes on to say, to step on the holy cross; one should honor it. “But to fall before it, to endow churches with it, to place in it the blessedness of souls, and meanwhile the real and more necessary cross to leave ignored, that is not right.”35 Such a conception is rather the source of all sorts of abuses: the poor are left to sit there while the indulgence idols – for Luther, the bishops – grant indulgences. Other abuses include pilgrimages, a view that God’s grace is given so that the holy cross might be prayed for, and that there are so many pieces of the holy cross in the world that one could build a house from them ( just as one could reckon that St. Barbara had seven heads from all the relics thereof ), etc. .  .  .36 “God has blinded us so,” Luther proclaimed, “for as we seek him, so he finds us again. We want to be fools, so he lets us remain fools.”37 This fulfills the saying of the apostle Paul (2 Thes 2:1–12) that God sends a crafty error so that they believe the lies. “For if one preaches that we should help the poor, .  .  . that goes in one ear and out the other. Therefore, when they urge God’s commands, seek God’s eyes and further his works – that we let lie and on this account God plagues us, that we must accept lies, serve idols, pray to stone and wood. .  .  .”38 All this is the first abuse of the cross, that people think they do more by decorating 34   “Zum ersten: Cristus hat sein creütz getragen, das ist das holtz, darauff er gestorben ist für all unser sünd. Das creütz das er getragen hat, das ist uns nit befolhen zu tragen, es wirt auch nit grosse belonung haben, so manss gleich tregt, sonder unser creutz, wie er selber sagt Math. xvi. ‘Wer mir wil nachfolgen, der sehe das er sein creütz auff sych nem und folge mir nach.’ Darumb ist das der erst missbrauch, das man dem holtz Da got angehangen hat, kir­ chen styfft, Wie dann alhye das styfft auff die dürnen kron gestifft ist, Und seind dahyn gewent vil zynss und rendt.” WA 10/III:332.19–333.1. 35   “Nun das manns auch wolt mit fyessen tredtenn, Das wer nycht gütt: Das manns Eeret ist wol seyn, Aber das man darauff fallen will, darauf kirchen stiften und das recht darneben nach lassen, das ist nit recht.” WA 10/III:333.1–4. 36   “Da ist aber der missbrauch heer kommen, das wa man hat ain stücklen kinden überkommen, da ist vil sylber und gold zu geflogen, da hat man im kirchen gestifft und darneben die arme leüt lassen sytzen, da feynd die aplassnarren her kommen, die bischoff, und haben aplass darzu geben, das sy dem volck daz maul auff sperten das sy zu lieffen: Da kommen den die walfarten heer. Da hat dann got seyn gnad auch zu geben, das man etwenn von ainem galgen ain spon gehawen und für das heilig Creütz angebet, dann es seynnd der stuck in der welt sovil, das man ain haus darvon pawen künd, wann man sy alle hette, gleych wye Sant Barblen haupt so an vil enden ist, das wann mans rechnet, so hat sy wol syben haupt gehebt. Da hat man den mit orglen, syngen, lyrn, pfeiffen ain solch wesen angerich, das kayn mass hat.” WA 10/III:333.4–15. 37   “So hatt uns got geblent, denn wie wir in suchen, So syndt er uns wider: Narren, wöll wir sein, so Lasst e runs auch narren, also wirt erfült der spruch Pauli .ii. Thessa. Ii. .  .  .” WA 10/III:333.15–17. 38   “Da ists eben zugangen, dann wenn man prediget, man sol den armen helffen, wers bedarf, es sey an leib, weyb, kind und gsünd, das ist zu aim or eingegangen, zum anderen rauss. Also da Gots gebot hyn dryngen, gots augen hin sehen, sein werck hinfüren, das lassz

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the cross than by giving money to the poor.39 Such words are emphasized as a central theme in the sermon through the admonition appearing above the woodcut image of the crucified Christ on the title page of the published sermon pamphlet (see n. 32 above). In the sermon itself Luther goes on to suggest that God places no power in the external decoration but rather seeks the cross “carried only in the heart.” “Therefore I would prefer,” he concludes, “that no crown of thorns, yes, no holy cross were here. For there the people fall down [in worship] and decorate it with gold and silver, and let the poor people sit there.”40 Through skillful weaving of memorable phrases the reformer impresses upon his parishioners and readers the problem of idolatry in relation to the physical cross in churches on the very day it was to be exalted. For Luther the problem is not the image of the cross – indeed, the title page of the printed sermon displays a woodcut of precisely this image – but rather use of the cross as an object of veneration and costly decoration while the vocation of Christian discipleship is ignored. Luther’s analysis of the cross in Christian piety does not draw upon the traditional distinction between proper veneration of the thing and the worship that is to be directed beyond the thing to God alone, lest there be idolatry.41 Rather, for Luther the idolatry of such misuse of the cross is the replacing of God’s command for Christians to deny themselves and to take up their cross and wir lygen, darumb plagt uns auch got, das wir müssen lugen annemen, Götzen dienen, Stain unnd holtz anpetten, die weyl wir yenss nit achten .  .  .” WA 10/III:333:21–26. 39   A similar protest against the economic costs associated with the cult of images and other aspects of medieval piety became a significant theme articulated by iconoclasts, especially in Zurich. See Lee Palmer Wandel, Voracious Idols and Violent Hands: Iconoclasm in Reformation Zurich, Strasbourg, and Basel (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1994). Wandel concludes, “In Zurich, the ‘idols’ were voracious, stealing food and heat from needy human beings, the ‘true images of God.’ Of all the iconoclasts we have studied, those in Zurich most fully delineated a Christian economy, in which the material culture of Christianity was to be circulated for the maintenance of the human community and not the stone and wooden, the inanimate and artificial, cold and fixed images in the churches” (p.  190). 40   “Darumb merckt das das der erst missbrauch sey, daz man das holtz also schmuckt, Unnd denck das du vil Meer thust, So du arme leüten .x. Pfennyng gebst, Wann das du hyeher .xx. gebest. Dann got leydt nit macht daran, So du es schon nit eüsserlich schmuckest, Ja wann man gleich kains hete, sonder wann du es im hertzen tregst, darumb wolt ich das kaine dorne kron, Ja kain heilig Creütz yetz herfür kommen were. Denn da fallen sy hin und schuckens mit gold und sy lber und lassen die armen leüte darneben sytzen.” WA 10/ III:333.29–334.7. 41   Later in the sermon the reformer specifically rejects the orthodox theory in its Thomist form, which sought to protect the veneration of physical objects from the dangers of idolatrous worship: he calls the careful distinction between dulia and hyperdulia as worked out by Thomas Aquinas “yet another misuse” and “a younger devil,” its subtle manner of avoiding idolatrous (mis)use of images beyond the grasp of the “common man.” WA 10/III:335.9–16. A helpful description of various theories articulated in the history of Christianity that sought to preserve the cult of images from idolatry is Jean Wirth, “Soll man Bilder anbeten? Theorien zum Bilderkult bis zum Konzil von Trient,” in Bildersturm: Wahnsinn oder Gottes Wille? Katalog zur Ausstellung Bernisches Historisches Museum, Musée de l’Œuvre Notre-Dame, Strassburg, ed. Cécile Dupeux et al. (Zürich: NZZ Verlag, 2000), 28–37.

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follow Jesus – a command subsumed in the repeated refrain to give to the poor – with various means of endowing and adorning physical crosses and even collecting the pieces of what was said to be the wooden cross that Jesus bore. The reformer makes clear that it is not the physical object or even the festival of the holy cross that is the problem – rather it is the misuse of both cross and festival that derives from a problem of the heart. It is a form of idolatry that occurs as God’s commands are displaced by human attempts to honor God by means of pious veneration of a physical object reminiscent of (or that is regarded as a piece of ) the cross that Jesus bore and on which he died for the atonement of human sin. This idolatry associated with the image is the result of God’s judgment against hearts hardened against his commands, which Luther in his Romans lectures years before had described as putting self-will and prudence at the center of human activity. As Luther continues in this sermon he specifically applies these principles regarding the holy cross to all relics. For, he says, “a relic is nothing other than a seduction of believers.”42 In support of his argument he appeals to one of the church’s earliest iconoclasts, Vigilantius, against whose work St. Jerome wrote “so sharply that I wish he [ Jerome] had rather yielded.” Luther opines, “If Vigilantius’s book were extant, as is that of Jerome, I hold that he would have written much more christianly [about relics] than Jerome.”43 Luther calls it stupidity and blasphemy and an “unchristian trade” that holy bones are venerated while the neighbor right there is despised; he would prefer that the bones stay in the ground so that the misuse of them remains buried while works of love emerge.44 For relics replace in the minds and hearts of Christians the true “holy thing” that God has placed before every Christian as a means of exercising veneration and love for God: 42   “Nun was ich Von dem heyligen Creütz gesagt hab, das will ich gesagt haben von allem haylthumb, dann hayltumb ist nit anders dann verfürung der gleübygen, darumb ymmer mit under die erden.” WA 10/III:334.12–14. 43   “Davon hat auch geschriben Vigilancius, wider den hat sich hart gelect Jeronimus, Das ich wolt Er hätt es nach gelassen. Und wann Vigilancius buch verhanden wer wie Jeronimus, ich halt er wurd vil Chrystelicher darvon geschriben haben dann Jheronimus.” WA 10/ III:334.14–18. Pinomaa references Jerome, Ep.  109 (Die Heiligen bei Luther, 81–82) but Luther is clearly referring specifically to Jerome’s Contra Vigilantium. MPL 23:339–352C. On Vigilantius and others’ opposition to “idolatry” in the transitional fourth century, “an age of excitement and controversy, like a stream, which, turning from its true course, traces its direction through unhealthy grounds, cannot roll on, without carrying in its channel much that is turbulent and impure,” see W. S. Gilly, Vigilantius and His Times (London: Seeley, Burnside, and Seeley, 1844) (quote from p.  2). For a modern analysis, see Patricia Cox Mil­ler, The Corporeal Imagination: Signifying the Holy in Late Ancient Christianity (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2009). 44   “Es ist wol war, Es ist hailig der hailigen gebayn, aber darauf zu fallen und den nechsten verachten, das ist unchristlicher handel. Darumb das die missbreych da hinden bleyben und die werck der liebe herfürgangen, so wolt ich das es under der erde leg.” WA 10/III:334.18– 21.

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Indeed, one cannot take the blindness out of our eyes, so that we cannot make the distinction between which would be better: The poor man is there, there lives God’s Word within, body and soul together – this is the living relic. But we forsake him, and run out and gild a dead bone. Oh, how blind we are, and senseless, that we so despise the relic of the gospel! For what more can Saint Peter possess than you and me? He may indeed possess more gifts and have done more powerful works, but the faith that he has is directed to Christ precisely as is ours. He has the same Christ, the same Spirit, that we have, so we believe. Why then do I want to give honor to another? Therefore note well how people have esteemed as precious ore all the bellowing and honor (given) to the dead saints – and the honor that one does for the neighbor, you treasure that instead, as gold and a precious gem, and the poorer he is the more you should help him. Now you can indeed keep in mind what you should believe about cloisters, which come here and make a commotion and leave the people’s eyes gaping. In them the Franciscans, the Augustinians, the Benedictines pose high (and holy), but of this nothing has been commanded us.45

With such words Luther completely rejects the ancient concept of relics as bearers of holiness, as means of access to divine power. He rejects as well the monastic movement and its spiritual elites who strive for and are credited in Luther’s day with a higher form of divine holiness by virtue of their religious vocation, accessible to more mundane Christian piety by means of veneration and honor. Luther retorts that none of this is commanded by God; it is rather a replacing of God’s command with human inventions and empty promises, a distracting from the essential command to love the neighbor and despising of the true “living relic” that God has placed in this world as a physical means of receiving the love he has commanded.46 By siding with Vigilantius over Jerome, Luther wholeheartedly rejects what Patricia Cox Miller calls the “material turn” that became a central part of the Catholic tradition in the fourth through seventh centuries, that investing of physical “things” with spiritual significance and power that is accessible through various practices of piety.47 45

  “Ey kan man nit uns ain mal die blynthait auss den Augen nemmen, Das wir ain underschaid machten wellichs besser wer: der arme ist da, da lebt gots wort in, leib und seel ist bey ain ander, ist das lebendige hayltumb: den verlasst man und laufft da hin und übergylt ain todpeyn. Ach wie blind sey wir und unsynnig, das wir das hohe hailtumb des Euangelii also verachten. Dann was kan S. Peter meer haben wann ich und du? Eer mag wol meer gaben haben und krefftiger werck gethon, aber der glauben den er hat ist gleich so in Cristum ge­ rycht als unser, hat eben den Cristum, eben den gaist, den wir haben, so wir glauben. Ey warum wil ich denn eer geben ainem anderen? darum merck man das, das man allen gepler und eere der todten heiligen achte wie ertz, und die eer die man dem nechsten thut, schetz wie gold und edel gstain, und ye ärmer er ist ye meer du solt helffen. Nun kündt ir wol mercken was ir solt halten von klöstern, die kommen heer und machen das geplerr und sperren den leüten die augen auff, in dem der Franciscum, der ander Augustinum, der drit Benedictum hoch auff würfft, darvon doch uns nichs befolhen ist.” WA 10/III:334.21–335.8. 46   On the many concrete initiatives to care for the poor brought about by the Reformation, see Carter Lindberg, Beyond Charity: Reformation Initiatives for the Poor (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1993). 47   Miller, Corporeal Imagination, passim.

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In so doing Luther and the communities following him were hardly “meandering close” to the stream of Catholic piety48 that made material objects the means of spiritual access to the divine. Luther, like other Evangelical reformers of his generation and beyond, protested this piety as a charade of human invention, distracting from the Word of God and the needs of one’s neighbor – that is, the spiritual and physical means God has instituted for the increase of faith and the exercise of love. In particular, Luther would have all relics that the common man associates with miracles and pilgrimage removed: “Therefore one ought to send all these nuisances on their way and teach only the unglossed faith; that’s why I would have it that all crosses be overthrown that have sweat or bled, and with them the pilgrimages and the bellowing that has arisen, which has made for such great error and misuse.”49 In the sermon Luther turns next to describe “the correct discovery and lifting up of the holy cross,” which he interprets from the command of Christ that every Christian discover and lift up his own cross – this cross is the one “that you should make holy, as [Christ] has sanctified his [own cross] with flesh and blood.” The Christian’s cross is not grasped with the hand or found through a pilgrimage to Jerusalem; it is grasped through experience.50 Luther’s “theology of the cross” comes to the fore in this sermon as he identifies the experience of suffering in varying forms sent by God as the cross properly taken up and borne by Christians: To find is to recognize – when you know that God has sent this to you, then you have found it with the heart. .  .  . Now the cross is that which first of all would be suffering and pain, then with the disgrace and dishonor before us, as Christ suffers. .  .  . When I stand there and suffer and all the people sing, jump and say, “it has happened justly to him, yes, he has deserved even more,” as happened to the apostles .  .  . that is the right cross.51 48

  Eire, War against the Idols, 2.   “Darum solt man die ergernus alle auss dem weg thun und allein den blossen glauben leren, darum wolt ich das man alle creütz umbstürtzt, die also gschwitzt haben und geblut, damit dann die walfarten und das gepler auf kommen ist, das da solchen grosen irtumb und missbreüch gemacht hat.” WA 10/III:335.17–20. Such an approach toward the removal of certain images can only be viewed as inconsistent by ignoring or minimizing Luther’s clear distinction between a religious image and its abuse. Cp. Eire, War against the Idols, 71. 50   “Nun wellen wir die rechte erfyndung und erhebung des heiligen creützs auch suchen. Nun Cristus hat befolhen das yetlicher sein aigen creütz sol erfinden und erheben, wie er seins erfunden hat, das soltu hailgen wie er seins geheiligt hat mit flaisch und blut, wa fynstus aber? Du darffft nit ayn spaden in die hand nemen und tieff graben, nit reyten gen Jerusalem, sondern erfinden ist erkantnus. Wann mir got ein unglück zuschickt, es sey kranckeit, schaden am leib und gut, durch bess leüt: da grab das duss findest.” WA 10/III:335.21–27. 51   “Finden ist erkennen, wann du das weisst das dirss got hat zu gfügt, so hasts funden mit dem hertzen, .  .  . Nun das creütz ist das, das es zum ersten sey ain leiden und thü wee, darnach mit schmach und schanden vor uns, als dann Cristus leiden. Das was mit grosser schmachait, es kun des niemant preissen, ja yederman sagt “er helf im nun selbs,” das ist ain war creütz, da leget er nit ain yetlichen aufs creütz. Wann ich da stee und leyde und hab die mich ­schmucken und schmehen, das ist ein schlecht creütz, sonder wenn ich da stee und leyd und 49

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Thus Luther identifies as the true cross of discipleship not just any suffering but suffering that includes disgrace and insult, grasped alone with the heart and recognized as imposed by God, even as it is experienced through the hatred and persecution of human beings. He gives as an example of such suffering those true Christians who are damned and burned by the pope as if they were the devil’s own – and all the while “the whole world falls upon them and says: ‘To them it has happened justly.’” But Christ himself is the perfect example of this kind of cross-bearing, and the surprising turn of events in his life stands as a promise for Christians: “For while he lived, there stood all the world against him, but as soon as he was dead, then everything turned around and sun and moon and all creatures testified to his guiltlessness, as the centurion said, ‘He was truly God’s Son.’”52 As Luther continues to explain in the rest of this part of the sermon, this kind of finding and taking up the cross is quite different from the experience of the emperor Heraclius, who exalted the cross in victory, or of the Stationirer – that is, mendicant friars who travelled with relics.53 This kind of cross-bearing is not external at all but internal: The external produces money (as with the Stationirer); the internal praises God and adorns heaven. Therefore the true holy cross is discovered and lifted up when you recognize it and are in the faith, and thank God that he has laid it upon you; thus you sanctify it with the heart, as Christ has sanctified his. Christ’s blood and suffering have sanctified you; so you approach, and sanctify your cross with your heart, when you willingly and kindly accept what God inflicts upon you.54

So Luther’s inversion of the idolatrous misuse of the holy cross turns not on the removal or destruction of the thing but the transformation of the experience it represents. Indeed, the image of the cross and even of the crucifix with Christ portrayed in his suffering – as in the woodcut print adorning the title page of this printed sermon – can be a means of inspiring this Christian experience of bearing the cross. But Luther’s war against the idolatrous piety of his day is manifest as he exposes and labels as foolishness, deception, and the judgment of all leüt dartzu singen, spryngen und sagen: dem ist recht geschehen, ja er het noch wol meer verdient, wie den apostle ist gschehen. .  .  . Das ist das recht creütz .  .  .” WA 10/III:335.28– 336.12. 52   “Das bschach auch Cristo, den weil er lebt, da stund all welt wider in, aber alsbald da er gestorben was, da want sich als umb und zaigt sein unschuld sonn und mon und alle creatur, das auch der Centurio sprach ‘der ist warlich gots sun gwesst.’” WA 10/III:336.26–337.1. 53   Alfred Götze, Frühneuhochdeutsches Glossar, 7th ed., Kleine Texte für Vorlesungen und Übungen 101 (Berlin: Verlag Walter de Gruyter & Co., 1967), 207. 54   “Das geet je nit eüsserlich zu Sonder innerlich. Das eüsserlich gibt geltt (als Stacionarii), Das ynnerlich preysset got und schmuckt den hymel. Darum ist das das recht hailig creutz erfunden und erhaben, wann du es erkennst und bist im glauben und danckst got, das er dirss hat aufgelegt, so hayligests mit dem hertzen, wie Cristus seyns geheiliget hat. Cristus blut und leiden hat dich gehailigt, so förstu zu und hailigst mit deinem hertzen dein creütz also, wenn du den willig und freintlich annimpft was dir got zufügt.” WA 10/III:337.11–18.

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God the abuses associated with physical crosses adorning the churches, and the pieces of the True Cross and relics, whose veneration was sought in pilgrimages and through which divine power was promised. On account of such abuses Luther says at one point in the sermon that he would prefer that no crown of thorns or cross remain in the church.55 But the reformer by September 1522 has not advocated the removal of all such objects from the physical space of the Wittenberg church (or elsewhere); instead, he has repudiated both violent iconoclastic acts and legally imposed removal of images, as advocated by Karlstadt and others in the Wittenberg movement. This difference of opinion and eventual division within the evangelical movement often has been attributed to Luther’s harsh personal leadership and even arrogance. Such a view is endorsed by Hendrix in Recultivating the Vineyard, even as he seeks to explain it through Luther’s perception of himself as an apostle called by God, which led to “an exaggerated sense of personal entitlement to leadership of the movement.”56 Whether it was Luther or Karlstadt who more arrogantly exaggerated his own role is debatable, but in any case this kind of judgment fails to consider fully how deeply Luther’s understanding of the problem of idolatry differed from that of Karlstadt and others. This difference became more evident after Karlstadt’s departure from Wittenberg to pursue his own agenda for reform in Orlamünde, and it was exacerbated by iconoclastic violence in the early 1520s and by calls for a violent overturning of the social and economic order by Thomas Müntzer and the growing revolutionary movement that came to its climax in 1525 – forms of popular unrest that Luther did not distinguish carefully. More importantly, however, is that Luther’s understanding of Christian theology and practice – and therefore his agenda of Christianization – was contradicted by the spiritualized interpretation of the sacraments of baptism and the Lord’s Supper that began in the German evangelical movement with Karlstadt and turned into a major division of the Reformation through the Swiss reform movement led by Ulrich Zwingli and others. Our focus is on Luther’s understanding of idolatry but at this point it is essential to grasp the position he found himself opposing. By August 1524 Thomas Müntzer’s activities in Thuringia, Saxony, were notorious for their calls for violence – and Luther responded with a preaching tour wherein he preached “against the spirits.” A report recounting his sermon in Jena on 22 August and his subsequent meeting with Karlstadt, who was there clandestinely in the audience, notes that in the sermon Luther had “said it would be equally the work and fruit of this spirit to tear down churches, images, wood and stone, and in short to take away, to root out and completely bring to naught baptism and the sacrament 55

  See n. 40 above.   Hendrix, Recultivating the Vineyard, 54–55. See also the judgments of Luther’s personality and actions in Mark U. Edwards, Luther and the False Brethren (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1975). 56

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of the altar .  .  .”57 Karlstadt perceived that he was being lumped together with Müntzer’s call for violent rebellion, and in a letter to Luther sent by a messenger he asked for a meeting at the Black Bear Inn in Jena that same day.58 The anonymous report of the meeting was later published, sympathetic to Karlstadt but apparently accurately conveying the tenor and conduct of the meeting, which shows the deep personal resentment that had developed by this time between the two former colleagues. Most significant is that while Karlstadt conveys in this interview his resentment at being characterized as a violent spirit, he acknowledges that his writings on the sacrament are now the issue of contention between him and Luther.59 Luther denies that he had ever named Karlstadt in the sermon but replies that Karlstadt’s inference that he was meant amounts to self-accusation. The issue of idolatry in relation to the sacrament of the altar comes to the fore as Karlstadt attacks Luther’s teaching: “Yes, I will prove with [your doctrine of ] the sacrament how you preached Christ – that is, whether you have preached the crucified Christ or rather a self-invented Christ. You have preached against yourself as it can be read from your books.”60 The end of this tense meeting found Luther issuing a challenge to Karlstadt to attack his doctrine publicly, giving him a gulden as a token of the challenge.61 Karlstadt responded to this challenge by issuing eight tracts, one of which, entitled Whether One Should Proceed Slowly .  .  ., was his response to Luther’s early criticism in the Invocavit sermons of the Wittenberg reforms Karlstadt had championed. The tract is throughout a justification for an immediate and uncompromising obedience to God’s law, which Karlstadt understands to require the removal of images.62 Addressed to a city clerk in the town of Joachimstal by 57

  The Acta Jenensia, or “What Dr. Andreas Bodenstein von Karlstadt Talked Over with Dr. Martin Luther at Jena, and How They Have Decided to Write against Each Other” (1524), in Sider, Karlstadt’s Battle with Luther: Documents in a Liberal-Radical Debate, 38. The subtitle and introduction to this collection illustrate the anachronistic manner with which several scholars have sought to characterize the divisions of the early Reformation. The German text of this report is in WA 15:334–40. 58   Sider, Karlstadt’s Battle with Luther, 37. 59   According to the report Karlstadt noted in his opening statement, “He who wants to associate me and put me in the same pot with such murdering spirits ascribes that to me without truth and not as an honest man. I know, however, that you had me in mind and that I can apply the things you said to myself because you spoke of the sacrament and attacked me too strongly. I say what I truly know, that is, that no one has written of this in conformity with the apostles in the manner, meaning, and ground as I have. .  .  . But I deny that it is a murdering spirit and, as you said today, one and the same spirit as at Allstedt. For he has nothing in common with me in my discussion of the sacrament.” Ibid., 40. 60   Ibid., 42. 61   Karlstadt’s writings previously had been censored in Saxony. 62   Characteristic is the following attack against Luther’s appeal in the Invocavit sermons to implement reforms only as people are carefully taught and prepared for such changes: “To be specific, I ask whether I should leave idols standing which God commands me to take away until all the weak follow in their removal?” Quoted from Sider, Karlstadt’s Battle with Luther, 53.

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the name of Bartel Bach, Karlstadt urges Bach not to go with the majority view – testimony to the apparent success by this time of Luther’s call for ordered and gradual reform throughout Saxony – or to bow to the opinions of the “princes among the learned” but rather to consider only the commands of God. “Each community, that is, every community in its city, is responsible to restrain the error,” Karlstadt writes, and he and the community under his leadership in Orlamünde “were not obliged to refrain either in teaching or activity from carrying out God’s commands until our neighbors and the guzzlers at Wittenberg followed.”63 In another tract on The Anti-Christian Misuse of the Lord’s Bread and Cup, Karlstadt repudiated his own previous views, as well as Luther’s, that the Lord’s Supper is a sacramental meal conveying the promise of forgiveness of sins, calling it “a common and dreadful injury that our Christians seek forgiveness of sins in the sacrament” and articulating a theology that has been described as spiritualist in one form or another.64 Luther’s response, his 1525 treatise Against the Heavenly Prophets in the Matter of Images and Sacraments, reflects the chasm that by then had emerged between the two former colleagues, and its title shows the close relationship between images and sacraments that is operative in the thought of both of them.65 At the center of his argument is the different understanding of idolatry that is operative in the two theologians and their goals for reform. Luther views Karlstadt’s interpretation of the Sacrament as mere bread and wine as simply in accord with reason, but the Word of God and reason, Luther insists, are two teachings that must be separated, the one “to govern the conscience in the spirit before God; the other, [reason,] which teaches of things external or works.” In Luther’s understanding, Karlstadt and others are “honor-seeking prophets who do nothing but break images, destroy churches, manhandle the sacrament, and seek a new kind of mortification, that is, a self-chosen putting to death of the flesh.”66 63   Ibid., 62, 56. Original text in Karlstadts Schriften aus den Jahren 1523–25, ed. Erich Hertzsch (Halle: Veb Max Niemeyer Verlag, 1956), 1:73–97. Though the German word (die schlemmer, p.  8 0) can refer more generally to “gluttons” I wonder if the phrase “guzzlers at Wittenberg” in the latter quotation (previous in the text) is not a jab at Luther’s statement (according to some versions of the sermon) in the second of the Invocavit sermons: “In short, I will preach it, teach it, write it, but I will constrain no man by force, for faith must come freely without compulsion. Take myself as an example. .  .  . I simply taught, preached, and wrote God’s Word; otherwise I did nothing. And while I slept .  .  . or drank Wittenberg beer with my friends Philip and Amsdorf, the Word so greatly weakened the papacy that no prince or emperor ever inflicted such losses upon it.” LW 51:77; cp. WA 10/III:18.36–38 (which lacks the comment about drinking beer with Melanchthon and Amsdorf ). 64   On the taxonomy of Reformation radicals see especially George Huntston Williams, The Radical Reformation, 3rd ed., Sixteenth Century Essays and Studies 15 (Kirksville, MO: Sixteenth Century Essays & Studies, 1992); for clarifying such a term with respect to Karlstadt, see Sider, Andreas Bodenstein von Karlstadt, 1–6 and passim. 65   The first lines (after the salutation) of the treatise read: “Doctor Andreas Karlstadt has deserted us, and on top of that has become our worst enemy.” LW 40:79; WA 18:62.6–7. 66   LW 40:81; WA 18:63.31–33.

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In this way Luther announces his main criticism of the iconoclasts of the early Reformation: that they misconstrue the true source and danger of idolatry, and as a result fight against those physical means (the sacraments of baptism and the Lord’s Supper, with their physical elements of water and bread and wine connected with the Word of God) that God has instituted as instruments of salvation. Luther charges that they replace his evangelical doctrine of the promises of God received by faith with a doctrine of obedience to the law and works, including self-chosen forms of spiritual mortification. In a section “On the Destruction of Images” Luther writes of his different understanding and goals: I approached the task of destroying images by first tearing them out of the heart through God’s Word and making them worthless and destroyed. This indeed took place before Dr. Karlstadt ever dreamed of destroying images. For when they are no longer in the heart, they can do no harm when seen with the eyes. But Dr. Karlstadt, who pays no attention to matters of the heart, has reversed the order by removing them from sight and leaving them in the heart. For he does not preach faith, nor can he preach it; unfortunately, only now do I see that. Which of these two forms of destroying images is best, I will let each man judge for himself.67

The problem, in Luther’s understanding, is that Karlstadt interprets both the law of Moses and the gospel ineptly. Against Karlstadt’s interpretation that God’s law commands the destruction of all images as idols, Luther retorts that only images that are worshiped are forbidden by God’s law; “a crucifix, on the other hand, or any other holy image is not forbidden. Heigh now! you breakers of images, I defy you to prove the opposite!”68 He cites as an example the bronze serpent made by Moses, and destroyed by Hezekiah only centuries later “solely because it had been worshiped.”69 “The meaning,” Luther later explains, “is not that I wish to defend images, as has been sufficiently indicated. Rather, murderous spirits are not to be permitted to create sins and problems of conscience where none exist, and murder souls without necessity.” While Karlstadt is focusing on obedience to laws (and that not even correctly, with the result that he is “not even a Mosaic teacher”), Luther is concerned with the Christian message of grace and freedom: .  .  . to speak evangelically of images, I say and declare that no one is obligated to break violently images even of God, but everything is free, and one does not sin if he does not break them with violence. One is obligated, however, to destroy them with the Word of God, that is, not with the law in a Karlstadtian manner, but with the gospel. This means to instruct and enlighten the conscience that it is idolatry to worship them, or to trust in them, since one is to trust alone in Christ. Beyond this let the external matters take their course.70 67

  LW 40:84, emphasis added; WA 18:67.8–17.   LW 40:85–86; WA 18:68.29–31. 69   LW 40:87; WA 18:70.1–3. 70   LW 40:90–91; WA 18:73.11–14, 24–30; 74.3–10. 68

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In this way Luther combats Karlstadt’s error as a confusion of law and gospel that results in the destruction of the gospel and Christian freedom. While the pope destroyed Christian freedom by inventing commandments through the requirement of human traditions, Karlstadt does so by prohibitions of images and of elevating the Sacrament, which Luther understands as matters of freedom. Luther states that he is advocating a “middle course .  .  . we are neither papist nor Karlstadtian, but free and Christian .  .  .”71 In Luther’s view Karlstadt is not merely mistaken but “has fallen from the kingdom of Christ and suffered shipwreck with respect to faith.”72 Luther’s characterization of Karlstadt in this way reflects his core convictions about Christianity and therefore his agenda for the Reformation, and these convictions are minimized by analyses that attribute his motivations and actions either to characteristics of personality (and even personality disorder) or to his self-image as an apostle called by God to personal leadership of the evangelical movement.73 In the second part of the treatise where Luther more specifically answers Karlstadt’s writings on the sacraments,74 he charges that Karlstadt’s spiritualist understanding of the sacraments replaces Christ’s word of promise, which brings the benefits of the cross to those receiving the sacraments in faith, with human works of meditation and remembrance.75 Luther makes clear that his teaching is not that the physical elements of the Sacrament effect forgiveness but rather the Word of God connected to those elements: Our teaching is that bread and wine do not avail. I will go still farther. Christ on the cross and all his suffering and his death do not avail, even if, as you teach, they are “acknowledged and meditated upon” with the utmost “passion, ardor, heartfeltness.” Something else must always be there. What is it? The Word, the Word, the Word. Listen, lying spirit, the Word avails. Even if Christ were given for us and crucified a thousand times, it would all be in vain if the Word of God were absent and were not distributed and given to me with the bidding, this is for you, take what is yours.76

In Luther’s understanding, made clear throughout this treatise, both Karlstadt’s conception that all images are idolatrous and his spiritualist interpretation of the 71

  LW 40:127–130, quote at 130; WA 18:112.34–35.   LW 40:139; WA 18:121.15–16. 73   For the former analysis, see Edwards, Luther and the False Brethen, 1–59 and 210n6; for the latter, see n. 56 above. 74   The editor of the treatise in LW notes that “almost without exception” Luther is referring to only one of the four treatises Karlstadt wrote on the sacraments in 1524, his Dialogus ode rein Gesprächbüchlein von dem greulichen und abgöttischen Missbrauch des hochwürdigen Sakraments Jesu Christi.” LW 40:145n99. 75   “With all this mouthing of the words, ‘Spirit, Spirit, Spirit,’ he tears down the bridge, the path, the way, the ladder, and all the means by which the Spirit might come to you. Instead of the outward order of God in the material sign of baptism and the oral proclamation of the Word of God he wants to teach you, not how the Spirit comes to you but how you come to the Spirit.” LW 40:147, emphasis added; WA 18:137.12–16. 76   LW 40:212–13; WA 18:202.32–203.2. 72

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sacraments are grounded not in a right interpretation of Scripture, of the law of Moses or the gospel of Christ, but rather in human reason and therefore in a salvation achieved through human efforts, which for Luther is the real idolatry. Reading Karlstadt’s writings in this period, it is difficult to imagine that Luther could have managed any other reaction than that his former colleague’s conception of reform was a turn back to a religion of law and works, precisely that conception of the church and salvation from which Luther had been freed through his own evangelical breakthrough and his excommunication by the papal magisterium. Though the charge that Karlstadt is an idolater does not come forth overtly in Against the Heavenly Prophets, it is implied through Luther’s exposition of idolatry as self-will over against the commands and promises of God as revealed in the law and the gospel. For this is precisely how Luther understands the convictions that Karlstadt was expressing at this time. Though it was Karlstadt and not Luther who was labeling his former colleague’s movement a “new papism,” Luther’s response to Karlstadt’s writings shows that he viewed the latter’s movement as a turning back to works-righteousness, whether that be in the form of requiring Christians to remove images or be damned as spiritual adulterers; or in the form of inventing a prohibition against elevating the consecrated bread and wine of the Sacrament; or in the form of participating in the atoning work of the cross of Christ, and thereby receiving forgiveness, through the mental act of remembrance and arduous, passionate meditation rather than receiving the sacraments of baptism and the Lord’s Supper with faith in God’s promises given there through the Word.

The Persistence of Luther’s Teaching against Idolatry Luther grew so deeply troubled by and wrote so vigorously against the “violence of the spirits” in the mid-1520s that in many ways scholars have characterized him as a reactionary and have even endorsed the taunts of Karlstadt and Müntzer that the Wittenberg reformer betrayed the communal and populist impulses of the early evangelical movement to become a “lackey to princes.”77 But although Luther could have blunted his public criticism of the widespread idolatry of his day in favor of “going slowly” and letting the authorities quietly carry out reforms more in keeping with his own convictions, the reformer continued frequently to teach and write publicly against idolatry while sharply distinguishing his understanding of it from the iconoclastic movements that 77   In addition to that of Karlstadt and Müntzer, this charge is often leveled by theologians and reformers of the Reformed tradition, and presently is formulated most articulately by social historians. See for example Peter Blickle, Communal Reformation: The Quest for Salvation in Sixteenth-Century Germany, trans. Thomas Dunlap (Atlantic Highlands, NJ, and London: Humanities Press, 1992).

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focused their attack on images. Characteristic of his attitude is the Personal Prayer Book Luther published in 1523, in which he included (in some editions) an illustrated Passional depicting with images the sufferings of the Savior, and prefaced it with the comment, I don’t care if the iconoclasts condemn and reject this. They do not need our advice and we don’t want theirs, so it is easy for us to part company. I have always condemned and criticized the misuse of [religious] pictures and the false confidence placed in them and all the rest. But whatever is no misuse of pictures I have always permitted and urged the use of for beneficial and edifying results. This is the way we teach our common people; those clever fellows shall be neither our pupils nor our masters.78

Also in the Large Catechism, published in 1529, Luther explored richly the problem of idolatry in his exposition of the First Commandment, defining the command to have no other gods not in relation to physical objects – images and physical idols or statues are completely bypassed in Luther’s exposition – but in terms of what is in the heart: “it is the trust and faith of the heart alone that make both God and an idol. .  .  . Anything on which your heart relies and depends, I say, that is really your God.”79 The most common idol in the world is mammon, “money and property .  .  . on which they set their whole heart,” while under the papacy there are countless “abominations” where the trust of the heart is placed “elsewhere than in the true God, from whom they neither expect nor seek any good thing.”80 Pagans placed their trust “in power and dominion” and their various gods, fashioning idols in their imagination about God. For “idolatry does not consist merely of erecting an image and praying to it, but it is primarily a matter of the heart .  .  .”81 In Luther’s understanding, the greatest false worship and idolatry is a “conscience that seeks help, comfort, and salvation in its own works and presumes to wrest heaven from God.” Upon this idolatry the religious orders are established and the piety of Christians is focused on keeping track of endowments, fasts, celebrations of the mass as a sacrifice, and meritorious works rather than receiving gifts from God.82 In the sacramentarian controversy and Luther’s meeting with Ulrich Zwingli, John Oecolampadius, and Martin Bucer at the Marburg Colloquy in 1529, contrasting understandings of idolatry played a central role, with Luther clearly on the defensive as his persistence in confessing the presence of Christ’s true body and blood in the bread and wine of the Sacrament was attacked as a return

78

  LW 43:43; WA 10/II:459.3–10.   LC, Ten Commandments, 2. All quotations of the Large Catechism are from The Book of Concord: The Confessions of the Evangelical Lutheran Church, ed. Robert Kolb and Timothy J. Wengert, trans. Charles Arand et al. (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2000). 80   LC, Ten Commandments, 6, 11–12. 81   LC, Ten Commandments, 18–21. 82   LC, Ten Commandments, 22–23. 79

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to papist idolatry.83 The chasm that existed between Luther’s conception and that of his opponents is exhibited most clearly not in a debate about the “mode” of Christ’s presence but in whether the Supper is to be interpreted on the basis of the words of institution, which Luther chalked on the table in Marburg, or an interpretation of spirit and flesh in John 6, from which Zwingli and Oecolampadius never budged.84 This difference finally came to dramatic confrontation in Zwingli’s outburst, “That passage will break your neck!” (for which he later apologized) and, more importantly, Oecolampadius’s exhortation to Luther, “You should not cling to the humanity and the flesh of Christ, but rather lift up your mind to his divinity” – to which Luther replied, “I do not know of any God except him who was made flesh, nor do I want to have another.”85 Luther’s later response to Bucer that he had a different spirit was not mere name-calling, nor the assertion that only he (Luther) could lead the evangelical movement, but was his recognition of the divergent paths of the Wittenberg Reformation and those who insisted on a purely symbolic and spiritual interpretation of the sacraments.86 Asked by Bucer to confirm the orthodoxy of 83

  That Luther personally caused the division between the Lutheran and Reformed confessions during the Reformation is a persistent church-political myth that Hermann Sasse confronted in the mid-twentieth century. He writes, “What is most surprising to anyone who has been imbued with the popular legend that Luther was unable to keep peace, and is responsible, through his stubbornness, for the split between the churches of the Reformation, is the simple fact that for years Luther neither attacked Zwingli nor answered directly the attacks launched against him from Zurich and Strasburg. We have the strong impression that he tried to avoid a controversy with Zwingli. .  .  . But he refrained from mentioning the name of Zwingli in the second part of that book [Against the Heavenly Prophets], when he dealt with the denial of the Real Presence, although he had been informed about Zwingli’s doctrine since August 1524. Luther, as all modern scholars are agreed, was not the aggressor. On the other hand, Zwingli was so strongly convinced that his new understanding of the Lord’s Supper was the only possible one, being in agreement with the New Testament and, therefore, necessary for the fight against papal superstition and idolatry, that he could not avoid attacking what he believed to be a remnant of medieval superstition.” Hermann Sasse, This Is My Body: Luther’s Contention for the Real Presence in the Sacrament of the Altar (Minneapolis: Augsburg Publishing House, 1959), 111. 84   Luther had treated various possible “modes of Christ’s presence” in his 1528 treatise, Confession Concerning Christ’s Supper (LW 37:222–224), and these five paragraphs were quoted as the confession of the Lutheran church in the Formula of Concord (1577). See SD VII.94–103; Kolb and Wengert, Book of Concord, 609–611. At Marburg Luther simply confessed, “Therefore I will not anxiously discuss the mode of presence (modus praesentiae), whether the body of Christ be in a place or outside a place, because this is quite irrelevant. I do not, therefore, demand such arguments of reason, but clear and valid words from Scripture”; and “In Holy Scripture I do not admit mathematical dimensions. God is higher than all mathematicians. Christ can keep his body without space at a certain place. He is in the Sacrament [but] not as in a place.” Quoted in Sasse, This Is My Body, 202, 206. 85   Quoted in Sasse, This Is My Body, 196–97, 202. 86   That Zwingli’s concept of sacraments in general – and not just his understanding of the body of Christ as by definition finite and therefore in heaven and not on earth in the sacrament of the altar – contradicts definitively the Lutheran Reformation’s convictions of the sacraments as instruments of the Holy Spirit is manifest in his confession Fidei Ratio, deliv-

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other topics of his theology as he had confessed them at the Colloquy, Luther replied, I am neither your Lord, nor your judge, nor your teacher. Your spirit and our spirit cannot go together. Indeed, it is quite obvious that we do not have the same spirit. For there cannot be one and the same spirit where, on the one side, the words of Christ are accepted in sincere faith, and, on the other side, this faith is criticized, attacked, denied, and spoken of with frivolous blasphemies.87

Luther could not make common cause (which was the political goal of the Marburg Colloquy) with an agenda for reform that defined the sacraments in terms that separated Christ’s divinity from his humanity and treated as idolatrous Luther’s confession of the presence of the body and blood of Christ in the Supper instituted by the Lord on the night he was betrayed.88 As Hermann Sasse concluded, “Luther’s attitude at Marburg was not determined by obstinacy and stubbornness, but by respect for the words of Christ,” and he has been followed in this conviction by the Lutheran church and its confessions.89 But this separation from what has become known as the Reformed tradition in no way tempered Luther’s own persistent war against idolatry, nor that expressed in the Lutheran Confessions. Rather, in his later works Luther continued to expose “idolatry among Christians,” as he entitled a section of his ered to Charles V at the diet of Augsburg the following year: “I believe, indeed I know, that all the sacraments are so far from conferring grace that they do not even convey or dispense it.” Ulrich Zwingli, On Providence and Other Essays, ed. for Samuel Macauley Jackson by William John Hinke (Durham, NC: The Labyrinth Press, 1983 [1922]), 46. 87   Quoted in Sasse, This Is My Body, 213. Luther clearly viewed his conviction regarding the spiritual benefits of Christ’s flesh in the Sacrament (as opposed to seeing any number of “things” as mediators of spiritual power) as attacked from two opposite sides. See for example his open letter Whether One May Flee from a Deadly Plague (1527): “Satan is infuriated and perhaps he feels that the day of Christ is at hand. That is why he raves so fiercely and tries through the enthusiasts to rob us of the Savior, Jesus Christ. Under the papacy Satan was simply ‘flesh’ so that even a monk’s cap had to be regarded as sacred. Now he is nothing more than sheer ‘spirit’ and Christ’s flesh and word are no longer supposed to mean anything.” LW 43:137–38; WA 23:377.24–28. 88   This conviction was mutual. As Susan Karant-Nunn has observed, though there is a certain predominance in both Lutheran and Reformed polemics of the Age of Orthodoxy toward the Catholics, “Nevertheless, the reciprocal condemnation of the two leading groups of Protestants is not in doubt. It springs into evidence from time to time, as when the Heidelberg theologian Casper Olevianus remarks, ‘The evangelicals [i.e., Lutherans] want to serve the Gospel and idolatry at the same time. But this isn’t possible. Those who practice idolatry are worse than the heathen.” Susan C. Karant-Nunn, The Reformation of Feeling: Shaping the Religious Emotions in Early Modern Germany (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2010), 248. Sasse notes that when Luther’s suggestion for a compromise wording on the presence of Christ in the Sacrament, rejected by Zwingli at Marburg, eventually led to the 1536 Wittenberg Concord with the South Germans (including Bucer and the Strasbourg churches), students from the Zurich churches, now under the leadership of Heinrich Bullinger, were specifically forbidden from receiving Holy Communion in the Strasbourg churches. Sasse, This Is My Body, 236. 89   Sasse, This Is My Body, 296.

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Preface to the Prophets, included in the editions of his German Bible. Here both papal and Protestant forms of idolatry are identified, for “among us Christians all those people are idolatrous .  .  . who have invented or are following new ways of worshiping God, without his commission or command, simply out of their own pious inclination and, as they say, good intentions.”90 Such characterizations focus on papal “human traditions” but extend also to iconoclastic zealotry and lawmaking, as well as interpretations of worship and sacraments that Luther was convinced were not established by God and interpreted in accordance with his institution. In his vituperative treatise Against Hanswurst (1541), Luther chants as it were the oft-repeated refrain, “Who has commanded you to do this? Or where is it written? Where do you find it in the ancient church, or instituted by the apostles? Who then is here the new apostate church?”91 Luther’s polemic against the papal church’s claim to be the holy church of God turns on his definition of idolatry: “You are no longer of the church, or members of the church, for in this holy church of God you are building your own new apostate church, the devil’s brothel with limitless whoredom, idolatry, innovation .  .  .” For “whatever is not with certainty God’s word, cannot be the doctrine of the church, but must be the doctrine, falsehood, and idolatry of the devil.”92 And so when also in 1541 Luther appealed for prayer against the Turks, he rejoiced that God was calling Germany “from the abominable darkness and idolatry of the papacy into the light of his holy kingdom.” Yet he also laments that the Word of God is received so ungratefully, that such idolatry is oft defended “with violence and executions.” And so “we” – in this call to repentance Luther uses the pronoun of the first person – invite God’s judgment upon Germany through “not only the Turks but also the devils themselves,” and the reformer expresses wonder that his land was not long ago “swept away with a deluge.”93 So central for Luther was the reality of papal idolatries and so real the threat – also for German Evangelicals – of God’s judgment against an ungrateful and therefore idolatrous community even in a time of Reformation. “‘Idolatry’ is a fighting word,” writes Carlos Eire, and he notes that “in the sixteenth century, one man’s devotion was another man’s idolatry.”94 Despite his different understanding and the sharp division of evangelical movements that resulted from it, a war against idolatry was for Martin Luther as for the developing Reformed tradition the central concern of the evangelical movement, and indeed it came to define for Protestant reformers the perennial late-medieval 90

  LW 35:270; WADB 11/I:11.9–13.   WA 51:489.4–6 and 22–24; this refrain repeated in substance twelve times, WA 51:487– 497; LW 41:199–205. 92   LW 41:209–10, 217; WA 51:505.30–34; 518.34–519.1. 93   LW 43:219; WA 51:585.14–17; 585.23–586.4. 94   Eire, War against the Idols, 5. 91

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quest for the true church.95 But in Luther’s understanding idolatry is not bound together with external images, nor with those material means that have been instituted by God for conveying divine grace and the promise of forgiveness. For Luther idolatry is the self-enslaving false worship of a heart turned in on itself, of religious piety shaped by self-will and thus works-righteousness in any number of ways, of substituting human reason for the revelation of God in the divine Word. The very same understanding of the gospel that led Luther to protest papal idolatries and abuses of images led the reformer to regard Karlstadt, Zwingli, and other “despisers of the sacraments” as false brethren, substituting their own laws, meditations, and reasonable ordinances for the liberating gospel and sacraments instituted by Christ to convey his promise of “forgiveness of sins, life, and salvation” to sinners bound by a fallen human nature in sin and death. Thus Luther’s goal of Christianizing Christendom by combating its idolatries and shaping its teaching and piety through the gospel required his opposition to and freedom from the opinions of other Protestants just as it required his lifelong battle against and freedom from the tyranny of the papal magisterium.

95   Remarkable for its breadth of investigation and insight into the late medieval context of the reformers is Scott Hendrix’s article of nearly forty years ago, “In Quest of the Vera Ecclesia: The Crises of Late Medieval Ecclesiology,” Viator: Medieval and Renaissance Studies 7 (1976): 347–78.

Luther and Beneficia Risto Saarinen In Recultivating the Vineyard, Scott Hendrix creates a fruitful metaphor for the understanding of a significant Reformation agenda: Christianity should be reformed and cultivated so that its original roots can flourish in the fertile soil. In the following, I will apply this agenda to the much-discussed problem of the proper exchange of gifts and services. As Natalie Zemon Davis shows in her insightful book The Gift in Sixteenth-Century France, European people in the era of the Reformation had sophisticated understandings concerning gifts and sales as well as their social meanings. When gifts and services are understood in terms of monetary economy, they easily go wrong and spoil the social culture based on trust and gratitude. In order that this culture can be rediscovered and recultivated, a strong paradigm of gift-giving needs to be established. For Luther, this paradigm is a theological one and entails a Christianization of social culture in terms of altruistic gifts and services. The many-sided but nevertheless coherent concept of beneficia provides a lens through which Luther’s theological program can be approached. Reformation scholars have often recognized the importance of the concept of beneficia for the Lutheran Reformation. Philip Melanchthon’s well-known programmatic assertion in the first edition of his Loci communes states that knowing Christ means knowing his beneficia. Martin Luther employs this concept abundantly, relating it to different contexts. The sacrament of the altar is God’s gift and beneficium, not a sacrifice. Both the spiritual realm of the church and the political authority can be understood as God’s beneficia. Justification occurs on    Natalie Zemon Davis, The Gift in Sixteenth-Century France (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2000).    Philip Melanchthon, Loci communes 1521, Lateinisch-Deutsch, ed. H. G. Pöhlmann (Güters­ loh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 1993), 22, 13. One can also observe a certain hesitation regarding the usefulness of this concept. According to Pöhlmann, Loci, 21–22, Melanchthon takes over this concept from Erasmus. Oswald Bayer, Zugesagte Gegenwart (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007), 158, labels Albrecht Ritschl’s liberal Protestantism as “Beneficia-Christologie.”    WA 29:185.17–30; 40/2:194a.25–26. See section 2 below.    WA 13:202.35; WA 31/2:613.22–24 and 645.30–32.

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the basis of beneficia Christi, but the creation in its totality is also full of God’s beneficia. Because the Latin word beneficium can be employed in different contexts, one may receive the impression that the term does not have a consistent meaning but covers all kinds of advantageous and beneficial works as well as favorable attitudes. I will argue, however, that Luther’s use of the term presupposes a consistent theological concept. The meaning of this concept can be grasped when we go through Luther’s use of beneficia in detail. I will focus on the Latin word beneficia and its German translation Wohltaten (in Luther’s spelling, wolthaten). While Wohltaten remains the standard German translation of beneficia, it is difficult to give a workable English translation. “Good works” is too broad and “benefits” too narrow; also, these translations have misleading connotations. Some contemporary scholars translate beneficia as “gifts and services,” others as “favors.” I will often use “favors,” because this term conveys adequately both the required attitude and the actual deed. Two problems with this translation should, however, be noted: 1) it partially overlaps with the Latin word favor, meaning approval or favorable attitude; 2) beneficia do not mean small acts of politeness but deeds of significant benevolence which manifest the fundamental intention of the agent. To avoid misleading connotations, I will often retain the Latin word or use longer expressions, for instance, “beneficial agency.” The so-called beneficia are discussed extensively in ancient and medieval philosophical, legal and theological texts in which this term sometimes has technical meanings and contextual connotations. I will pay attention to some of these meanings in Cicero, Gabriel Biel, and Johannes Reuchlin when they appear to be relevant for Luther’s usage. I will first discuss Luther’s use of the concept in his First Lectures on the Psalms. Then I will go through a variety of later texts, dividing Luther’s use of beneficia to three thematic areas. It is not possible to discuss all these texts in detail; the larger theological background of God’s beneficial agency can be found in some other recent studies. In the last part, I will compare Luther with Seneca’s De beneficiis, a text often employed by scholastic and humanist authors. 

  WA 40/2:289.12; 42:33.8. See also section 3 below. Sachregister zu WA, entries beneficium, benefacio contain abundant material for all these topics.    “Favors” in Seneca, Moral and Political Essays (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995); “gifts and services” in Miriam Griffin, “De Beneficiis and Roman Society, The Journal of Roman Studies 93 (2003): 92–113.    So already Seneca, De beneficiis 4, 29.    See Risto Saarinen, God and the Gift: An Ecumenical Theology of Giving (Collegeville: The Liturgical Press, 2005); Bo Kristian Holm, Gabe und Geben bei Luther (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2006); Word-Gift-Being: Justification-Economy-Ontology, ed. Bo Kristian Holm and Peter Widmann (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009); Die Gabe – ein “Urwort” der Theologie? ed. Veronica Hoffmann (Frankfurt: Lembeck, 2009). For the cultural history of these phenomena, see Natalie Zemon Davis, The Gift.

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1.  Favors in the First Lectures on the Psalms Already in Luther’s first Lectures on the Psalms (1513–1515, Dictata), the term beneficia appears frequently. This is significant, because Melanchthon does not yet influence Luther’s early use of the concept. However, it should be remembered that the young monk was not only influenced by scholastic authors, but also by the humanists. For the most part Luther’s discussions concern God’s favors to humans, and he often focuses on the proper conduct of the giver and the recipient. The heavenly Father is characterized in terms of goodness. A truly good (bonus) giver bestows favors not only to good and grateful recipients, but also to evil and ungrateful people, rewarding evil with goodness. While an ordinary person of good will (benignus) may withdraw an act of favor, the perfectly good giving of God continues to bestow favors to evildoers and unjust people.10 Beneficial acts are, therefore, different from the acts of justice: whereas an act of justice is concerned with the calculation of merits and debts, the divine act of favor is directed to those who are unworthy and do not merit the favor at stake.11 Among human beings favors are rewarded with favors; even heathens can circulate favors in this manner. Contrary to this model of reciprocity, the being of God does not mean receiving good things, but giving them freely and rewarding evil with goodness.12 To impart favors to another is divine.13 In his mercy God “proves himself to be the true God, who wants to give his own to us and be our God, to impart favors to us, to want us for himself, and not to take what is ours, not to have us as his benefactors .  .  .”14 In this manner God gives beneficia but does not receive them.15 The proper human response to divine favors is characterized by two acts: the human person should receive the favors (accipere, acceptio) and give thanks (gratias agere).16 In the proper reception of beneficia God wants us to “acknowledge Him to be the true God and to confess ourselves to be unrighteous, evil, and foolish in everything that we did not receive from Him and do not acknowledge having received from Him.”17 In other words, humans grant in this act of accipere that they have received all good things from God. This act of receiving is not    For the humanist influence, see Helmar Junghans, Der junge Luther und die Humanisten (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1985). 10   WA 55/2:934.1256–70. 11   WA 55/2:888.6–13 12   WA 55/2:883.100–103. 13   WA 55/2:889.28. 14   WA 55/2:889.25–27; LW 11:411. Many, though not all, of my English translations follow Luther’s Works, American Edition. 15   WA 55/1:114.12–13. 16   WA 55/2:105.10–14 and 55/1:660–661. 17   WA 55/2:889.18–21.

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primarily concerned with free will or the capacity of acting, but it is rather an act of recognition and giving all honor to God: If He [God] would take anything of ours and not utterly repudiate it, then He would not be the true God nor good alone, because we, too, would contend with Him in favors. But now He wants us to do nothing but receive [accipiamus] and Himself to do nothing but give and thus be the true God.18

Luther elucidates this mode of reception with the help of Psalm 116:13, “I will receive the cup of salvation and invoke the name of the Lord.” Receiving God’s beneficial favor in this manner does not mean giving anything back to God in terms of reciprocal retribution. The speaker “receives” the cup and is thankful for what he receives: “Therefore, that I may be altogether thankful, I will even receive the cup, for it is salutary. And lest I trust in myself, I will call on His name .  .  .”19 Luther underlines the importance of gratitude and giving thanks as an integral part of such reception; thankfulness is already required by the natural law,20 but it is also very proper with regard to the spiritual favors of God.21 Already in Dictata, we can observe the comprehensive nature of God’s beneficia. In the natural course of our life, we all receive divine favors daily: You must see whether you have praised and given thanks to God throughout all the days and hours in your whole life, for you are held to this by a strict commandment and by natural law. For since in all days and hours you have received the favors of God, such as life, being, feeling, mind, besides food and clothing and the service of the sun, of heaven and earth and all the elements in exceeding variety, it is clear that you owe thanks for what your have received.22

Parallel to these natural gifts we may speak of spiritual favors: Without ceasing, you receive [acceperis] life, feeling, being, understanding, food and clothing in spiritual things, the service of the sun of righteousness, of heaven and earth and of all the benefits of the church. .  .  . And behold, now by another substitution you are being moved away from the favors of God and see your endless omissions, yes, your endlessly endless ingratitude. For at every moment the Lord offers you endless favors. And as you cannot give proper thanks for one morsel of bread, neither can you for one word of truth.23

18   WA 55/2:889.33–36; LW 11:411. Cf. 1 Cor 4:7. For the passivity of accipere, see Risto Saarinen, “The Language of Giving in Theology,” Neue Zeitschrift für Systematische Theologie und Religionsphilosophie 52 (2010): 268–301. Typically, Lutheran theologians like Oswald Bayer in his Freiheit als Antwort (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1995), employ 1 Cor 4:7 as a motto. See also Section 5 below. 19   WA 55/2:884.131–132, cf. 884.119–130; LW 11:404. 20   WA 55/2:401.509–511. 21   WA 55/2:401.523–525, 532; cf. WA 55/2:105.10–14 and 55/2:955.1833–1836. 22   WA 55/2:401.508–514; LW 10:368. Cf. also Ps 104. 23   WA 55/2:401.518–525; LW 10:368–69.

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As the very nature of true God is to give, it belongs to the nature of God’s world that both natural and spiritual things and processes need to be understood as divine favors. In giving these favors, God does not consider the human reaction: a perfectly good giver gives incessantly to all people. At the same time, it is nevertheless important to receive the favors properly and to give thanks. The acts of reception and giving thanks do not constitute any relationship of economic or calculative justice, but they remain the proper ways of reacting to beneficial agency. Ingratitude and ignorance characterize the improper reception of favors. In addition to these basic features of beneficial agency and proper reception of favors, Dictata contains some noteworthy passages in which the concept of beneficia is linked with the theme of mercy (misericordia). Luther’s connection between beneficia and mercy is motivated by Johannes Reuchlin’s dictionary of Hebrew roots. Reuchlin explains the root hesed as follows: “favor, grace or gracefulness. The Septuagint renders this with eleos, therefore our translation has everywhere mercy. Ps 89 [:1]: ‘I will sing of the Lord’s mercies forever.’”24 In keeping with Reuchlin’s observations, Luther’s reflections on beneficia often occur in the context of Psalm verses that contain the word misericordia.25 Particularly important in this regard is Luther’s explanation of Ps 107:8a “Let them thank the Lord for His mercy” (Confiteantur Domino misericordie eius). Here Luther establishes the connection between God’s favors and the mercy of God as follows: .  .  . the favors of God in us [beneficia Dei in nobis] are by pure mercy and not deserved. Therefore, he [the Psalmist] puts “mercy” first and does not say “our redemption,” but “his mercy,” for showing that nothing of that was from us, but from God alone. .  .  . If they are the mercies of the Lord, they should give thanks to no one but the Lord. If they do not give thanks to Him, however, they are not His mercies, and so they are taken away from Him .  .  .26

This conceptual fusion of beneficia and misericordia shapes the dynamics of Luther’s discussion in at least two ways: on the one hand, God’s concrete favors strongly witness of the underlying fundamental intention, will or attitude of God, namely, mercy. The vehicles of God’s favor are thus essentially mercy. Even when the person does not acknowledge the favor or mercy bestowed in this person, it witnesses of its giver: “Nevertheless, the mercies in themselves always acknowledge [confitentur] the Lord, even though he who has mercy does not acknowledge the Lord, yet another, who sees him having mercy, acknowledges the Lord in these 24   Johannes Reuchlin, De rudimentis hebraicis libri III (Reprint, Hildesheim: Olms, 1974), 185: “Beneficium. Gratia vel graciositas. lxx eleos interpretati sunt. Unde nostra translatio ubique habet misericordia. Ps. lxxxix. Misericordias domini in eternum cantabo.” 25   E.g. WA 55/2:400.888–401.889. 26   WA 55/2:831.62–69; LW 11:349.

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mercies.”27 A handsome person, for instance, may not give thanks to God for being handsome, but another person can acknowledge this trait as a work of God. In this sense, the very essence of a particular favor manifests the will of its giver: “God’s favors as related to God are pure mercies, for He gives them to us without merit.”28 In this sense, the essence of a favor witnesses of its giver. On the other hand, the understanding of mercy in terms of divine beneficia in many ways “reifies” the mercies of God: through the concept of beneficia, the mercy of God can be discussed as a gift that is manifest in the recipient. Luther attempts to convey this twofold character of favors through interpreting the word mirabilia in Psalm 107:8b: “and his wonderful works to the children of men” (et mirabilia eius filiis hominum) as referring to such manifestations: The “wonderful works” and “mercies” are the same, and so, because of the twofold respect, they are mentioned doubly [related to God the favors are pure mercies – see above], .  .  . related to us, the favors are wonderful works. They are wonderful works to the children of men, amazing and admirable to us. For He gives them to us in a wonderful way and produces a result [effectum] in a way that we neither could perform or thought nor wanted, but better than we could perform, better than we thought, better than we wanted.29

This “reified” aspect of God’s beneficial agency appears as an effectus, a fruit 30 or gift of this agency. While this gift points to the merciful giver, it also appears as a concrete manifestation related to human reality. Luther underlines that such manifestation is God’s action that does not stem from human powers. The effectus of a favor, the gift itself, is produced entirely by the beneficial giver. The reified favor is no more the recipient’s merit than the underlying mercy to which it points. In this way, “mercies” and “wonders”31 remain the two asymmetric aspects of one beneficial agency: as related to God, pure mercy is the primary and constitutive aspect of this favor, whereas its subsequent effectus, the fruit of divine agency, is related to human reality. Already in his first major work, Dictata super Psalterium, Luther discusses the concept of favors extensively. His discussion revolves around three interrelated but distinct themes: a) the proper giving and receiving of favors; b) God’s natural and spiritual favors; c) favors as expression of God’s mercy. I will continue my analysis through dealing with each of these three issues in Luther’s later writings in turn. I will for the most part discuss situations in which God is the beneficial agent and human beings the recipients. While Luther is also interested in cases of beneficial neighborly love, God remains for him the absolute

27

  WA 55/2:831.81–84.   WA 55/2:832.94–96. 29   WA 55/2:832.94–99; LW 11:350. 30   Fructus as beneficium: WA 5:38.25. 31   For mirabilia, the entry miraculus, etc., in Sachregister zu WA is helpful. 28

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model of truly beneficial agency. Favors among human beings need, therefore, to be seen in relation to this theological model of perfection.

2.  The Proper Giving and Receiving of Favors To highlight the nature of a favor (beneficium), Luther sometimes contrasts it with a sacrifice (sacrificium) and, more often, with a duty (officium). The first contrast is associated with Matthew 9:13, “I desire mercy, not sacrifice.” In his Lectures on Minor Prophets (1524/26), Luther considers that these words of Christ mean that the works of love are favors that take place in mercy.32 In a sermon of 1529, Luther holds that the Lord’s Supper is a favor and a gift given to us. It is not a sacrifice performed by humans as a human work. If we think of eating and drinking in terms of sacrifice, we are making all reception of God’s good things sacrifices and human works. We should not regard such good gifts of God as books, home, fields, and money as fruits of our own activity.33 Such a contrast between sacrifice and gift shows for Luther that the proper reception (acceptio) of a gift does not count as problematic human work. In his Exposition of Psalm 2 (1532) Luther says that the false sacrifices performed in papal masses are now hidden under divine favor and the true sacrifice is found the work of the theologian who preaches the Word of God.34 In a sermon of 1539, Luther teaches that God requires a sacrifice of thanks and gratitude in response to his favors. This gratitude is no work that merits new life, but a testimony of thanksgiving.35 God’s beneficium thus leaves no room for the au32

  WA 13:614.23–26: “Haec sunt charitatis officia, quae ad omnes pariter pertinent, sicut et Christus: misericordiam volo, non sacrificium. Est autem misericordia beneficium, quo alios demeremur.” 33   WA 29:185.18–32: “.  .  . hoc sacramentum esse benefitium et donum nobis donatum et ad edendum bibendumque, ad condonationem peccatorum permissum et traditum. Et ideo crassi et insani sunt homines isti, ut proprii facti nullam neque rationem neque curam habeant. Manducant corpus et bibunt sanguinem Christi et interim pro suo opere et sacrifitio pro vivis et defunctis illud habent. Idque hominibus persuadere non verentur. At certe: Si edere et bibere est offerre, quid impediat, quo non et omnia bona a deo accepta faciamus sacrifitium sive oblationem? Donum dei sunt oculi corporis. Si nunc istorum hominum insaniam sequi velimus, negandum nobis esset oculos esse donum dei, sed sacrifitium. Pari ratione libros, domum, agrum, pecuniam et quicquid possides, non donum dei, sed oblationem esse affirmare poteris. Et quamvis suis ipsorum verbis agnoscant et fateantur, quod scilicet accipiant corpus et sanguinem domini edentes et bibentes, perstant tamen in sua impietate et nullomodo ab hoc abusu avocari aut avelli possunt.” 34   WA 40/2;194.21–28: “[Theologus] .  .  . ipsi Deo in coelis gratissimum offert sacrificium, et vere vocatur atque est altissimi Sacerdos. Totum enim hoc, quod Theologus in Ecclesia agit, pertinet ad noticiam Dei propagandam et ad salutem hominum. Cum igitur divino beneficio sublatae sint abominationes impii sacrificii Papistarum, missas dico, quas solas impius Papa cum suis Doctoribus sacrificii nomine ornavit, cumque restitutus nunc sit verus cultus, nempe praedicatio verbi Dei, quo et vere cognoscitur Deus et ornatur.” 35   WA 47:837.38–41: “Deus requirit hoc Sacrificium pro omnibus beneficiis suis, scilicet

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tonomous performance of sacrificial works by humans. However, this does not mean that the whole concept of sacrifice is abandoned; the concept is transformed into a heteronomous response of thanksgiving. Sacrifice thus becomes an expression of the virtue of gratitude, the virtue of proper receiving of favors. The primacy of God’s beneficial agency vis-à-vis human works is also highlighted in the relationship between favors and duties. The different meanings of beneficium and officium are discussed since antiquity: (1) while duties are performed as morally necessary actions, favors express a greater degree of voluntary spontaneity.36 In canonical literature, we also find a special use of the two terms: (2) an ecclesiastical office gives the person the right to have some benefits. In that sense “benefits are given because of the duty” (beneficia datur propter officium), as Gabriel Biel formulates the traditional canonical doctrine.37 While in (2), favors are conditioned by duties, they remain unconditional in (1). Luther was familiar with both (1) and (2). In order to understand his view clearly, one needs to see that he sometimes alludes to (2), while in other cases he has (1) in mind. In some cases, Luther is merely quoting Biel’s formulation.38 A more interesting case of (2) appears in the disputation De veste nuptiali (1537), in which the opponent claims that Christ requires some duties in exchange for the benefits of salvation. In that sense there is allegedly some reciprocal economy in salvation. Luther replies, however, that God does not require faith, baptism or any other human contribution in the sense of duty or work conditioning God’s favor. All subsequent human activity is done for the sake of certainty and as a sign of gratitude.39 Thus, Biel’s canonical formulation cannot be applied to God’s favors. The argument of De veste nuptiali shows that the general contrast between duties and favors, as expressed in (1), is also theologically adequate, as this contrast highlights the difference between faith and works. A well-known example of (1) appears in Luther’s Treatise on New Testament (1520) in which Luther says that the mass expresses God’s favor, not any such human work or merit that stems from duty.40 In this text, Luther also uses another classical distinction that underlines the difference between faith and works. After concluding that the mass is, fundamentally, a testament and sacrament in which God gives us grace and mercy, Luther continues, gratitudinem et gratiarum actionem, non ut inde accipiamus vitam, sed ut testemur gratum animum pro beneficiis Dei, ut sic omnia opera nostra fiant sacrificia gratiarum actionis.” 36   Cicero, De officiis 1, 47–57; Seneca, De beneficiis 3, 18–28. 37   Gabriel Biel, Collectorium circa quattuor libros Sententiarum IV/2, d15 q8 a1 n.2, ed. W. Werbeck (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1977), 144.21. 38   WA 30/2:316.6–7; 38:164.28. 39   WA 39/1:300.4–11. 40   WA 6:365.10–11: “hie nit officium, sed beneficium, keyn werck odder dienst, sondern allein genieß und gewinst.”

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For a testament is not beneficium acceptum, sed datum, it does not take benefit from us, but brings benefit to us. Who has ever heard that he who receives an inheritance has done a good work? He simply takes for himself a benefit. Likewise, in the mass we give nothing to Christ, but only receive from him; unless they are willing to call this a good work, that a person sits still and lets himself to be benefited.41

The difference between giving and receiving favors is a classical distinction. In his De officiis (1, 48), Cicero says that the arts of giving and returning a favor belong to generosity. The counterpart of generosity is the art of dealing with received favors (beneficia accepta). This art can be of different kinds, depending on the giver’s intention and other circumstances (1, 49). In Cicero’s discussion, the reception process is active and manifests the virtues of the recipient. Luther, however, uses the distinction in a straightforward manner: in the sacrament, Christians are dealing with the favor that God gives. God is not receiving anything from us, but we receive from God, and our reception is passive (still helt). The proper giving and receiving of favors is thus characterized by various contrasts that all highlight the nature of the favor as free gift and the passivity of the recipient. Beneficial agency differs from the sacrificial practices and the performance of duties, since in both a reciprocal exchange of “works” is required. The true favors of God are given without any requirement of a human activity. It is true that these favors need to be “received,” but there are no elaborate requirements for a proper reception of favors. The reception should take place in a state of passivity, sitting still and letting oneself to be benefited (lest ym wolthun). This basic message belongs, obviously, to the essential insights of Reformation theology, stressing the justification of the sinner by faith alone. Much of this basic message is already present in the Dictata, but its contrasts to sacrificium and officium belong to the mature phase of Luther’s teaching career. If God’s beneficial agency is unconditional, it also follows that God acts beneficially toward all people, irrespectively of their responses. In his Sermons on Exodus (1524/27), Luther compares God to an inexhaustible fountain from which favors flow continuously, also to the ungrateful and the impious.42 In Against Latomus (1521) Luther even says that God pours his gifts over the impious more abundantly than over the pious, demonstrating that the gift is radically beneficial and not meant as a reward.43 The goodness of such agency is, therefore, not dependent on the recipient but it is defined entirely by the character of the giver. The ideal giver distributes favors without any regard on the merits of the recipient. 41

  LW 35:93; cf. WA 6:364.19–25: “ein testament ist nit beneficium acceptum, sed datum, es nympt nit wolthat von uns, ßondern bringt uns wolthat. Wer hat yhe gehort, das der ein gutt werck thue, der ein testament empfehet? Er nympt woll zu sich ein wolthat. Alßo auch yn der meß geben wir Christo nichts, sondern nehmen nur von yhm, man wolt den das ein gutt werck heyssen, das ein mensch still helt und lest ym wolthun .  .  .” 42   WA 16:640.2–10. 43   StA 2:491.1–5.

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The ideal recipient is characterized by his or her passivity. This does not, however, rule out gratitude. In his second lectures on the Psalms (Operationes in Psalmi 1519/21), Luther describes the gratitude and joy with which the recipient reacts. The favor received is referred to the benefactor in gratitude. Like Cicero, Luther here compares the grateful recipient to the cultivated field that gives back much more than it receives.44 In this manner, gratitude does not mean quietism. Sometimes Luther can also say that the recipient has certainty or certain knowledge because of beneficial divine agency.45 Passivity, gratitude, and certainty thus complement one another in describing the proper attitude of the recipient. While gratitude, a classical virtue of the recipient, is already prominent in the early lectures, Luther’s late writings emphasize certainty.

3.  God’s Earthly and Spiritual Favors The listing of God’s different beneficia, begun already in the Dictata, is repeated and developed in Luther’s later writings. In a sermon of 1534, Luther connects the theme of seeing (Lk 10:23–24) with divine favors. These favors are visible and audible to all people, but we remain blind and tedious and do not express our joy and gratitude because of them.46 The good things of creation lay before our eyes, and the Word of God is preached. These favors of Christ should wake up people to a life of gratitude, but we remain tedious and do not grasp what we have, hear, and see.47 Our body and its parts, like eyes, nose, and ears are all beneficial gifts of Christ. The eye is particularly valuable: once blinded, a person would pay great sums to recover the eyesight.48 People ought to think that good eyes are given by God and be thankful for them. Likewise, property, fields, cattle, money, different things for eating and drinking are God’s gifts. We should feel and taste

44   WA 5:181.12–19: “Sufficit vel opinari, hoc praesens gaudii genus pertinere ad affectum gratitudinis, quo in benefactorem grati et iucundi rapimur, de cuius dono laetati sumus, qua gratitudine iucundi sumus benefactori eiusque votis respondemus, sicut ager laetus suo cultori. Et hoc ita esse videtur eo signo intelligi, quod in versus initio verbum absolute dicitur ‘Et laetabuntur,’ hic vero ‘Et laetabuntur in te,’ ut priore verbo sensum beneficii absolute indicet, posteriore vero, acceptum beneficium referri in benefactorem cum iucunda gratitudine.” Cf. Cicero, De officiis 1, 48. 45   WA 43:366.3–5; 43:561.34; 39/1:300.9–11. 46   WA 37:527.1–11. 47   WA 37:527.23–33. 48   WA 37:527.34–528.3: “Darnach sind wir noch erger, wenn wir solten allein bedencken, was uns Christus fur guter am leib gibt, scilicet gesunde augen, nasen, orhen et totum corpus, quis posset pretium horum beneficiorum satis aestimare? Mancher erfert nicht eher, quam praetiosum donum sit integer oculus, denn es verderbe im denn oder keme sonst drumb, denn gebe er gern viel, viel geltes drumb, quod posset recuperare &c.”

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these favors of Christ, appreciating them properly.49 We should hope that God gives us good eyes and ears to recognize his favors and be grateful for them. Even godly people realize this only seldom, and impious people do not listen to the Word of God and cannot recognize his favors.50 Although this listing of favors bears much resemblance to the above-mentioned list in the Dictata, we may note that the natural and the spiritual are not separated. Seeing and hearing together enable us to regard the world and our body as God’s favors. Through hearing, we receive the Word of God that interprets the creation in this manner. While seeing pertains to visible and natural things, it is a special skill to see the world in the light of this theological interpretation. The natural realm is thus also spiritual: it witnesses of God’s gifts and gives us reason to be thankful. Luther does not, however, abandon the distinction between natural and spiritual favors but mentions it often in his later writings. The spiritual favors can refer to conscience and peace of heart, while external favors are related to the matters of politics.51 In an exposition of Psalm 147 (1529/32), Luther connects this distinction with a longer list of different divine favors. The word “praise” in this psalm refers to thankfulness to God for all his favors to his people.52 In the verse “he strengthens” (Ps 147:13 in current counting), the psalm first speaks of those beneficial acts of God which concern external life. God does not merely strengthen with iron, but with his own power. He also wants us to be active in this work.53 Next, in the verse “he blesses your children,” God speaks of the education of children. Then, in the verse “he grants peace within your borders,” God moves from the realm of household to the greater realm of the state.54 Finally, the verse “he fills you etc.” speaks of daily bread and agricultural blessings. With his favors, God fills all our needs. We enjoy them, but we should also praise God and show our gratitude. In sum, God grants peace, defends us against enemies, blesses the fields and gives all favors needed in the household and the state.55 49   WA 37:528.4–12: “Wie viel leute dencken, das sie es von unserm herr Gott haben, quot gratias ei agunt pro isto praeclaro dono Ja das sie es so tieff bedechten, das es Gottes gabe sey, Nec agnoscunt esse dei beneficia, donum, possessiones, agros, Wir haben vihe, gelt, gut, wir gebrauchen unser guter, essen und trincken davon, noch sollen wir nicht fulen noch greiffen, das wirs von unserm herr Gott haben, Darumb sind wir recht aussetzig und fuelen nichts, Wo das fleisch vom aussatz zufressen ist, fuelet es nichts, Sic nos contrectamus manibus beneficia Christi et sentimus, das sie uns wol schmecken, sed non agnoscimus ea obvenire nobis a deo.” 50   WA 37:528.12–19. 51   WA 31/2:645.30–33. 52   WA 31/1:543.28–30. 53   WA 31/1:543.3–544.4. 54   WA 31/1:544.5–10. 55   WA 31/1:544.11–17. Cf. the short list of books, home, fields and money in WA 29:185.28 (quoted above).

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In addition to these earthly favors, God grants many spiritual favors. First, there is the gospel. As ungrateful people forget to thank for earthly favors, they forget to give thanks for this greatest benefit of God. Among the spiritual favors are God’s Word, promises, and the right worship.56 Although the spiritual favors are here mentioned separately, it is clear that earthly favors are also theological and spiritual in the sense that they witness of God and should incite gratitude toward God. All favors are thus related to gratitude and the love of God in a fundamentally similar manner. The best-known and most influential list of earthly and spiritual favors appears in the exposition of the Creed in the Large Catechism. In the first article, Luther formulates an extensive list of God’s earthly favors as follows: [God] has given me and constantly sustains my body, soul and life, my members great and small, all my senses, my reason and understanding, and the like; my food and drink, clothing, nourishment, spouse and children, servants, house and farm, etc. Besides, he makes all creation help provide the benefits and necessities of life – sun, moon, and stars in the heavens; day and night; air, fire, water, the earth and all that it yields and brings forth; birds, fish, animals, grain, and all sorts of produce. Moreover, he gives all physical and temporal blessings – good government, peace, security. Thus, we learn from this article that none of us has life – or anything else that has been mentioned here or can be mentioned – from ourselves.57

In the Latin text of the Catechism, these realities are called “received favors” and “free gifts,” which deserve our permanent gratitude.58 A continuous meditation of God’s rich giving can bring about a “gratitude to God and a desire to use all these blessings to his glory and praise.”59 Scholars have pointed out that Luther’s whole exposition of the Creed proceeds in terms of divine giving.60 Within this comprehensive structure of giving, all items of creation are to be seen as God’s favors. The exposition of the second article continues this list with the description of spiritual goods: “Here we get to know the second person of the Godhead, and we see what we have from God over and above the temporal goods mentioned above, namely, how he has given himself completely to us, withholding nothing.”61 The exposition does not, however, contain any longer list of spiritual favors, but explains what 56

  WA 31/1:545.24–30.   BSLK, 648.13–30. This and the following translations from are from The Book of Concord, ed. Robert Kolb and Timothy Wengert (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2000), here: 432– 33. 58   BSLK 649.11–17: “.  .  . nos debere .  .  . laudibus extollere agendisque gratiis acceptorum beneficiorum esse memores et, ut uno verbo dicam, illi prorsus atque per omnia hisce gratuito datis muneribus servire .  .  .” Kolb/Wengert, Book of Concord, 433. 59   BSLK 650.19–21; Kolb/Wengert, Book of Concord, 433. 60   So already Martin Seils, “Die Sache Luthers,” Lutherjahrbuch 52 (1985): 64–80; and Oswald Bayer, Schöpfung als Anrede, 2.  Aufl. (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1990), 80–108. 61   BSLK 651.10–15; Kolb/Wengert, Book of Concord, 434. 57

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it means to have Christ as Lord. Luther summarizes his exposition of the Creed with saying that “the Father gives us all creation, Christ all his works, the Holy Spirit all his gifts.”62 Although the second and the third article relate to spiritual benefits, the distinction between earthly and spiritual remains, finally, secondary, as all three modes of giving are concerned with the knowledge of our existence in terms of God’s favors. More important than the distinction between earthly and spiritual is to regard all that we have, visible and invisible, earthy and spiritual, as given by God. Thus, we are constantly dependant on divine beneficia in all daily undertakings. Receiving these favors in proper gratitude remains the right attitude of a Christian.

4.  Favors as God’s Mercy As in the Dictata, Luther employs in his lectures on Romans (1515/16) Reuchlin’s Hebrew dictionary to clarify certain words. To Romans 9:15 Luther remarks that God’s “having mercy” in Hebrew (hanan) relates primarily to the manner of showing mercy: God donates his beneficium or gift in this act. The Hebrew hanan thus means “the grace of favor” or “the free gift.”63 Although the view of the proximity of gratia and donum is taken from Reuchlin, Luther’s emphasis on the beneficial manner (modus) of showing mercy is here original. Luther also points out here that it is possible to display acts of pity without the modus of positive beneficialness, as Romans 9:15b in his view claims.64 The true mercy of God, rooted in biblical Hebrew, is, however, beneficial. In his second lectures on the Psalms, Luther continues the theme of praising God because of his favors and mercy. To Psalm 12:6 he points out that one should rejoice in heart because of the merciful deeds of the divine benefactor.65 62

  BSLK 661.40–42; Kolb/Wengert, Book of Concord, 440.   WA 56:397.23–398.3: “Notandum ergo, Quod in Hebreo ‘Misereor’ primo loco positum significat eo modo misereri, Vt beneficium Vel donum gratuitum donet, qui miseretur, quod fit etiam in eum, qui non offendit Vel peccauit, Sed tantum eguit et pauper est. Vnde ‘Hannan’ (Hebreo misertus) ‘beneficium donauit’ significat. Inde Hanna i. e. gratia beneficium, donum gratuitum et Iohannan Seu Iohannes greca terminatione.” See Reuchlin, De rudimentis, 182, and the editorial remarks in the WA. 64   WA 56:398.4–7: “‘Ignoscam’ autem, seu ‘miserabor’ significat ‘remittere’ et ‘ignoscere,’ quod etiam sine beneficio fieri potest in eum, qui reus et offensor est. Vt Quando Deus remittit inferni penam et peccatum, miseratur, Quando dat gratiam et celorum regnum, miseretur.” 65   WA 5:391.6–13: “Qui impii doctores his pestibus doctrinae suae extinguunt exultationem cordis [Mi 2:9] et suavitatem dei in hominibus et aufferunt laudem eius, sicut Mich. ij. dicit ‘Mulieres populi mei eiecistis de domo delitiarum suarum,’ idest de conscientia exultante in salutari dulcis misericordiae dei, ‘et laudem meam tulistis a parvulis earum imperpetuum.’ Stat sententia omnium hominum more quoque firmata, eos in benefactore laetari, 63

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In his lectures on First Timothy (1528), Luther takes up the connections between the Hebrew hesed, the Greek eleos, and the Latin beneficium and misericordia. For Luther, true favors express mercy, not a sacrifice or some other economic exchange. The Hebrew word hesed does not speak of servile favors, but of the truly beneficial agency of Christ. God’s beneficial agency remains free, and a person who receives God’s favor is justified. In this manner, true favors manifest God’s mercy.66 The importance of the Hebrew term hesed remains a recurring theme throughout Luther’s career. In late lectures on Genesis (1535–1545), Luther teaches that mercy means beneficium. The Hebrew hesed means neighborly love and beneficial agency toward the neighbor. In this manner, God donates his favors and mercy.67 When hesed means beneficium, it comprises both God’s favorable grace and the gift of the Holy Spirit.68 With hesed, God gives the Spirit into the human heart, so that we can have consolation from this gift and become strong and sanctified.69 This internal gift can even radiate to the external person, so that he can receive approval in the eyes of others, as is said of Joseph in Genesis 39:21. In this manner, the “internal” grace of the Holy Spirit can become “external” so that the person is received with approval in the eyes of others ( favor passivus).70 The intimate connection between mercy and favors appears in many variations. In his lectures on Isaiah (1528/31), Luther defines mercy as divine favor

cantare, benedicere, qui se gratis adiutos intellexerint, quod quanto magis in deo praestandum est, ut intelligamus et faciamus.” 66   WA 26:105.17–23: “Ibi Paulus simul interpretatur Ebraica voce: Chesed, non loquitur de beneficio servili sed Christi: ‘beneficii’ [Mt 12:7] i. e. misericordiae vel gratiae. Matth. XII: ‘Misericordiam volo’ i. e. beneficium volo. Beneficium est misericordia vel opus impensum fratri. Greci transtulerunt misericordiam Grece Eleemosynen, germanice wolthat, sacerdotes avari almusen reddiderunt. Chasid: factus beneficus, qui libenter bene facit, vel accepto beneficio a deo est iustificatus. Hoc simul in Paulo.” 67   WA 44:84.3–7: “Misericordia ipsum beneficium vel beneficentiam significat, ut in Mattheo [Hos 6:6] loquitur Christus ex Hosea: ‘Misericordiam volo, non sacrificium’. Hasid, significat utrunque, qui diligit proximum et benefacit ei, et cui bene fit, qui a Deo donatur multis misericordiis et beneficiis. Ita ergo dicit Iacob: Misericordiae tuae et beneficiorum tuorum erga me non est numerus.” 68   WA 44:374.5–9: “CHESED, hoc est, beneficium, donum, gratia, misericordia. Non est [1 Tm 6:2] Chanan, sed Chesid, unde Chasid. Paulus exponit beneficium. 1. Timothei 6. qui beneficii participes sunt. Non solum favorem aut gratiam significat, sed etiam donum spiritus sancti, Gratia enim sola non sentitur, sed oportet accedere donum.” 69   WA 44:374.13–19: “Haec est totalis et maxima consolatio, quod Deus respicit et inclinat ad ipsum donum suum, hoc est, inspirat spiritum fortitudinis, consilii, Macht ein festen, starcken, lebendigen heyligen auß jm, Vivificat enim in media morte, mortificat in ipsa damnatione, ut cor eius possit statuere: Utut saeviat in me herus, tamen non moriar, virtus et fama mea non peribit. Haec loquitur Chesed sive spiritus in cor eius, ut non habeat cogitationes inferni aut mortis, sed vitae et tranquillitatis.” 70   WA 44:374.28–38.

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that comprises the forgiveness of sins and the donation of the Holy Spirit.71 In a sermon of 1530, Luther says that mercy means grace, favors or good works. This mercy has two dimensions: God’s mercy first meets us, and this can be called grace or wolthat. The second dimension is operative in our love of neighbor. In Hebrew, this neighborly love and help can also be called grace.72 Given all these intimate connections between mercy, favors, grace, and gift it would be artificial to understand all these concepts as referring to separate, successive events. Beneficia and wolthaten rather depict the comprehensive merciful turning of God toward humans and the neighborly love between humans. This event consists of both the intentional attitude ( favor, misericordia, gratia) and the effective deed with its product (actio, opus, donum). Luther’s emphasis in describing this event lies in its fundamental intention, that is, that the truly good works of God and humans receive their constitutive meaning from the underlying intention of mercifulness or beneficialness. Although the gift belongs to this event, it is primarily the mercy of God that characterizes his beneficial agency. In this sense, the intention or the attitude has a logical priority over the gift. Since the relationship between grace and gift has often been debated in Luther studies,73 I should add that the texts on beneficia discussed above do not indicate any clear changes in Luther’s understanding of the relationship between gratia and donum over the years. The texts give a stable picture in which beneficia remains the central interpretative concept of God’s work in both creation and redemption. A more extensive and exhaustive study would, however, be necessary in order to confirm or to rule out possible differences between the younger and the older Luther in this respect. Our study only argues that there is a stable conceptual basis in Luther’s use of the term beneficia. When justification is described with the help of the vocabulary of gratia/favor and donum, one needs to proceed from the common basis of merciful beneficia towards possible differentiations. As actions generally differ from events because of the presupposed intentionality of the agent, God’s agency is constituted by the underlying intention rather than the external manifestation or the effect produced. In this very 71   WA 31/2:106.8–9: “Misericordia est divinum beneficium, favor remissio peccatorum et spiritus sanctus donatus.” 72   WA 32:107.3–10: “So sage ich nu, das barmhertzickeit heisse so viel als gnade oder wolthat odder ein gutes werck, wie man es wil nennen, Die selbige ist nu zweyerley: Die erste ist die barmhertzickeit die uns widderferet von Gott, die heisset man sonst Gottes gnade odder wolthat, Die ander aber die wir gegen unserm nehesten haben, nicht gegen Gott, sondern einer gegen dem andern, das ich dem der es darff, einen rock, ein lehen, ein huelff oder rat gebe, das heist auff Ebraisch ein gnade. Die zwey stucke mus man lernen, und wer sie kan, der lesst darnach opffern und ander narrenwerck wol anstehen.” 73   See Reinhard Flogaus, “Luther versus Melanchthon? Zur Frage der Einheit der Wittenberger Reformation in der Rechtfertigungslehre,” Archiv für Reformationsgeschichte 91 (2000): 6–46; and Olli-Pekka Vainio, Justification and Participation in Christ: The Development of the Lutheran Doctrine of Justification from Luther to the Formula of Concord (1580) (Leiden: Brill, 2008).

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basic sense, intentions have a logical priority over the deed and its effect. The logical priority of God’s intention, expressed theologically as favor, gratia or misericordia, may nevertheless also have its background in some traditional views of beneficia to which we now turn.

5.  Comparison with Seneca’s De Beneficiis Seneca’s De beneficiis (On Favors) is a comprehensive treatise on beneficial agency. It was widely used through the medieval and early modern period. In his Summa theologiae (II/2 q106–107) Thomas Aquinas builds his discussion on giving and receiving gifts on Seneca’s work. Erasmus of Rotterdam edited and published Seneca’s works in Basel in 1515. He quotes Seneca’s thoughts on gratitude (De beneficiis 2, 24, 1) in the preface of his Greek New Testament.74 Luther quotes Seneca only seldom and we cannot identify any immediate quotes from De beneficiis in Luther’s works. Luther mentions Cicero more often and it can be, as we have already seen, that some of his views regarding duties and favors stem from Cicero’s De officiis (1, 48–49). Seneca’s treatise can nevertheless be regarded as an established and comprehensive codification of the prevailing intellectual rules and opinions concerning beneficial agency in the early sixteenth century.75 In Luther’s times, almsgiving, charity, and mutual aid were strong practices, which were regulated not only by the immediate social conventions but also by the established intellectual doctrines concerning these practices. Although the existing practices cannot be derived immediately from the intellectual doctrines, we can argue that both Luther and his educated readers were familiar with the prevailing doctrines. Even when they were not necessarily aware that all this could actually be found in Seneca, they approved the established guidelines concerning mutual aid, gratitude and other duties between the different members of the society. Moreover, divine giving is for Seneca a paradigm of truly beneficial agency. Human benefactors should imitate the model of divine giving. This feature of De beneficiis connects Seneca’s program with Christian views of doing favors. At the same time, we cannot assume that early modern Christians were simply fol74   Erasmus, “In Novum Testamentum Praefationes,” in: Studienausgabe 3 (Darmstadt: Wiss. Buchgesellschaft, 1967), here: 80–83. 75   The excellent new English translation in Seneca, Moral and Political Essays, does not include the sixth and seventh books. A complete text can be found in Seneca, Moral Essays III, Loeb Classical Library 310 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1935). For introductory information about the significance of this work, see Francois-Regis Chaumartin, Le De beneficiis de Seneque, sa signification philosopique, politique et sociale (Paris: Les belles lettres, 1985); Griffin, “De Beneficiis”; and Troels Engberg-Pedersen, “Gift-Giving and Friendship: Seneca and Paul in Romans 1–8 on the Logic of God’s Charis and Its Human Response,” Harvard Theological Review 101 (2008): 15–44.

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lowing Seneca’s views. In order to see Luther’s standpoint as clearly as possible, it is instructive to compare his three main points – proper giving and receiving, earthly vs. spiritual, merciful intention – with similar themes in Seneca. (1.) Seneca emphasizes that truly beneficial agency is constituted and defined by the will and mind of the giver. Neither the gift itself nor its use by the recipient is constitutive of the favor, but only the good intention and will of the giver. True favors, therefore, take place in the mind, and even when the vehicle of the favor, the gift or service, is lost, the favor remains, because it is constituted by the giver’s good will (De beneficiis 1, 5 and 6, 2, 1–3). Because of this basic criterion, favors need to be given intentionally. We cannot receive favors from trees and rivers, although they are advantageous for us. Only targeted intentional giving can qualify as favor (De beneficiis 4, 29, 3 and 6, 7, 3). In a normal case, it is proper to receive favors with gratitude. But this is not a constitutive criterion. In some cases, favors can be received without knowing or even unwillingly. Parental education with discipline, for instance, can be regarded as beneficial agency even when the child remains ignorant and unwilling. Gods also act favorably upon humans who are ignorant and even resist divine gifts (De beneficiis 6, 23–24 and 7, 31). The major message of De beneficiis is that “man’s ingratitude should never incite (and cannot justify) the abandonment of giving.”76 Beneficial agency differs fundamentally from the economic exchange of buying and selling. Although the recipient should show gratitude and return favors, this reciprocity remains different from the economic exchange. A person has already paid back the favor when he has cheerfully accepted it. The giver receives gratitude (gratia) in return, not a concrete payment. A favor is paid in one way, a loan in another: the transaction of beneficial agency takes place in the minds (inter animos) of the giver and the recipient (De beneficiis 2, 33–34). In Seneca’s use, the verb accipio means reception or acceptance in which the recipient remains passive. An exaggerated activity in receiving favors turns gratitude into a payment, thus spoiling it. Like Cicero, Seneca discusses the difference between favors and duties. Because beneficial agency is constituted in the mind of the giver, people can do favors both to their superiors and to their inferiors, both to their relatives and to strangers. The difference between favors and duties is not given by social context, but it is constituted by the will and mindset of the giver (De beneficiis 3, 18). Seneca teaches an asymmetry between giving and receiving a favor: while the giver needs to show his or her good will in an intentional and targeted manner, favors can be received passively or even with resistance. Divine giving exemplifies this particularly well: 76   So Griffin, “De beneficiis,” 103, quoting Brad Inwood, “Politics and Paradox in Seneca’s De beneficiis,” in Justice and Generosity, ed. A. Laks and M. Schofield (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 263.

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Like the best of parents, who only smile at the spiteful words of their children, the gods do not cease to heap their benefits upon those who are doubtful about the source of benefits, but distribute their blessings among the nations and peoples .  .  . [E]ver gentle and kindly, bear with the errors of our feeble spirits. Let us imitate them; let us give, even if many of our gifts have been given in vain .  .  . as a good farmer overcomes the sterility of his ground by care and cultivation, I shall be victor. (De beneficiis 7, 31–32)

When Luther claims that favors are to be distinguished from sacrifices and duties, he is not saying anything particularly original. Seneca’s example shows that the bestowal and circulation of favors differs fundamentally from economic exchange, which proceeds with payments. In addition, the view that the divine giver distributes favors to all people stems from Seneca. Both Cicero and Seneca distinguish favors carefully from duties. The requirement of proper gratitude also stems from these authors. More importantly, the passivity of the recipient and the unconditional nature of the gift given are likewise characteristic of Seneca’s discussion on favors. The recipient can sit still and let himself be benefited; he can even resist favors bestowed upon him, so that only the giver’s persistent care and cultivation transforms him into a worthy recipient. Although active reciprocity is to be commended, it is no conceptual requirement of beneficia. Favors require a good-willed giver, but the recipient can remain passive. In these ways Luther’s discussion on the proper giving and receiving of favors does not differ dramatically from Seneca’s treatment. (2.) Concerning the distinction between earthly and spiritual favors, the first thing to notice is that both Luther and Seneca provide detailed lists of different favors. The long list given in De beneficiis 4, 5–7 is particularly interesting in comparison with Luther’s lists in the Large Catechism and elsewhere. Seneca holds here that God gives us at least the following beneficia: “countless things that beguile your eyes, your ears, your mind,” such as trees bearing fruit, wholesome herbs, food in so many varieties, living creatures of every kind, rivers that gird the plains, channels, warm waters on the sea-shore, earth with its mines, gold, silver, copper, iron, huge residence for all humans under the sky, its ceiling gleaming in one way by night and in another by day, breath that you draw, light, blood, delicacies, stimulants of pleasure and the repose in which you wither, animal herds, music and other arts, and, finally, the different ages of human beings. If someone claims that nature bestows these things upon me, Seneca responds that such a person is only giving a different name for God. Another list appears in De beneficiis 7, 31; here Seneca says that the gods “sprinkle the lands with timely rains, they stir the seas with their blasts, they mark off the seasons by the course of the stars, they modify the extremes of summer and winter by interposing periods of milder temperature.” Remarkable in both lists is the interpretation of natural or earthly things as intentionally targeted divine favors. When Luther speaks of sun, heaven, earth, and the different times and seasons, he is on the one hand drafting a theology of creation.

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At the same time, he continues the old tradition of seeing the cosmic events as divine favors. Both Seneca and Luther speak emphatically of the body and its senses in this context. The senses act as mediators between the mind and external goods. While Luther as a Christian probably proceeds more strongly toward the spiritual gifts, divine favors do not remain merely external for Seneca but they affect the mind through the senses. He considers that “it is God, our teacher, who draws forth our genius (ingenia) from the hidden depths” (De beneficiis 4, 6). The lists of earthly favors remain similar, both authors interpreting the different necessities of bodily life in terms of beneficia. We may thus conclude that Luther’s lists of God’s concrete favors contain several traditional topics. Although they are also motivated by such biblical sources as Psalm 104, they display some striking similarities with Seneca’s lists. (3.) In comparison with Seneca’s discussion, the theme of mercy as the essence of God’s favors may be the most original and innovative part of Luther’s treatment of beneficia. Luther clearly takes the topic of misericordia from the Bible, applying his knowledge of Hebrew to prove his views. Luther scholars have repeatedly pointed out that the theme of the merciful God is particularly prominent in Luther and in some of his late medieval predecessors.77 The comprehensive nature of God’s mercy unites the theological themes of grace, favor, and gift in a systematic manner. God’s beneficia manifest his mercy, and the manifestation of this mercy is the central message of the gospel in Jesus Christ. The intimate connection between favors and mercy thus serves Luther’s own theological purposes. Without denying the theological primacy of these considerations, we can find some parallels between Luther and Seneca also in this issue. The parallels can be seen in Seneca’s fundamental claim that the good will or the mind of the giver is constitutive for all beneficia. A favor is “an act of benevolence” (benevola actio, De beneficiis 1, 6). This means that favors remain even when the material gift is lost, because the good will of the giver cannot be taken away. Seneca can also maintain that, for the benevolent agent, “the only thing to keep your eyes on is the good faith of your recipient” (solam accipientis fidem specta, De beneficiis 3, 14, 2). With regard to the benevolent divine giver, we are loved (De beneficiis 4, 5; 4, 8) so that God confers on us the greatest and most important favors without any thought of return. He has no need for anything to be conferred, nor could we confer anything to him. Doing a favor is, therefore, something to be chosen for its own sake. The one advantage 77   See David Steinmetz, Misericordia Dei: The Theology of Johannes Staupitz in its Late Medieval Setting (Leiden: Brill, 1968); and Berndt Hamm, The Reformation of Faith in the Context of Late Medieval Theology and Piety, trans. Robert James Bast, Studies in the History of Christian Thought, 110 (Leiden: Brill, 2004).

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to be considered is that of the recipient, and we should approach it by putting aside any interests of our own. (De beneficiis 4, 9)

This benevolent attitude of Seneca’s divine agent is not identical with the mercy of the Christian God. However, it is remarkable that Seneca’s God practices beneficial agency without any thought of return. Doing a favor is very different from acts of economic exchange in which merits and rewards are expected. It would of course be wrong to say that Seneca prefigures the Lutheran doctrine of grace without merits. But it may be correct to maintain that Luther highlights the theme of beneficia because there he finds support for his own theology of faith and grace. Given that Luther’s educated audience was familiar with the classical discussion on favors, this discussion offered for Luther a conceptual starting-point and an illustration of his theological doctrine of justification by grace alone. The theological doctrine cannot be reduced to Seneca’s philosophical discussion, but its many points, such as the non-interested nature or favors, the distinction between favors and duties, the alleged passivity of the recipient and the priority of intention over the concrete gift or service, can illustrate the Christian doctrine from various angles. We could say that Luther performs a certain “Christianization” of the ancient topic of giving and receiving favors. When the ancient theme of non-interested giving is seen from the perspective of sinfulness and mercy, it becomes Christianized. Unlike Seneca and many others, Luther considers that truly altruistic giving is impossible for sinful human nature. But the paradigm of altruistic giving can still be found in the biblical witness of God, who gives his beneficia to all humans. Because of sin, this paradigm is accompanied with the theological aspects of grace and mercy. Nevertheless, as merciful giving, the paradigm of God’s giving in many ways resembles the non-interested bestowal of favors in Cicero and Seneca. To use Scott Hendrix’s picture, the “vineyard” of genuine help and altruistic agency was already available in the ancient discussion on favors. However, it needed “recultivation” in order to be understood in a properly Christian manner.

Recultivating Natural Philosophy Luther, the Magi, and the “Fools of Natural Knowledge” Russell Kleckley In his Epiphany postil of 1522, written during his exile in Wartburg Castle, Martin Luther turned his attention to Matthew 2 and the story of the magi, the star, and the search for the child born to be “king of the Jews.” Comparing the magi’s art to the discipline of “physiology” (physiologia) or natural philosophy, in which one “learns to recognize the power and work of nature,” Luther noted: The magi studied in such arts in which great wisdom concerning Christ is hidden and how one should conduct oneself in life. But this art is not now considered in the universities, and the peasants know more about it than do our magi, the masters of the knowledge of nature; consequently they are not unjustly called fools of natural knowledge, who with so much expense and effort only unlearn what they know and are the devil’s mocking birds.

Luther’s concern about the teaching of natural philosophy was not new. Some five years earlier, in February 1517, he already indicated in a letter to Johannes Lang that he had begun making notes on the first book of Aristotle’s Physics as a part of a broader attack against “the undoubtedly ruined studies of our age.” In the spring of 1518, specific plans for curricular reform at the University of Wittenberg began to take shape. In addition to the program for theology, the entire philosophy curriculum came under scrutiny and review. Keeping with his general critique of the scholastic tradition, Luther was particularly keen to detect places, as his earlier letter to Lang foreshadowed, where Aristotle’s philosophy had exerted a corrupting influence. By December 1518, Luther had arranged for the elimination of a course on Thomas Aquinas’ commentary on Aristotle’s Physics. In March of the following year, Luther expressed to Georg 

  WA 10/I/1:562.15–16; 563.4–9; LW 52:162. All translations are mine.   WABr 1:88.7–8; LW 48:37, 38. While the existing manuscript copy of the letter gives the year as 1516, that date is almost certainly incorrect. See LW 48:38 n14.    On the curriculum reform at Wittenberg, see Martin Brecht, Martin Luther, vol. 1, Sein Weg zur Reformation 1483–1521, 2nd ed. (Stuttgart: Calwer Verlag, 1983), 264–71.    See the letter to Spalatin, 9 December 9 1518, WABr 1:262.4–5; LW 48:95–96 

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Spalatin his desire that the remaining lectures in the Physics should continue only until it became possible to abolish them. The arrival of Philip Melanchthon in late August 1518 brought to Wittenberg a skillful and capable ally whose role in guiding and implementing the reform of natural philosophy would extend beyond Luther’s lifetime. In 1522, with these developments perhaps still on his mind, Luther turned to the Epiphany text and briefly renewed, in the postil’s opening pages, the attack on the practice and teaching of natural philosophy that he already had taken steps to correct. But beyond signaling the continuation and depth of Luther’s concern for the reform of natural philosophy, the Epiphany postil also reveals something of Luther’s perspective of the natural world that informed his motive and aims for that reform. Specifically, at least five themes appear in the postil that for Luther drew the line between the “great wisdom” contained in the “art” of the study of nature and the “fools of natural knowledge” who taught in the universities. These themes are: 1) the Fall of Adam and the consequent irreparable harm on human knowledge and the use of nature; 2) revelation and experience as correctives to lost knowledge; 3) the misuse of reason; 4) nature as divine work for human use and benefit; and 5) the role of faith and the proper regard for disciplinary boundaries. None of these themes is unique or original to Luther. Nor do they collectively constitute by themselves either a program of reform or a coherent natural philosophy in its own right. But they do illuminate the reform of natural philosophy as one aspect within Luther’s wider vision for “replanting Christianity in a European culture,” in Scott Hendrix’s terms, constituting another “agenda of Christianization” for the Reformation as Luther saw it. As Luther conceived the matter, the reform of natural philosophy was not merely pedagogical or even methodological; it was decidedly theological. His interest was not in the study of nature for its own sake but arose from and was shaped by his under   Letter to Spalatin, 13 March 1519, WABr 1:359.12–15; LW 48:111–12. In this letter, Luther charges that the Physics contains no true knowledge of nature.    Not coincidentally, Melanchthon’s inaugural lecture took as its theme, De corrigendis adolescentiae studiis. On Melanchthon’s impact on the reform of natural philosophy, see the insightful and informative work by Sachiko Kusukawa, The Transformation of Natural Philosophy: The Case of Philip Melanchthon, Ideas in Context (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995). Kusukawa emphasizes the connection that Melanchthon draws between moral and natural philosophy, a point consistent with Luther’s mention in the Epiphany postil on the relevance of the study of nature for the conduct of life.    Luther addressed the Matthew 2 text at least a dozen times throughout his career. On most of these occasions, he followed traditional exegesis by emphasizing the soteriological and christological significance of the account. In the 1522 postil, Luther’s main focus was also “the physical coming of the Gentiles to Christ” (WA 10/I/1:557.4–5; LW 52:159), which occupies his attention after his opening description of the magi and their “art.”    Scott H. Hendrix, Recultivating the Vineyard: The Reformation Agendas of Christianization (Louisville; London: Westminster John Knox Press, 2004), xviii.

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standing of the world as God’s creation, the world as the context for the story of human sin and salvation, and the natural order as the gift of God for human benefit in the journey between this life and the world to come. These theological commitments, converging in the Epiphany postil of 1522, prepared the soil for the “replanting” of natural philosophy in the Wittenberg curriculum. Looking forward from 1522, the themes of the Epiphany postils continued to animate Luther’s thinking, expressed polemically as well as exegetically, across a range of issues in which Luther saw God’s work and intention in the created order to be at stake. These same themes also serve as helpful guides for later interpreters of Luther, especially in the attempt to establish the reformer’s legacy in the transformation, if not the “reformation,” of natural philosophy into modern science.

1.  The Fall of Adam: Knowledge Lost and Misuse “It is now not possible that nature will be understood by reason after Adam’s fall, which has blinded it, any further than is allowed by experience or divine enlightenment.” Following a tradition extending back as far as Philo of Alexandria, sixteenth-century theologians and natural philosophers alike assumed that Adam’s loss of original innocence included a loss of original knowledge of nature as well.10 Luther’s application of the point, while not new, nonetheless reflected his certainty of the thorough and devastating consequence of humanity’s first sin. Later in his lectures on Genesis, Luther noted that complete knowledge of nature had been a part of the divine image in which Adam and Eve were created. In their state of original innocence, Adam and Eve “had the most dependable knowledge of the stars and the whole of astronomy.”11 In the Garden of Eden, perfect knowledge of nature paralleled perfect knowledge of God. Consequently, loss of the true knowledge of God in the Fall



  WA 10/I/1:565.16–18; LW 52:164.   Philo, On the Creation of the World (LVII), describes the task of naming the animals assigned to Adam in Genesis 2 as an exercise of the divine disposition implanted in Adam and through which he maintained perfect knowledge of nature prior to the Fall. See Peter Harrison, The Bible, Protestantism, and the Rise of Natural Science (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 211–65, on the prevalence and use of the idea into the early modern period, largely in an English context. 11   WA 42:50.4–5; LW 1:66. On Genesis as a source for Luther’s thought, see John A. Maxfield, Luther’s Lectures on Genesis and the Formation of Evangelical Identity, Sixteenth Century Essays & Studies 80 (Kirksville, MO: Truman State University Press, 1980), 6–9. Maxfield’s contention that “Luther’s Genesis lectures shed light on how he used scripture to instill in his students a worldview that reflected the ideals of the Lutheran Reformation .  .  .” (2) is supported by Luther’s treatment of creation and points of natural philosophy addressed in these lectures. 10

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claimed with it the true knowledge of nature, now beyond recovery.12 While that judgment did not render the study of nature pointless, it did serve to account for the gaps in human knowledge of the natural order, to place limits on what humans could expect to learn from and about nature, and to inform the goal for its study.13 Luther considered magi collectively as prime examples of the misuse of humanity’s fallen knowledge. Their art or skill (kunst), he charged, is called magic and is aided by the work of the devil.14 But their work is not purely the product of the devil since it mixes the natural with the diabolical in an imitation of the proper natural arts.15 The problem, then, as Luther saw it, had less to do with the mysterious or secret character of their knowledge than with its use, since the Bible provides ample cases where such knowledge is properly employed, that is, as God intended.16 The more recent heirs of these magi, as Luther regarded them, were the astrologers of his own time; they .  .  . teach that someone who is born under a certain sign will be a gambler; someone who is born under a certain sign will be rich or wise; again, who will be killed; again, someone who builds, marries, or goes out on this day or that day, will say or have things go thus and thus; the stars in heaven are that way by nature and effect such things in people who are influenced by them at a given time. God help us, how everything has been subjected to this art! 17

The point for Luther was not that the stars have no predictive role but that astrology, and astrologers, attributed power to the created stars that properly belongs only to God the creator, in addition to placing too much confidence in the human ability to discern the meaning of such events. In 1527, Luther returned to the same point in his preface to the German translation of the Prognostication of Johannes Lichtenberger.18 Here, Luther again acknowledged the role that astronomical events may play as signs while stressing that they are the work of God and the angels, owing nothing to any power inherent in the stars, and 12

  WA 42:49.29–28; LW 1:66.   The point in the Genesis lectures that includes the description of the impairment of human knowledge is to illustrate the depth of human depravity in general. As Peter Harrison notes, “The Protestant reformers had typically tended to elevate the abilities of the prelapsarian Adam and stress the comparative depravity of the present human condition.” Idem, “Original Sin and the Problem of Knowledge in Early Modern Europe,” Journal of the History of Ideas 63, no. 2 (April 2002): 245. 14   WA 10/I/1:559.15–560.1; LW 52:160. 15   WA 10/I/1: 560.2–6; LW 52:160. 16   The examples Luther provides are the knowledge through which Solomon was able to determine the true mother in the dispute recorded in 1 Kings 3 and Jacob’s manipulation of the breeding of Laban’s sheep in Genesis 30 to produce offspring that were striped, speckled, and spotted. See WA 10/I/1:560.11–16; LW 52:161. 17   WA 10/I/1:566.17–567.3; LW 52:165. 18   WA 23:7–12. Lichtenberger’s Prognosticatio in Latino originally appeared in 1488. 13

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that they function as warnings to the godless. Christians, who have commended themselves to God, have no need of such threats and warnings.19 In any event, Luther argued, even though the foundation of the art is true, its practice has been so influenced by the devil that its results are unreliable. Uncertain knowledge, then, at least in the case of astrological prognostication, was more than a matter of ignorance but a reflection of the human spiritual condition as well. In the earlier Epiphany postil, Luther described the knowledge of magi collectively as a mixture of truth and falsehood. Magi imitate the true prophets and prophesy in a similar fashion, but their work is not driven by the Spirit of God, and so they only imitate the true natural arts. Though learned and experienced in their craft, they are prone to treachery (kauckelwerk) in its execution.20 By contrast, the magi who followed the star of Bethlehem stood for Luther as an exception to the usual example of magi and later practitioners of their art for the very reasons that they stayed within the bounds of what is possible and proper for humans to know from nature. In doing so, these magi used the star of Bethlehem strictly for the purpose God intended, as a guide to lead them to Christ. Luther did not note the irony but his account of the magi nonetheless contains it: by avoiding the misuse of nature typical of their profession, the magi who followed Bethlehem’s star found their way to the child born to save humanity from the Fall through which it lost its original knowledge of nature held, however briefly, in Adam.

2.  The Presumption of Reason While the magi, their methods, and their aims gave Luther the opening to address matters of natural philosophy, the main object of concern he had in mind for his audience in the opening part of the Epiphany postil was not so much the practitioners of the dark arts as it was the lecturers in university halls; not magi but Aristotle, not magic but reason. Following up on his criticism of Aristotle from the beginning of the Wittenberg curriculum reform, and the formal statement of that critique in works such as the 1517 Disputation against Scholastic Theology and the Heidelberg Disputation the following year, Luther renewed the attack in the Epiphany postil as though the situation had remained unchanged.21 19

  WA 23:11.16–18.   Paolo Rossi, Die Geburt der Modernen Wissenschaft in Europa, trans. Marion Sattler Charnitzky and Christiane Büchel (Munich: Verlag C. H. Beck, 1997), 43, made the observation that esoteric arts such as hermeticism often connected practices and knowledge of nature to specific views of salvation. While Luther’s critique of magi focused on their misuse of nature as a symptom in and consequence of sin, the possibility cannot be dismissed that at some level a concern about a false notion of salvation influenced his attitude as well. 21   See especially thesis 50 of the Disputation against Scholastic Theology: “Briefly stated, the 20

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The dominance of Aristotle’s “art” (kunst) in the university curriculum remained so pervasive, Luther continued to argue, that “whoever is skilled in it or learns it has placed on him a brown cap and is called ‘worthy Herr Master of the arts and philosophy.’”22 This is precisely the situation that Paul had in mind, according to Luther, when he wrote, “See to it that no one deceives you through the natural arts and vain deceit that is not from Christ” (Col 2:8).23 The accusation continues: Paul called Aristotelian “natural art” un-Christian, vain words with nothing behind them, and therefore opposed to Christ. Even prior to the Epiphany postil, Luther had stated his criticism of the content of Aristotle’s teaching in unqualified terms. In The Babylonian Captivity of the Church, for example, Luther had declared that all of Aristotle’s work in natural philosophy should be set aside since “nothing can be learned from them either about natural or spiritual things.”24 In the Epiphany postil, Luther ridiculed Aristotle’s teaching for being either obvious or absurd, such as when he .  .  . taught and still teaches that a stone is heavy and a feather light, that water is wet and that fire is dry. Likewise, a special masterpiece, that the earth is above and the sky below, which he proves as follows: because the roots of trees and all plants are stuck in the ground and the branches reach toward the sky. Now, nourishment is received from above, and nourishment passes below, as we see in a person. So a person is a tree turned upside down, and therefore when a feather flies, it flies above itself, and when a stone falls, it falls above itself.25

But these examples of the deficiencies of Aristotle’s teaching were only symptoms, as Luther saw them, of the more fundamental problem of method that gave rise to these results. The root of the problem, in other words, was reason, damaged through Adam’s fall as the means of investigating nature along with the actual knowledge of nature that Adam, and Eve, also lost. Compounding the problem is the refusal to acknowledge reason’s limits, lending it an air of unfounded arrogance and confidence far beyond what its capacity. As Luther stated the matter in 1522, But restless reason cannot remain still and allow itself to be content but wants to know and see everything, like an ape. Consequently it raises itself up and takes flight (tichtet) whole of Aristotle is to theology as darkness is to light” (WA 1:226.26–27; LW 1:12). For the Heidelberg Disputation, see especially the philosophical theses, 29–40 (WA 1:355.1–25; LW 31:41–42), and thesis proof XXVIII (WA 1:365.1–20; LW 1:57). 22   WA 10/I/1:568.7–9; LW 52:166. 23   WA 10/I/1:568.18–569.2, “Das hatt Sanct Paulus alles vorkundigt, da er sagt Col. 2: Sehet zu, das euch nit yemandt betriege durch die naturliche kunst und eytel betrug, das nit von Christo ist.” Cf. LW 52:166. Luther paraphrased the Colossians passage in the Epiphany postil in order to sharpen his point. Among other differences, his translation in the 1522 September Testament used the phrase, “durch die philosophia,” in place of “durch die naturliche kunst.” See WADB 7:230. 24   WA 6:457.34–458.4; LW 44:200–201. 25   WA 10/I/1:567.14–22; LW 52, 165.

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and investigates beyond what it has been commanded and despises what has been given to it by experience or God, and even so does not grasp what it seeks. Therefore all its study and knowledge becomes vain error and fool’s work.26

The assumption that Luther makes here about the context within which reason operates is crucial. The point was not to discourage reason from investigating the things that it can discover and know but to hold it in check against the pursuit of things beyond its grasp. As Brian Gerrish noted, the attitude that Luther exhibits, here in the Epiphany postil and elsewhere, should hardly be counted as evidence of “gross obscurantism,” “an unblushing attempt to quell the scientific spirit of investigation.”27 Given Luther’s conviction about the irreparable damage suffered by reason through the Fall, the issue rather was one of limits and boundaries. Heiko Oberman described the position represented here by Luther as one in continuity with a stance against “vain curiosity” prominent in strands of late medieval tradition against the dominant Aristotelianism of the time.28 In this context, disdain for curiosity indicated not intellectual indifference but healthy skepticism against claims that cannot be verified. In the Epiphany postil, Luther used the German equivalents of the terms for “curiosity” and “vain curiosity,” fuerwitz and eyttel fuerwitz, multiple times precisely in this sense to describe the extension of reason into realms of knowledge beyond its reach. This is the type of knowledge that “fools want to know.”29 Arrogance and presumption, not the pursuit of enlightenment, drive it. In sum, for Luther the problem with reason, just as it was for fallen knowledge, was a spiritual matter, not just an epistemological one. Lack of knowledge about the natural of world posed not only an intellectual challenge; more basically, it manifested humanity’s spiritual condition stemming from the Fall. Consequently, the motives and methods employed for the recovery of knowledge, about God’s creation as well as about God’s nature and will, were also matters brimming with theological significance. Human reason, in Luther’s view, proved particularly susceptible to misuse and prone to error. The natural philosophy of Aristotle, and the prominence attributed to it, only demonstrated the point. 26

  WA 10.I.I:565.18–566.5; LW 52:164.   See B. A. Gerrish, Grace and Reason: A Study in the Theology of Luther (Oxford: The Clarendon Press, 1962), 30–32. 28   Heiko A. Oberman, “Reformation and Revolution: Copernicus’ Discovery in an Era of Change,” in Oberman, The Dawn of the Reformation: Essays in Late Medieval and Early Reformation Thought (Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1986), 185–86. David C. Lindberg notes that “charges of intellectual arrogance and vain curiosity” already began to appear when the “champions of the new Aristotelianism” began making inroads into European universities and natural philosophy curricula in the thirteenth century. See Lindberg, The Beginnings of Western Science: The European Scientific Tradition in Philosophical, Religious, and Institutional Context, 600 B. C. to A. D. 1450 (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1992), 216–23. 29   WA 10/I/1:570.21; LW 52:168. 27

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3.  The Correctives of Revelation and Experience Where reason fails, according to Luther, revelation and experience step in as reliable post-lapsarian sources of knowledge. In the Epiphany postil, this presumed mutually supportive role for revelation and experience comes to light by way of example in the role Luther described for celestial signs, such as solar eclipses and comets, as omens under divine guidance. Experience, Luther claimed, confirms the precedent revealed in the gospels where Christ referred to “such signs in the sun, moon, and stars to indicate the final misfortune of the world.”30 Revelation and experience, then, convey information with regard to natural phenomena but also establish the limits of that knowledge. In the case of the star of Bethlehem, the knowledge it transmitted was limited to its role as a sign for the magi to follow to discover the location of the infant Jesus, not to tell his fortune. As for the “stargazers and diviners” whose false knowledge strays beyond the bounds of revelation and experience, their “natural art” about stars is nothing but “vain showmanship” (eyttel gauckelwerck).31 Luther’s assumption, reflected throughout the Epiphany postil, that Scripture provides a reliable source of revealed information about the natural order carried forward the long Christian tradition that claimed the priority, both in order and in importance, of the knowledge contained in the Bible against claims made outside of or contrary to the biblical witness. The roots of this tradition extended back into Hellenistic Judaism and the attempt to reconcile the wisdom and knowledge of the Greek philosophical tradition with the tradition of Hebrew Scripture. Philo of Alexandria, for example, claimed that Moses “had early reached the very summits of philosophy, and .  .  . had learnt from the oracles of God the most numerous and important of the principles of nature.”32 From Josephus the Christian tradition adopted the belief that any original knowledge remaining with Adam after the Fall passed to his son Seth, whose descendents then preserved this knowledge by etching it into stone pillars that survived the Flood. This information subsequently passed to Egypt through Moses, who used these pillars in composing Genesis.33 These convictions about the role of Moses as the source of authentic knowledge of nature revealed through the first Scripture endured well into the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries in the working assumptions of theologians and natural philosophers alike.34 Johannes 30

  WA 10/I/1:571.3; LW 52:168. The passage Luther cites is Lk 21:25.   WA 10/I/1:572.17; LW 52:169. 32   Philo of Alexandria, On the Creation of the World, II, quoted from Nahum N.  Glatzer, ed., The Essential Philo (New York: Schocken Books, 1971), 2. 33   Flavius Josephus, Judean Antiquities 1–4, Louis H. Feldman, translation and commentary (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 2000), 1:70. 34   On the impact of these beliefs into the early modern period, see Harrison, The Bible, Protestantism, and the Rise of Modern Science, 213, and Kenneth J. Howell, God’s Two Books: 31

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Kepler, for example, assumed that Plato’s Timaeus was a type of commentary on Genesis.35 By implication, this tradition meant that the Greek philosophical tradition, including Plato and Aristotle, derived their knowledge from Moses and the Hebrew Scriptures. On the one hand, this belief about the derived the nature of ancient philosophical learning supported convictions about the universal character of truth and its divine origin. On the other hand, this belief also could account for the perceived inferiority of philosophical claims made outside the Christian tradition when these claims conflicted with the biblical witness. That is, such claims could be regarded as valid to the extent that they could be reconciled with biblical testimony, particularly Genesis, as their origin; conclusions deemed at odds with biblical truth could be dismissed as deviations from their own initial source of enlightenment and inspiration. When confronted with a conflict between biblical and ancient philosophical claims, about nature no less than about God, the Bible could be held as superior not only because of claims of divine inspiration but because of the Bible’s acknowledged role as the original source, from which philosophical claims represented a departure.36 Luther, therefore, had more than one reason driving his critique of “that noble light of nature, the heathen master, the archmaster of all masters of nature who now rules in all universities and teaches in the place of Christ, the highly renowned Aristotle.”37 Not only did Aristotle’s use of reason lead to dangerous and unwarranted speculation about the nature of the world and the nature of God, but the superiority the biblical witness about the created order, conveyed through Moses, made Aristotle unnecessary. In his sermons on Genesis beginning the year after the Epiphany postil, Luther echoed the same theme. Here, he declared, Moses already had put a stop to all the words of the philosophers and those who had studied in the universities, the “so-called doctors and masters” who have taught the natural arts, that is, natural foolishness (natuerliche thorheit).38 Repeatedly in these sermons, Luther admonished his audience to understand the text in the most basic, plain way Copernican Cosmology and Biblical Interpretation in Early Modern Science (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2002), 78, who describes Tycho Brahe’s reliance on the tradition surrounding the knowledge preserved through the descendents of Seth, and, more generally, the role of biblical interpretation in Tycho’s work. 35   See Kepler’s Harmonices Mundi (World Harmonies, 1618), in Max Caspar, ed., Johannes Kepler. Gesammelte Werke (Munich, 1958 ff.), Book IV, 221. 36   David C. Lindberg, “Science in the Early Church,” in God and Nature: Historical Essays on the Encounter between Christianity and Science, ed. David C. Lindberg and Ronald L. Numbers (Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1986), 24, describes the position of early Christianity to be that the Greek philosophical tradition “partook of the truth because it plagiarized from the Old Testament.” 37   WA 10/I/1:567.11–14; LW 52:165. 38   WA 24:36.16.

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possible (auffs einfeltigest verstehen) 39 and not to read into the text anything beyond what it actually says (wie die wort lauten).40 In the later Genesis lectures, Luther addressed the role of revelation as a source of knowledge more directly and specifically. From the very beginning of those lectures, Luther claimed Moses as a reliable and authoritative source of information about matters both of history and nature, again citing Aristotle, among others, whose opinions gained through reason, are speculative and uncertain. Before taking up the discussion of the first day of creation, Luther echoed the view that “perhaps Plato, as it seems, collected in Egypt sparks from the discourses of the patriarchs and the prophets, and for that reason arrived closer to the truth.”41 He then concluded his preamble with a call to “turn to Moses as the better teacher, whom we can follow more securely than we can the philosophers who dispute about unknown things without the Word.”42 That is not to say that Luther regarded truth claims about nature to be valid only if they could be drawn directly on the basis of Scripture. While the problem with reason is that it seeks to know more than what God has revealed, experience, grounded in the created order, has direct access to the world as God made it and limits its questions to things it can legitimately know and verify. Everyone, Luther asserted, “has, in part, knowledge of nature of this sort.”43 While not all of the specific examples he offered – that a dog’s tongue aids healing, that a cat catches mice when it is no longer hungry, that hawks catch partridges – may actually live up to the verification by experience that Luther claimed, the point does not stand or fall with the examples themselves. The point, rather, is the method of investigation that these examples illustrate. These are not conclusions drawn from speculative reason but through observational experience. The point is not whether they have been verified by later experience, but that they can be. In the Epiphany postil, Luther matched his critique of reason’s claims beyond the boundaries of revelation with an even more specific critique of reason reaching beyond experience: Finally, when they became tired of studying on earth, they travelled to heaven and wanted to know the nature of heaven and the stars, about which nonetheless they could have no experience. And they took complete liberty to take flights of fancy, lie, and deceive, and to say whatever they wanted about innocent heaven. As the saying goes, 39

  WA 24:28.22.   WA 24:26.27. The phrases cited here, or their equivalent, appear throughout the sermons on Genesis 1. 41   WA 42:4.16–17; LW 1:4. 42   WA 42:5.30–32; LW 1:6. In the 1523 sermons on Genesis, Luther made a similar comparison between Moses and the pagan Plato and Aristotle, whose opinions Luther brands as foolish and impious. See WA 24:25.13–14. 43   WA 10/I/1:565.8–9, “Es ist tzu wissen, das die naturkundigung yhe eynâ teyls eynem iglichen menschen bewust ist.” Cf. LW 52:164. 40

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“Whoever lies about faraway lands, lies forcefully,” for they cannot be challenged by experience. And so since no one can reach heaven and confront their teaching or error through experience, they lie with full and certain force.44

By later standards, Luther’s appeal both to revelation and to experience may seem more in tension with each other than as complementary. But within the assumptions that Luther held about the limitations imposed on knowledge by the Fall and the impairment to reason through the same fate, along with his inherited view about the priority of the Bible as a source of information, revelation and experience constituted the two reliable sources of information from which the study of nature could – and should – proceed. His appeal to Scripture, by the standards of his day and not those of later generations, did not constitute a blatant biblicism that resisted new learning. Nor should his appeal to experience be taken too directly as a sign of budding empiricism about to blossom as a methodological principle for scientific inquiry. In both cases, Luther operated within positions he inherited from the tradition and which persisted beyond him. In his particular application of these positions, experience, along with revelation, kept the investigation of nature within the bounds of what is proper and possible to know. These boundaries also marked the path for discovering how that knowledge, once gained, should be applied. The point was not simply to know what nature is but to understand how God intends for it to be used.

4.  Nature as Divine Work and Instrument When Luther reported to Johannes Lang in February 1517 that he had begun making notes on Aristotle’s Physics, he declared his intention to be “to enact anew the story of Aristaeus against this, my Protheus.”45 In the story, told by Virgil in the Georgics,46 Aristaeus, the god of bee-keeping (among other agricultural endeavors), searches for Protheus, the sea-god who tends the seal herd of Poseidon, in order to discover the secret why his bees have died. Aristaeus learns that in order to reveal his secrets, Protheus first must be bound and made to divulge his knowledge by force. Aristaeus succeeds in binding Protheus only to have him change shapes in an attempt to escape, taking the form of various animals until he realizes his struggle is in vain and finally imparts to Aristaeus the knowledge the determined bee-keeper seeks. The “enactment” of the story took expression in more prosaic form in a subsequent letter from Luther to Lang on 21 March 1518, in which Luther reported 44   WA 10/I/1:566.9–17; LW 52:164–65. In his 1527 preface to Lichtenberger’s prognostication, Luther made a similar reference to stargazers and diviners who travel to the heavens and write in the stars. See WA 23:10.19–20. 45   WABr 1:88.19–21; LW 48:38. 46   The account occurs in Book IV.

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several changes in the arts curriculum at Wittenberg, including a lecture on Pliny.47 While these changes did not eliminate Aristotle entirely from the natural philosophy curriculum until perhaps as late as 1521, they did establish a change of direction in the teaching of natural philosophy that steered toward the descriptive and away from the explanatory, toward the practical and away from the speculative.48 Though perhaps not a tale of quite the mythic proportions as the one to which Luther alluded in his 1517 letter to Lang, it nonetheless marked the beginning of a new chapter in natural philosophy at Wittenberg: Protheus-Aristotle was being bound; the intellectual heirs of Aristaeus, whose name can mean “useful” in Greek, could once again practice their art. The story of the magi in Matthew 2 offered Luther another tale, though one he took quite literally, in which the lead characters served as models of practicality and utility who appropriated God’s work in nature as the gift and instrument God intended it to be. As Luther commends his readers: Just stick with the example and learn how these magi learned from the star, and you will do rightly and not err. For there is no doubt that the sun, moon, and stars were made, as Moses writes in Genesis 1, that they should be signs and serve the earth with their light.49

Leaving speculation behind, “These magi took this star as no more than a sign, and also used it no farther than as the sign for which God appointed it.”50 This insight and emphasis on the utility of nature was not, of course, unique or original to Luther.51 The standard term that Luther employs throughout the postil to identify the natural “arts,” Kunst, inherently points beyond theory to skill and application.52 Through this skill or art, Luther writes, one “learns to recognize the power and process (werck) of nature.”53 The true natural arts not only seek to understand the mysterious processes of nature but attempt to make us of them.54

47

  WABr 1:155.43; see also Kusukawa, Transformation of Natural Philosophy, 34.   See again Kusukawa, Transformation of Natural Philosophy, 42–43, 51. In The Babylonian Captivity of the Church, Luther, after dismissing the whole of Aristotle’s natural philosophy, stated, “I dare say that any potter has more skill (kunst) concerning natural things than stands written in any of these books.” WA 6:457.34–458.4; LW 44:200–201. 49   WA 10/I/1:570.7–12; LW 52:167. 50   WA 10/I/1: 571.14–16; LW 52:168. 51   See Lindberg, Beginnings of Western Science, 171, who makes the point that, generally, “in medieval Christendom, science was justified by virtue of its utility,” in order to make the same claim for Islamic natural philosophy. 52   The translation in LW 52 consistently renders Kunst as “knowledge” or even “science.” 53   WA 10/I/1:562.15–16; LW 52:162. 54   WA 10/I/1:560.9–11; LW 52:160–61. 48

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For those outside university halls, Luther stresses even further the practicality and utility of nature, encouraging less interest in what nature is than in what it is intended for: Therefore, dear man, let go of this natural art (naturlich kunst). If you do not know what power each and every star, stone, piece of wood, animal and all creatures have, which is what this natural art strives for at its best, be content with that which your experience and common knowledge teach you. It does not matter if you do not know everything. It is enough that you know that fire is hot, water is cold and wet, that there is different work to do in summer than in winter. Know how you should take care of your field, cattle, house, and child; that is enough for you in the natural arts.55

Later in the Large Catechism Luther impressed upon the common Christian this same appreciation and proper use of the gifts of God through creation as a duty and expression of faith. It is even a mark of obedience to the first commandment.56 The stress on the utility of creation as divine work also appears throughout Luther’s exegetical texts, most obviously in the Genesis lectures where he described the entire creation as a divine act brought into existence for human benefit.57 The underlying point, though with different examples, resonated with Luther’s 1522 charge concerning the wild claims made about “innocent heaven” by those he had charged as “fools of natural knowledge,” and the “imitators” of the true natural arts who ply their skill in the form of magic through the aid of the devil and contrary to God’s intention. Outside of Luther’s specifically exegetical work, perhaps the clearest application of his commitment to the reception and use of creation as divine act and instrument becomes evident in his polemical writings related to his defense of the real presence in the Lord’s Supper. Particularly against Huldrych Zwingli, Caspar Schwenckfeld, and Oecolampadius, Luther repeatedly invoked examples throughout creation to demonstrate that God’s action through the bread and wine of the Eucharist constitutes a particular, though special, instance of a general pattern of divine action through created means.58 55

  WA 10/I/1:569.17–24; LW 52:167.   See Robert Kolb and Timothy J. Wengert, eds., The Book of Concord (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2000), Large Catechism, explanation to the First Commandment, especially 389.27 and 392.47. In his explanation to the Apostles’ Creed in LC, Luther introduced his discussion of the first article, “I believe in God, the Father almighty, Creator of heaven and earth,” by stating, “This is the shortest possible way of describing and illustrating the nature, will, acts, and work of God the Father”; and shortly thereafter, “Thus the Creed is nothing else than a response and confession of Christians based on the First Commandment” (BC 432.9–11). 57   WA 42:29.27–31. 58   For a fuller discussion of the application of Luther’s understanding of the nature to his position on the real presence, see Russell C. Kleckley, “Omnes Creaturae Sacramenta: Creation, Nature, and World View in Luther’s Theology of the Lord’s Supper” (Dr. theol. diss., Ludwig-Maximilians-Universität München, 1990). 56

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The star of Bethlehem was one example among many of God’s action within the created order in service of humanity. The magi who followed the star and used it according to its divine intent provided a model for using God’s creation as God intended.

5.  The Place of Faith in Disciplinary Boundaries In Luther’s understanding of the natural world, the theological whole is greater than the sum of the philosophical parts. Simply put, knowledge of nature is not the same thing as recognition or understanding of what nature truly is. Each of the themes that appears in the Epiphany postil, the impact of the Fall, the misuse of reason, the role of revelation and experience, and the use and appreciation of creation as divine work, all reflect Luther’s deep sense of the theological significance of the created order that only faith, not philosophy, can grasp. That is not to say that Luther had no regard for natural philosophy as a discipline. His critique, both within the Epiphany postil and elsewhere, aimed at what he regarded as the abuse of natural philosophy, particularly as practiced in the universities, not at the discipline as such. This qualification of Luther’s critique of natural philosophy comes into better focus when account is taken of the audience Luther addresses where the critique appears. The Epiphany postil, like the 1523 sermons on Genesis, assume a general audience, not the specialized context of the university lecture hall. It is the “dear man” to whom Luther appealed in the Epiphany postil to let go of “this natural art” and be content with what “common knowledge teaches you.” The point was not to deny “what this natural art strives for at its best,” but rather to direct the reader (and hearer) away from the kind of knowledge about nature Luther regarded as unnecessary and toward the God-intended use and experience of it.59 These qualifications do not make Luther’s critique of natural philosophy any less pronounced or sharp. But the point was not whether natural philosophy should be taught; the question was how, to whom, and to what end. Luther’s efforts in the five years preceding the Epiphany postil, after all, aimed at the reform of natural philosophy in the university curriculum, not its elimination. A better gauge of Luther’s regard for natural philosophy as a discipline perhaps emerges from the later lectures on Genesis, beginning in 1535. With the university podium rather than the pulpit as the original setting for these lectures, and with more than a decade and a half elapsing since the initial reform 59   WA 10/I/1:569.17–18; LW 52:167. In the preface that Luther later appended to the Genesis sermons of 1523, Luther stated his intention to address the “common person” (den gemeynen man) through his exposition. See WA 24:1.24.

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of the Wittenberg curriculum, these lectures exhibit a more positive appraisal of natural philosophy than appears in the 1522 postil but without abandoning in the least the theological convictions that spurred Luther’s earlier critique. Since the lectures that focused on the creation story of Genesis 1 and 2 recount the creation of everything, they also afforded Luther the opportunity to consider more broadly the insights of natural philosophy beyond the attention to the creation of the single star of Matthew 2 and the focus on astrology as the magi’s “art.” A notable feature of Luther’s perspective on natural theology in these lectures is not what he regarded as true but what is useful, in this case for teaching. With regard to the number and composition of celestial spheres, for example, Luther commented that these are ideas that are not certain and are not held universally to be true but nonetheless are useful for teaching and serve as the foundation for this “art.”60 Even though these ideas do not come from Moses or Scripture, Luther maintained, they nonetheless have been thought out by learned people for the purpose of teaching.61 Mathematicians ascribe a certain number of spheres, not because such a number actually exist, but because the spheres are useful for describing the different movements of heavenly bodies; “such imagination is necessary for teaching.”62 What prevents these claims from venturing into the realm that Luther decried as speculation in his 1522 postil is precisely the limitation put on them. Imagination is not speculation for the very reason that it recognizes the imaginary character of the claim and the limited purpose for which it is made, for teaching.63 Imagination is used to illustrate principles, not to make claims about what is real in the actual created order.

60

  WA 42:26.15–18, 36–39; LW 1:26–27.   WA 42:22–23.37–39; LW 1:29. 62   WA 42:21.39; LW 1:27–28. 63   Oberman, “Reformation and Revolution,” 195, correlates the notion of “imaginatio” with that of the “mental experiment” and includes it with the contribution made by nominalism to the development of modern science. He notes, “In the field of theology this would be ‘vain curiosity’; in the field of natural philosophy this is research, investigation. This is the breeding ground of the so-called hypotheses that are completely misunderstood as ‘mere speculation’ .  .  .” (emphasis in original). On the surface, the rather positive assessment of “imagination” in the text of the Genesis lectures seems at odds with Oberman’s general claim about the theological rejection of imagination as “curiosity” and “speculation,” a rejection Luther might be expected to endorse. While the issue cannot be resolved definitively here, it is possible that Luther’s own nominalist background enabled him to make the distinction between “imagination” as “mental experiment” for purposes of teaching and “imagination” as speculative claims exceeding what is possible to know. In that case the point in the text of the Genesis lectures remains consistent with Luther’s negative stance toward speculation found elsewhere, including the Epiphany postil. This solution also avoids the suggestion by the editors of LW that the point regarding imagination in the text of the Genesis lectures belongs to a larger set of pedagogical principles that “had been the subject of much thought 61

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But the very points that Luther made in his positive appeals to natural philosophy also imply the limitations of natural philosophy for grasping the full significance of creation as a divine work. Christians, Luther claimed, must think about such matters differently from the way philosophers do.64 Philosophy deals with natural processes, but faith looks beyond nature to the divine Word that created and continues to sustain nature. A case in point for Luther was the creation of plants bearing seeds on the third day of creation (Gn 1:11). Philosophy understands the generation of plants from seeds as a natural process, but the larger truth is that the first plants were produced through the Word which still is at work through seeds to preserve plants and maintain their growth.65 The point bears repeating throughout the discussion of the six days of creation in the Genesis lectures. Though Moses, Luther claimed, wrote Genesis with unlearned people in mind,66 Scripture reveals a truth that is beyond the grasp of philosophical investigation, namely, that creation is the product of God’s Word and is continually sustained by it.67 The distinction then, between the “common person” and the natural philosopher is one of difference in application of a single principle: the common person need not know more about nature than what is revealed through the Word or gained through experience, and the philosopher cannot know on the basis of philosophical methods the truth about nature that the Word reveals. In either case, a full understanding of what nature is, not merely knowledge of the natural processes by which it works, comes only through the Word. Part of the confusion, and delusion, in natural philosophy as Luther observed it during the period of curricular reform at Wittenberg took hold exactly in the confusion of disciplinary boundaries that, in Luther’s estimation, had made theological truth subject to philosophical inquiry. In 1522, he sarcastically blasted the incursion of philosophy, including natural philosophy, into theological territory: Whoever is not skilled in this art [of Aristotle’s natural philosophy] can neither become a theologian nor understand sacred scripture; indeed, he must be a heretic and can never become a Christian. Now tell me, what should we call such people? They are neither magi nor sorcerers nor hucksters but mad, crazy, and senseless people.68

The greater appreciation for natural philosophy that appears in the later Genesis lectures assumes a different context, one that recognizes the different modes of “speaking” inherent to each discipline. The Holy Spirit’s way of speaking is by Melanchthon” (LW 1:28 n46), implying that here is a point that reflects Melanchthon’s influence on the published text of the lectures. 64   WA 42:23.19–20; LW 1:30. 65   WA 42:27.32–40; LW 1:36–37. 66   WA 42:18.25; LW 1:23. 67   WA 42:35.22–25; LW 1:47. 68   WA 10/I/1:568.9–13; LW 52:166.

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through the uncreated Word that acts to create.69 Grasping that truth is not a matter of philosophical inquiry but of faith.

Recultivating Natural Philosophy: The Aim and the Legacy According to an often-quoted “table talk” record from 1530, Luther remarked: We are now in the dawn of the future life, since we have begun again to attain the knowledge that we lost through Adam’s fall. Now we see creatures rightly, more so than under the papacy. But Erasmus shows no interest and cares little about such things like how a fetus is formed, shaped, and made in the mother’s womb, just like he also disregards marriage and how honorable it is. We, however, beginning from the grace of God, recognize God’s noble work and wonder, even in a little flower, when we consider how almighty and good God is, and on that account praise, esteem, and thank him. In God’s creatures we recognize the might of his Word, how powerful it is. “For when he spoke, he commanded, and it came to be” (Ps 33: 9). It is the same as in a peach pit, although its shell is very hard, in its own time it gives way to the soft seed inside. Erasmus misses completely the significance of this; he looks at creatures in the same way a cow looks at a new gate.70

Exactly what provoked Luther to single out Erasmus for criticism over an alleged failure to appreciate creation is not clear. Like most of Luther’s recorded comments made at table, this oft-cited remark reveals little about its context. But the recognition of the impact of the Fall on human knowledge of creation, and the certainty that to “see creatures rightly” requires theological insight, not just knowledge about natural processes, recalls the same convictions that Luther had expressed in 1522. Erasmus’s failure, in Luther’s view, was more a matter of theological error than an inadequate grasp of natural philosophy. The larger polemical context of 1530 may offer some insight for the background to the provocation leading to Luther’s remark. Around this time Luther’s more specific critique of Erasmus focused on several issues that may have brought Luther to fault the famous humanist for an inadequate appreciation and understanding of nature: a failure to grasp the significance of God’s omnipotence, earning Erasmus the label “Epicurean”; 71 Erasmus’s alleged overly drawn sepa69   WA 42:35.37–40; LW 1:47. Luther addressed the disciplinary distinction between theology and philosophy even more directly in the 1539 Disputation on the Passage, “The Word Was Made Flesh” (WA 39/II:3–33; LW 38:239–77), in which Luther described the role of philosophy to be understanding through the use of reason, and that of theology to belief beyond reason. Faith, he continued, is not bound by the rules of philosophy. Here, Luther offered the example of celestial spheres as an analogy for disciplinary distinctions, “Just as God created many spheres in heaven, there is in the same way distinctions among these disciplines” (WA 39/II:7.37–38; LW 38:269–70). 70   WATr 1:573.31–574.5 (No.  1160). 71   See, for example, the comment recorded from 1532 in WATr 1:186.34–187.4 (No.  432).

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ration between the divine and human, created nature of Christ; and a similarly sharp distinction between body and soul, the material and the immaterial.72 The last point is especially significant in view of the influence of Erasmus on Huldrych Zwingli on the body/soul relationship and the chronological proximity of the Table Talk remark to the high water mark of Luther’s confrontation with Zwingli over the real presence. Throughout the course of the sacramentarian controversy, differences over their understanding of the material and non-material dimensions of creation, of God’s continuing relationship to the created order, over the nature of God’s presence in creation, and over particular principles of natural philosophy had permeated the pointed and heated exchanges between Luther and Zwingli.73 Near the beginning of his dispute with Zwingli, in the Sermon on the Sacrament of the Lord’s Supper (1526), Luther went so far as to describe the main error of the Zwinglians to be that they never understood creation properly.74 Whatever the specific reasons behind Luther’s optimism in 1530 that knowledge and appreciation of nature lost through the Fall was now being recovered, the overarching factor seems to have been Luther’s sense of the progress of the Reformation to that point. The nascent ability to “see creatures rightly” was the result of the reformation of theology, not scientific discovery. The debate with Zwingli also illustrates what Luther saw to be at stake in the matter of the proper appreciation of nature and the teaching of natural philosophy. Beyond a true or false understanding of creation, claims in the realm of natural philosophy also pointed to true or false belief about the Creator. Since the latter part of the nineteenth century, on the other hand, another famous – or infamous – Table Talk reference often has been invoked in making a different judgment on the Reformation’s legacy, specifically with regard to the development of modern science. The record comes in two versions of a comment made in 1539. According to the account preserved by Anton Lauterbach, On Luther’s application of the label “Epicurean” against Erasmus, see Marjorie O’Rourke Boyle, Christening Pagan Mysteries: Erasmus in Pursuit of Wisdom (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1981), 67–95. For Luther, divine omnipotence was a key factor in his perspective on natural processes, and the study of them was secondary in importance for gaining insight into the natural order. God, who devised the natural processes, also has the ability to change them. See, for example, WA 42:21.27–29; LW 1:27. 72   Christoph Gestrich, Zwingli als Theologe: Glaube und Geist beim Züricher Reformator, Studien zur Dogmengeschichte und systematischen Theologie 20 (Zürich: Zwingli Verlag, 1967), 25–27; and Stefan Bosshard, Zwingli-Erasmus-Cajetan: Die Eucharistie als Zeichender Einheit, Veröffentlichungen des Instituts für europäische Geschichte 89 (Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner Verlag, 1978), 13–15. 73   On the specific issues that stood between Luther and Zwingli in this regard, see Kleckley, “Omnes Creaturae Sacramenta,” especially 275–334. 74   WA 19:487.25–26; LW 36:339. Luther stated his position in more positive terms when he claimed shortly thereafter, “Whoever looks at a creature in the right way will never err in this article” (WA 19:489.7–8; LW 36:340).

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Mention was made of a certain new astrologer who intended to prove that the earth is moved and not the heaven, sun and moon, just as someone moving in a river or a boat might consider himself to be motionless and the land and trees to be moving. [Luther remarks:] So it goes these days. Whoever wants to be wise cannot leave alone what someone else has done; he has to make his own mark, just like this man does who wants to turn upside down all of astrology. Even in things that are confused, I myself believe the Holy Scripture where Joshua ordered the sun to stand still, not the earth.75

In a later account preserved by Aurifaber in 1566, Luther attacks the “new astrologer,” presumably and almost certainly with reference to Nikolaus Copernicus, as a “fool” (Narr).76 Andrew White, in his influential 1896 work, A History of the Warfare of Science with Theology, set the tone when he cited the text as the leading evidence that early Protestants “vied with each other in denouncing the Copernican doctrine as contrary to Scripture.”77 More contemporary writers with an impact on audiences of general readers, such as Daniel Boorstin, have continued the charge by pointing to the account as evidence that Reformation Protestantism in general “carried a strong fundamentalist, anti-intellectual message.”78 Even Reformation scholars, at times, have been willing to introduce the text as testimony to Luther’s alleged biblicism in the way of scientific progress.79 Arguments throughout the twentieth century in defense of Luther emphasized a variety of points: the unreliability of the Table Talk as a source, the lack of context for the comment with regard to what Copernicus actually proposed, the date of the comment falling prior to the publication of De revolutionibus in 1543, the singular and isolated nature of the comment, and the subsequent acceptance of Copernicus’s proposal, though more as the useful “thought experiment” than reality, within Melanchthon’s sphere of influence.80 75

  WATr 4:412.32–413.3 (No.  4638). The text Luther cites is Js 10:12.   WATr 1:419.16–23 (No.  855). 77   Andrew White, A History of the Warfare of Science with Theology in Christendom (New York: D. Appleton and Company, 1896), 1:126. Among more recent scholars, the reported comment continues on occasion to serve as face value evidence of a broader biblically-based opposition to heliocentrism. See, for example, Rossi, Die Geburt der modernen Wissenschaft in Europa, 99. 78   Daniel Boorstin, The Discoverers (New York: Random House, 1983), 302. 79   Richard Marius, Martin Luther: The Christian between God and Death (Cambridge, MA: The Belknap Press, 1999), 12. 80   A sampling of the literature in the defense of Luther includes: Heinrich Bornkamm, “Kopernikus im Urteil der Reformatoren,” Archiv für Reformationsgeschichte 40 (1943): 171– 83. See also J. R. Christianson, “Copernicus and the Lutherans,” Sixteenth Century Journal 4, no. 2 (1973): 1–10, who summarizes the discussion in the four decades following Bornkamm’s defense. Donald Kobe, “Copernicus and Martin Luther: An Encounter between Science and Religion,” American Journal of Physics 66, no. 3 (1998): 190–96, is noteworthy as much for the journal in which it appears, directed specifically toward the scientific community, as for its content. See also Robert S. Westman, “The Melanchthon Circle, Rheticus, and the Wittenberg Interpretation of the Copernican Theory,” Isis 66 (1975): 165–93. 76

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More recent attempts have placed Luther in the larger context of the intellectual trends of his day in order to demonstrate compatibility between his thought and developments that contributed to the rise of modern science. Heiko Oberman, for example, emphasized the nominalist elements in Luther’s thought, particularly the stress on divine omnipotence and the distinction between God’s absolute power (potentia dei absoluta) and God’s ordained power (potential dei ordinata). This distinction encouraged attention to the world as God actually made it, discouraging speculation, in the sense to which Luther objected, and encouraging observation in the investigation of nature. Physics became less tied to metaphysics, allowing greater room for experience and experiment in the discovery of truth.81 Others have noted theological trends that Luther helped to initiate, beyond the philosophical ones in which he was schooled, as also playing a significant role in the development of scientific methodologies. Peter Harrison and Kenneth Howell have both argued that changing approaches to biblical interpretation influenced changing approaches to the study of nature as well. In Harrison’s case, the shift from allegory to a literal interpretation of Scripture freed nature from symbolism, since “.  .  . only words refer; things of nature does not.”82 As a result, more attention could be given to nature in its own right as opposed to interpreting nature for what it symbolizes. While in general agreement with Harrison’s position, Howell argues that it fails “to account for the diversity of approaches” evident throughout the early modern period.83 His study then challenges “the common notion that the Bible functioned mainly as a deterrent to the acceptance of Copernicanism”84 by describing a variety of approaches to biblical hermeneutics in the period that all attempted to reconcile Copernicanism with scriptural authority. While his study focuses more on the Lutherans than on Luther, Howell notes, “A key institution in this process of transmission [of Copernicanism] was the center of the Lutheran Reformation, the University of Wittenberg.”85 As important and insightful as each of these modern approaches have proven to be for informing our understanding of the Reformation and the rise of modern science in general, or of the question of Luther and Copernicus in particu81   See again Oberman, “Reformation and Revolution,” especially 192–98. See also Amos Funkenstein, Theology and the Scientific Imagination from the Middle Ages to the Seventeenth Century (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1986), 57–72. 82   Harrison, Bible, Protestantism, and the Rise of Modern Science, 4. 83   Howell, God’s Two Books, 8. Many of the approaches that Howell describes draw on the traditional “book of nature/book of scripture” distinction as the basis for a presumed consistency between the two sources of God’s revelation as non-competing authorities. It should be noted that while Luther was aware of the “book of nature” image, his use of it was rare and scattered. 84   Ibid., 11. 85   Ibid., 10.

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lar, they are just that: modern. That is, these approaches deal with issues as they appear on the modern side of things, not necessarily as the issues appeared to Luther.86 To gauge Luther’s participation in intellectual trends that in some way contributed to the rise of modern science, or to trace scientific development from theological insights that Luther helped to advance, is one thing; to consider what Luther understood to be the relationship of his theological and philosophical views to the investigation of nature is a very different matter. Put another way, to say that modern science might, in some way, owe its development to theological impulses that Luther shared or initiated is not at all to say that Luther shared the aims, interests, or values, intellectual or otherwise, to which those aims led.87 But the point here is not to vindicate Luther in the light of the development of modern science but to understand him better within his own intellectual and religious frame of reference. The themes in the Epiphany postil, applied throughout Luther’s work, make the point that grasping the significance of nature is first and foremost an act of faith in God the creator of nature. Not ignorance of natural processes, but the reality of the human condition was Luther’s main concern. The perspective Luther brought to the discussion of the magi in 1522 does, though, shed light in one important respect on the later reaction reported in the 1539 Table Talk comment. The description of the “new astrologer” with the wild idea about a stationary heaven, sun, and moon but a moving earth has much in common with Luther’s earlier depiction of the “fools of natural knowledge” who venture beyond what experience makes possible into realms of speculation and “vain curiosity.”88 In this regard, Aurifaber’s report that includes Luther’s characterization of the “astrologer” as a “fool” is on the mark. That natural philosophy, on the way to becoming modern science, might one day benefit by pushing the limits of investigation beyond immediate experience to form hypotheses that experience might subsequently confirm, through mathematical models or by experimentation, is not a possibility that Luther was able to entertain. That the created order can be fully understood or appreciated apart 86   See Kusukawa, Transformation of Natural Philosophy, 2–6, for a succinct discussion on the problems with stating the issue in terms of “the Reformation and the Scientific Revolution.” 87   On this point, see August Nitschke, “Luthers Beziehung zur neuzeitlichen Naturwissenschaft,” in Josef Fleckenstein, Sabine Krüger, and Rudof Vierhaus, eds., Festschrift für Hermann Heimpel zum 70. Geburtstag am 19. September 1971, Veröffentlichungen des MaxPlanck-Instituts für Geschichte 36/I (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1971), 639–66, who notes (640), “Whoever hopes that Luther might have reacted positively to emerging modern science will be disappointed by Luther’s direct comments.” 88   In addition to Oberman, “Reformation and Revolution,” 185, others who evaluate Luther’s reaction against the background of his concern about heedless speculation and unwarranted curiosity are Martin Brecht, Martin Luther, vol. 3, Die Erhaltung der Kirche 1532– 1546 (Stuttgart: Calwer Verlag, 1987), 122; and Howell, God’s Two Books, 40.

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from faith and God’s intention for fallen humanity is not a possibility that Luther was willing to entertain. In Luther’s view, anyone who thinks – or believes – otherwise is a fool.

Rechristianizing Women, Men, and the Family

Martin Luther through the Eyes of Katharina Schütz Zell Elsie Anne McKee Virtually everyone in sixteenth-century Germany knew of Martin Luther; virtually every scholar in western Europe knew of him. What different people knew and how they viewed the giant of the German Reformation is another question, however. The present essay offers one response, introducing Luther through the eyes of a lay person from the “common people” (educated in the vernacular but not Latin), a devout young woman from the middling ranks of citizens of the free imperial city of Strasbourg. Katharina Schütz Zell was about twenty when Martin Luther was becoming widely known, and her adult years would span the rest of Luther’s lifetime and extend well into the second generation of his followers’ struggle to understand and interpret him. The essay begins with an overview of how Schütz Zell came to know Luther; the second part presents the Luther whom she knew.

I.  How Did Katharina Schütz Zell Know Luther? For a literate lay person in a city like Strasbourg, which quickly began to feel Luther’s influence and would become effectively Protestant by 1524, Katharina Schütz Zell would have had several kinds of sources for learning about the great reformer. The first and most pervasive were probably the sermons and other teaching of the clergy who adopted his theology, especially Matthew Zell, who was not only the first established priest to do this but also the preacher in Katharina Schütz’s own parish and later her husband. The most concrete ways of getting a precise knowledge were Luther’s own German-language publications which Schütz Zell read avidly. To these more public forms of knowing, the lay

   The main sources for this essay are Elsie Anne McKee, Katharina Schütz Zell, vol. 1: The Life and Thought of a Sixteenth-Century Reformer (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1999), hereafter Life and Thought; and Elsie Anne McKee, Katharina Schütz Zell, vol. 2: The Writings. A Critical Edition (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1999), hereafter Writings.

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reformer added some limited personal acquaintance with Luther and others of his circle. Oral Sources in Strasbourg Probably the first and yet most difficult to document source of Katharina Schütz Zell’s knowledge of Luther would have been the oral religious culture of Strasbourg, especially sermons and conversations with Matthew Zell and other reforming clergy. Zell identified 1521 as the time when he began preaching the gospel openly, and Schütz Zell remembered this new teaching as beginning about 1522, but within a few years there were other Protestant voices whom the Zells welcomed. Martin Bucer first preached from Zell’s pulpit and then Wolfgang Capito, Caspar Hedio, and others joined the ranks of Protestant clergy, and Mathew’s wife was happy to listen to them as well as to her husband. Schütz Zell’s lifelong friendship with Bucer was not always smooth, but she learned from him, either directly or indirectly (see below). However, she was particularly close to Capito. Strasbourg’s small but growing group of married priests undoubtedly talked theology mostly among themselves, but their wives joined in at least some of the time; for example, when Caspar Schwenckfeld lectured on the first and second epistles of Peter in Capito’s home, his wife and Zell’s were among the auditors. Matthew Zell was probably even more ready to include his wife in religious discussions than his colleagues were theirs, and/ or she was more eager. Schütz Zell later referred nostalgically to the theological conversations she and her husband shared together and with others, and it is clear that she felt sufficiently well taught by him to be his voice after his death, conveying his teaching. Also, it seems that some of what Matthew read in Latin he discussed with Katharina in German. Writing to Zell in 1542 Schwenckfeld suggests that Frau Zell ask her husband to read her a particular text by Jerome, and there is no reason to suppose this was an isolated case. For example, in 1524 the young Protestant woman refers to a Latin pamphlet by Johannes Cochleaus, which she could not read herself but with which she seems somewhat conversant. In 1553 she alludes to Luther’s teaching on monastic vows, De monasticis .  .  . 

  McKee, Life and Thought, 347.   McKee, Writings [Rabus Correspondence], 172, 256, 290. This passage describes an early sermon by Capito, which she says she has not forgotten.    McKee, Writings [letter to Schwenckfeld], 130. For citations of Bucer, see below at n. 59.    McKee, Writings, [Lament for Zell], 257–58, 275; cf. [letter to Schwenckfeld], 129–30, 151– 52.    Elsie Anne McKee, “A Lay Voice in Sixteenth-Century ‘Ecumenics’: Katharina Schütz Zell in Dialogue with Johannes Brenz, Conrad Pellican, and Caspar Schwenckfeld,” Adaptations of Calvinism in Reformation Europe: Essays in Honor of Brian G. Armstrong, ed. Mack Holt (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2007), 90 n11, citing Corpus Schwenckfeldianorum, vol. 8:407 (#392). 

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judicium. In 1557 she cites something written in Bucer’s commentary on John (though since she could not read for herself she apparently confused the various editions); it is probable that Zell had discussed this with her, though her source of information might have been Bucer’s preaching. No one as involved in the religious life of the city as Schütz Zell could have missed the differences of opinion between Strasbourg’s leaders and Luther in the 1520s. There was the official and not entirely harmonious correspondence between the Strasbourgers and Luther in 1524, particularly over the implementation of liturgical changes that would have been very visible to laity, and which Schütz Zell plainly approved. Then in 1529 the Zells hosted Ulrich Zwingli and Johannes Oecolampadius on their way to Marburg. Since she was keenly interested and always ready to engage her guests in conversation about religious matters, Schütz Zell must have come to know Luther as refracted through the eyes of her learned friends and acquaintances. Later she would have experienced the very different perspectives of Schwenckfeld and Ludwig Rabus as interpreters of Luther, as the former disputed with Luther and his colleague Johannes Brenz, and the latter claimed Luther as his great leader but understood him quite differently than Schütz Zell did. Luther’s German Writings Although she was restricted to Luther’s vernacular writings, Schütz Zell seems to have read carefully quite a large number – certainly many more than can be directly documented. She uses or cites a considerable range, however, especially those from the first ten or twelve years. The text of Luther’s New Testament was definitely available to Schütz Zell by 1524, as some of her references in her first publications demonstrate. Among the other writings to which she alludes in one way or another are expositions of biblical texts; anti-Roman polemic on the sacraments, monastic vows, and other issues; teaching on catechetical basics such as the creed; and views of the roles of civil and ecclesiastical authorities. Before going further it is worthwhile to take a brief look at Schütz Zell’s reading habits. There is no doubt that from her youth Katharina Schütz was interested in reading religious material as an aid to her faith, although she had little or no patience with secular literature.10 As an elderly widow, when she was obliged to defend her right to speak on religious questions, Schütz Zell de   McKee, Writings, [Apologia for Zell], 30; [letter to Schwenckfeld], 148 (see below, nn28, 50); [Rabus Correspondence], 253.    McKee, Writings, [Rabus Correspondence], 249, 257–58, 242.    McKee, Life and Thought, 289 n69. 10   McKee, Writings, [letter to Schwenckfeld], 133–34, 131–32.

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scribed her practice. She said that she had been engaged with the Bible and matters of piety since she was about seven, and that although she had read the Scriptures, they were a closed book until God sent Luther to open her understanding.11 Because she was accused of defying or dishonoring her husband by reading Caspar Schwenckfeld’s books, Katharina describes Matthew’s support for her study. He did not rule over or compel my faith; he also never put any obstacles in the way of my faith but rather much more he actively furthered and helped me. He granted and allowed me space and will to read, hear, pray, study, and be active in all good things, early and late, day and night: indeed, he took great joy in that – even when it meant less attention to or neglect in looking after his physical needs and running his household.12

Zell not only encouraged her reading but also supported her in testing everything by Scripture and maintaining her own judgment, as he did himself.13 In addition he allowed her to read Schwenckfeld’s books to him. Reading was a life-long source of comfort and instruction to Schütz Zell. After Matthew’s death she spent many hours and days working through the Psalms, with pen in hand as she meditated.14 In October 1553 in a letter to Schwenck­feld, when she was burdened with her handicapped nephew and her own poor health, she explains why she has not written sooner; she has little leisure to write and “when I do have some time, I would rather read your books and others (especially the Holy Scriptures), to increase my comfort, understanding, service, and advancement.”15 There is evidence from various sources about what Schütz Zell was reading. Naturally, at the top of the list was the Bible. Her extant writings demonstrate that already in 1524 the eager convert was fairly well acquainted with the New Testament and some parts of the Old, and over the course of her life this knowledge continued to expand to become quite remarkable.16 From the way she discusses Roman opponents of Luther in 1524 it is clear that she was already reading widely in religious texts in order to defend her faith: she describes two German pamphlets that she “has seen”; she offers to respond to Johannes Coch11

  McKee, Writings, [letter to Schwenckfeld], 133, 144–45. See below, n. 35.   McKee, Writings, [letter to Schwenckfeld], 124; Katharina Schütz Zell, Church Mother: The Writings of a Protestant Reformer in Sixteenth-Century Germany, ed. and trans. Elsie McKee (Chicago; London: University of Chicago Press, 2006), 188. 13   McKee, Writings, [letter to Schwenckfeld], 131; Schütz Zell, Church Mother, 194: “I have and keep my free judgment about [Schwenckfeld’s books] and test them by the touchstone of Holy Scripture. The reason is that when he [Zell] was alive he never hindered or forbade that but always told me (as he himself also did) to read and listen; and so, after testing (as they do with the stone that is used to try gold), to hold to the good.” 14   McKee, Writings, [letter to Schwenckfeld], 129–30; [Meditations on Psalms], 314, 317–40. Cf. McKee, Life and Thought, 131–32. 15   McKee, Writings, [letter to Schwenckfeld], 129–30, 126. Quotation, cf. Schütz Zell, Church Mother, 190. 16   McKee, Life and Thought, see chapter 9 and biblical indices. 12

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laeus’s Latin text if he will only give it to her in German (!); and she mentions the many responses by “more clever people.”17 (At this stage it seems the young woman is inflating her competence by referring to a broad swath of literature, although it is typical that she does not claim to have read these but only to have seen or to know about them. In her mature years the need to impress would drop away in favor of hard facts, as she demonstrates the specific knowledge she has gained from particular texts.) 18 More objective grounds for the kind of library Schütz Zell maintained is found later in the small portion of it which somehow survived: ten pamphlets by a range of Protestant authors reacting to the Augsburg Interim. These are annotated in Schütz Zell’s distinctive hand, and hint at her way of interacting with the texts she read. Given the fact that these pamphlets were all published within a couple of years, it is clear that the lay reformer acquired and read vernacular religious texts on a regular basis and was eager to keep up with what was being said about the faith in print.19 Her will records that some books were left to a student and servant of a noted Schwenckfelder, which suggests that these were theological writings (no doubt Schwenckfeld’s books, which Schütz Zell elsewhere mentions distributing, including to the author’s critics in hopes that they would appreciate him).20 The specific things which Schütz Zell read from Luther and others can be traced through citations in her writings. Most of these references are found in polemic against Ludwig Rabus, the young pastor whom the Zells particularly encouraged, who lived with them as a student, became her husband’s successor after Matthew’s death, and then (as Schütz Zell saw it) overturned Zell’s teaching.21 The context of her writing therefore shapes the choice of texts; the Luther who appears here is primarily the anti-Roman reformer. Schütz Zell thought that Rabus was taking up Catholic positions that Luther had rejected, and she wanted to point out to the young man that he was not in fact honoring the great man whom he claimed to revere, any more than he was respecting his mentor Zell by praising the latter but changing his teaching and practice. The elderly widow believed she knew Luther and Zell better than Rabus.

17

  McKee, Writings, [Apologia for Zell], 30, 38; Schütz Zell, Church Mother, 70, 77.   McKee, Life and Thought, 343–75 on Schütz Zell as historian. 19   The pamphlets are most fully described in Elsie Anne McKee, “‘Lex Credendi’? Katharina Schütz Zell’s Prayers,” in Bewegung und Beharrung: Aspekte des Reformierten Protestantismus, 1520–1650. Festschrift für Emidio Campi, ed. Christian Moser and Peter Opitz et al., 383–93 (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 2009). 20   McKee, Life and Thought, 224. McKee, Writings, [letter to Schwenckfeld], 137, [Rabus Correspondence], 284. Cf. McKee, “Lay Voice in Sixteenth-Century ‘Ecumenics,’” 91–92. 21   McKee, Life and Thought, 151–55, 174–88, 193–200. 18

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Personal Acquaintance Because she was who and where she was, Katharina Schütz Zell also had some personal contact with Luther and several of his close colleagues. The earliest communications were by post. Schütz Zell apparently sent a copy of her first two publications (Letter to the Women of Kentzingen, July 1524, and the Apologia for Matthew Zell, September 1524) to Luther. He wrote to her on 17 December 1524, congratulating her on her faith and marriage, themes very evident in these pamphlets, and she almost certainly replied to his note, although none of her letters are extant.22 In 1529 after the problems at Marburg, Schütz Zell wrote a respectful but clear letter to Luther objecting to his lack of charity toward Zwingli. Although this must have been annoying and Luther delayed answering for more than a year, on 24 January 1531 he sent Zell’s wife a friendly and non-committal note maintaining his own position.23 Finally, in 1538, as part of Bucer’s campaign to strengthen the ground for the Wittenberg Concord, the Zells were invited to Wittenberg and spent a wonderfully memorable time meeting the Luthers and Philip Melanchthon, as well as others en route, like Nicolas Amsdorf in Magdeburg. Schütz Zell talked about the visit with delight, and when she recounted it for Rabus she included a quotation from Luther himself to the Zells, evidence for her personal knowledge of the great man.24 The Zells also had more contact with Luther’s friends and associates during the period of the Catholic-Protestant colloquies, especially the one at Hagenau in 1540 when Schütz Zell hosted a dinner for thirty guests, though she had to leave the serving to others while she nursed the ailing Urbanus Rhegius.25 It is evident, then, that Katharina Schütz Zell was probably as well acquainted with Martin Luther as any lay person in South Germany could be. She knew many of his vernacular writings at first hand, she lived among clergy who read and discussed his Latin works, she herself met Luther and his family, and she talked or corresponded with both his close followers and his opponents among the reformers. So what did she see?

22

  McKee, Life and Thought, 65–66; the books are bound with several by Luther in a volume from the library of one of his correspondents, Felicitas von Selmenitz, whom Schütz Zell did not know. Luther’s letter is found in WABr 3:405–6 (#808). 23   McKee, Life and Thought, 80–81; Luther’s letter, WABr 6:26–27 (#1777). 24   McKee, Life and Thought, 102–3; cf. McKee, Writings, [Rabus Correspondence], 235, 257. 25   McKee, Life and Thought, 105–6; cf. McKee, Writings, [Rabus Correspondence], 244.

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II.  What Katharina Schütz Zell Thought of Martin Luther To Katharina Schütz Zell, Martin Luther was the most important reforming voice of her world; but he was not alone. She repeatedly expresses her high regard for Luther; her extant references were mostly written after his death but the sentiments were certainly not new. He heads the list of reformers whenever she recites those who influenced her, even when speaking to his opponent Schwenckfeld, though especially when addressing Rabus. The language Schütz Zell uses for Luther is different from the way she speaks of Schwenckfeld, even though she was closer to the latter personally. Addressing Rabus, she describes them as “the good Schwenckfeld” and “the dear Luther”26 – a reminder that she speaks well of Schwenckfeld to Rabus who detested him, as she also did of Luther to his critic Schwenckfeld. The Great Gospel Preacher In Schütz Zell’s mind, Luther and her husband were the most significant preachers of the gospel whom she knew, and she often bracketed them together in her thoughts and writing. This is vividly expressed in her lament at Zell’s grave where she calls them Moses and Joshua.27 Already in 1524 she had identified them with Joshua and Caleb, God’s messengers who showed the people the right way, contrasting them with “the ten false spies” whom she identifies with the Roman clergy. Joshua and Caleb “will do their task of speaking the message that God commanded them,” and they “will enter into the good land” while those who follow the false spies will not be able to do so.28 The way that his wife links Zell with Luther and the character of her praise indicate that what she valued most was the two men’s pioneer role in simple preaching of the gospel, and thus she can associate them even though it was increasingly evident that Luther was more significant. Her first comparison was written during the initial years of the reform in Strasbourg, when Zell was the obvious pioneering leader 26   McKee, Writings, [letter to Schwenckfeld], to Schwenckfeld, 131: “es hats auch Schwenckfeld/ noch der lieb/ d/ Luter/ oder kein fromer gelehrter”; 145: “die heilige lehr/ die er mir durch Lüter/ mynen lieben mann/ uch/ und andere vil/ lieben menner/ geben hat. “ [Rabus Correspondence], to Rabus: 204, 210, 225: (“des lieben seligen D. Luthers/ Zwinglin/ Schwenck­felt/.  .  .”), 247, 256. 296: “So dann der güte Schwenfeldt/ mit dem lieben Luther/ solchs auch redte/ warumb verdammen jhr jhn.” 27   McKee, Writings, [Lament for Zell], 82; Schütz Zell, Church Mother, 113: “Our dear apostle Dr. Martin Luther has for long years gathered Germany, taught and indeed warned. In his day he had peace: what has followed his death we see now. This my upright husband has long taught here in Strasbourg and warned everyone in the temple of Jerusalem: what will follow his death, we will now see. For Moses and Joshua are dead, their hands are lowered, so that they cannot still pray for us.” 28   Schütz Zell, Church Mother, 67–68; McKee, Writings, [Apologia for Zell], 27.

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in that city, following the movement Luther had begun. The later reflections on the two men were written after both were dead, during the Augsburg Interim, when Schütz Zell saw the first gospel teaching under attack from within as well as without. This helps explain the way the widow elevates her husband above other reformers, though her language is also natural, given the roles of Zell as Strasbourg’s first Protestant pastor and as her husband. Two other sources give evidence for Luther’s outstanding place in Schütz Zell’s eyes. One is the almost constantly positive way that she refers to him as “the dear Dr. Luther” or with other similar expressions.29 Variants of this phrase naturally echo in her correspondence with Rabus, but she also speaks respectfully and appreciatively of Luther to Schwenckfeld, who was not inclined to share this attitude. This positive tone is highlighted by the contrasting way Schütz Zell cites dismissive references to Luther by a Strasbourg Schwenckfelder.30 It is notable however, that this language of praise does not appear in the lay reformer’s early writings. In the first years Protestants rejected clerical titles such as “doctor” and other marks of undue honor for particular human beings, something the elderly woman remembers with approval. Thus it is in keeping that, until the divisions among Protestants seemed to require a particular defense of one’s own reformer(s), Schütz Zell does not distinguish Luther – or Zell – with such fulsome praise as she would later.31 Contemporary sources outside of Schütz Zell’s own writings corroborate her high regard for Luther. One writer was Capito, the words a wry observation about her delight in meeting the great man. Writing his Wittenberg friend Jodocus Neobolus in March 1538, just before the Zells’ planned journey, Capito introduces his colleague’s wife, noting that she dared to write to Dr. Luther to show off her knowledge. He explains that she is very excited about the visit for 29   McKee, Writings, to Schwenckfeld: [ letter to Schwenckfeld], 131: “der lieb/ d/ Luter”; 135: “doctor Luter seligen.” Citing Zell: [Lament for Zell], 77: “Doctor Luthers krankheit”; 78: “unsers lieben Marti Luthers krankheit.” To the Strasbourgers 1557: [Lament for Zell], 72: “der lieb doctor Luther selig”; 82: “Unser lieber apostel D. Martin Luther”; [Rabus Correspondence] 171: “den lieben und jetz säligen Doctor Martin Luther.” To Rabus: [Rabus Correspondence], 205–06: “der lieb Luther sälig”; 209: “unsern lieben Luther”; 216: “unsers lieben Doctor Luthers”; 227: “Doctor Luther säligen”; 235: “unser jetz säliger D. Luther selbs .  .  . Doctor Luther”; 240: “Doctor Luthers unnd meines frummen Mans hinscheidung”; 241: “unsern lieben D. Luther”; 242: “Doctor Luther”; 243: “unserm lieben Doctor Luther”; 247: “Luther selbs .  .  . Doctor Luther”; 254: “Der liebe Doctor Luther selig .  .  . Doctor Luther”; 256: “Doctor Luther”; 257: “Doctor Luther .  .  . des lieben Luther .  .  . des lieben Doctor Luthers säligen wort”; 267: “Doctor Martin Luther”; 268: “dem lieben Luther”; 280: “unsers lieben D. Luthers säligen büecher”; 283: “D. Luther .  .  . der lieb Luther”; 293: “den lieben D. Luther”; 295: “unserm lieben Vatter Martin Luther sälig”; 296: “dem lieben Luther.” Rare instances when she gives only the name (never disrespectfully): 199, 244. 30   McKee, Writings, [letter to Schwenckfeld], 146, 147, 148, 149; “er/ redte ess noch ein mol/ er/ hete nichts von Luter noch von Schwenckfelden gelehrt.” 31   McKee, Writings, [Rabus Correspondence], 267–68: (“doctor”); [Apologia for Zell], simple naming of Luther, 2, 30 (1524 against Roman detractors).

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which she had spent two years preparing. Capito adds, “If the planned trip comes off, you will clearly hear personally that our women are not at all silent. But she is good and devout.” Reporting back in August, Capito told Neobolus that even after several months at home Frau Zell was still singing the praises of their generous hosts and showing her friends the lovely gift they had given her. 32 Another writer was Bucer. The Zells had to pay for the travel themselves, which partially accounted for the length of time required to organize it, but as Bucer noted in a letter to Heinrich Bullinger after the couple returned from their momentous trip, they considered it more than worth the cost.33 Schütz Zell herself described the meeting with the Luthers as very friendly; the Zells were treated as honored guests. Although she obviously was delighted with the gift from the Luthers, as Capito notes, Schütz Zell’s own account focuses on the teaching, and she is very pleased to be able to quote Luther to his young admirer Rabus, who had never met the great man. “Beware, beware that you never allow back in what has been thrown out and which has no ground in scripture.”34 Apparently, for Schütz Zell being invited to Wittenberg and introduced to the Luthers outshone the opportunity to meet any other contemporary, but it was Luther as the gospel preacher whom she revered: everything should be measured by Scripture. Luther the Model Another means to demonstrate how Katharina Schütz Zell saw Luther is to look at the way she and her husband took him as their personal model for faith. In the case of Zell (besides the role Luther played in converting him to the new preaching), this meant following the pattern of Luther’s “good death.” The story of Luther’s last days was quickly spread by his followers after his death; it was clearly intended to show that his faith was true and saving, in contrast to the negative propaganda of a “bad death” that Roman critics were publishing to discredit the Protestant teaching. As Katharina’s account of Matthew’s death reveals, the Strasbourg preacher who had first learned the new teaching from the Wittenberg reformer also consciously modeled his dying on Luther’s, and his wife asked that she might experience the same when her time came.35 Schütz Zell herself claimed a conversion much like Luther’s. The two accounts of this great change come from late in her life, after the deaths of both Luther and Zell. One was written in 1553 in a letter to Schwenckfeld; it is a 32   McKee, Life and Thought, 102–3, citing letters in Quellen zur Geschichte der Täufer, 15: 10 March 1538 (#814), 138; 12 Aug. 1538 (#839a), 241. 33   McKee, Life and Thought, 102–3, citing letter of 10 June 1538 in Staatsarchiv Zürich, E II 348, f417v. 34   McKee, Writings, [Rabus Correspondence], 235, 257. 35   McKee, Writings, [Lament for Zell], esp.  78–79.

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report about what she had said to his Strasbourg followers who had accused her of being proud and unwilling to be taught by anyone else. From my youth on I have zealously sought and prayed for God’s wisdom, which He has also given to me. From a child in my dear father’s house onward He laid the foundation stone in my heart to despise the world and exercise myself in His religion [cf. 1 Pt 2:6]. That I did under the papacy with great earnestness. In that time of ignorance I very zealously, with great pain of body and anxiety of heart, sought out so many clergy and God-fearing people to experience the way to heaven; about that I will say no more. How very wonderfully the Lord led me then! And afterward He did not leave me in my distress. He sent to me, and to many poor afflicted consciences, the dear and (I hope) now blessed Martin Luther, who showed me my error and pointed me to Christ, in whom I would find rest. Then God opened my understanding to comprehend the Holy Scriptures, which I had previously read as a closed book and had not understood.36

This praise for a human minister, especially one whom her Schwenckfelder auditors had rejected, marked clear disagreement between Schütz Zell and those she addressed. While Schwenckfeld himself was more urbane, at least a few of his Strasbourg followers were quite open in despising Luther, and Schütz Zell was having none of that. The second autobiographical account of her conversion was written in 1557 as the dedication of Schütz Zell’s published correspondence with Rabus, and it is addressed to the citizens of Strasbourg. This one is more elaborate in its description of her devout youth, affirming that not only her family but also friends, fellow citizens, and clergy regarded her piety with respect. Since, however, my distress about the kingdom of heaven grew great and in all my hard works, worship, and great pain of body I could not find or obtain from all the clergy any comfort or certainty of the love and grace of God, I became weak and sick to death in soul and body [Lk 7:2, Phil 2:27]. I was like the poor little woman in the Gospel who spent all her property and strength with doctors but lost yet more. However, when she heard of Christ and came to Him, then she was helped and healed by Him [Mk 5:25– 34]. So it was for me also and for many afflicted hearts who were then in great distress along with me: .  .  . We were in such anxiety and worry about the grace of God, but we could never find any peace in all our many works, practices, and sacraments of that [Roman] church. Then God had mercy on us and many people. He awakened and sent out by tongue and writings the dear and now blessed Dr. Martin Luther, who described the Lord Jesus Christ for me and others in such a lovely way that I thought I had been drawn up out of the depths of the earth, yes, out of grim bitter hell, into the sweet lovely kingdom of heaven.37

In this case, those whom Schütz Zell addressed would be predisposed to think well of Luther, but it is the same story she told Schwenckfeld. It is certain from 36

45.

37

  Schütz Zell, Church Mother, 206–207. See McKee, Writings, [Letter to Schwenckfeld], 144–

  Schütz Zell, Church Mother, 226. See McKee, Writings, [Rabus Correspondence], 171.

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the way she describes her experience that Luther’s example must have been in Schütz Zell’s mind when she wrote about her own deep anxiety and search for assurance of her salvation through acts of piety and good works prescribed by the church. The timing of her accounts of her conversion, and the need to authenticate her faith when she was under attack from both Schwenckfelders and Rabus38 raise questions about whether her experience actually followed Luther’s. For the purposes of this essay, which is concerned with her appreciation for Luther, that is a secondary question, but it deserves a brief answer. It might be argued that Schütz Zell’s words should be discounted because they come so long after the fact, but a strong case can also be made for the accuracy of her account. For one thing, the story remains fundamentally the same whether it is told to Schwenckfelders or to the city of Strasbourg. This suggests that it is not dependent on the audience, since the role given to Luther most certainly angered the Strasbourg Schwenckfelder with whom Schütz Zell was arguing about the vital importance of the Wittenberg reformer in the early Reformation. More significantly, in the published letter Schütz Zell is appealing to the citizens of Strasbourg to accept her account of their reformation as historical and true over against Rabus’ interpretation of the early days. Even if she were inclined to color the story – and she was too careful about facts to have much appreciation for storytelling 39 – in these circumstances Schütz Zell would not have published anything that might give her audience reason to doubt her word. At the time she wrote, at least some witnesses who had shared the first generation of the reform were still alive, and she appeals to them to confirm what she says, so she could hardly say anything they would contradict.40 In addition, the picture of a very devout young girl who was anxious about living the most holy life she could is consistent with what is found in Schütz Zell’s first texts written in 1524 only shortly after her “conversion.”41 Moreover, throughout her life she was particularly concerned for those who were uncertain of their salvation. She wrote the exposition of the Lord’s Prayer in 1532 for two women in Speyer, whom she did not know personally, because she had heard of their spiritual anxiety.42 When she publishes her last book in 1558 she 38   For her battle on two fronts, see Elsie Anne McKee, “Katharina Schütz Zell and Caspar Schwenckfeld: A Reassessment of Their Relationship,” Archiv für Reformationsgeschichte 97 (2006): 83–105. 39   See her work as historian, cited in n. 18. 40   McKee, Writings, [Rabus Correspondence], 176. 41   McKee, Life and Thought, 10–14; Writings, [Letter to Women of Kentzingen, Apologia for Zell], 39–40. Schütz Zell indicates that her marriage was a great surprise because no one ever thought she would marry; evidently she had vowed celibacy in her own home. She also had learned a special trade, making a kind of tapestry called Heidnischwerck; this craft, which required a considerable apprenticeship, enabled some women to earn enough to support themselves, usually by making ecclesiastical articles, although domestic items were also common. 42   McKee, Life and Thought, 85–86; Writings, [Meditations on Psalms], 340.

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also explains in the dedication to Sir Felix Armbruster that she has in mind those troubled souls who had come to her so frequently seeking comfort for their distress about obtaining God’s forgiveness and assurance of their salvation.43 It is thus reasonably certain that the young Katharina Schütz’s conversion happened essentially as the much older woman described it. It is clear, on the other hand, that the way she tells the story is shaped by her admiration for Luther, and that is the vital point here. Luther the Writer What concrete evidence is there for Schütz Zell’s actual use of Luther’s writings, and how did she receive what he said? One of the earliest examples of her use of his New Testament is in fact a mistaken identification of a biblical citation. In her Apologia for Matthew Zell, his wife makes a fascinating argument for herself or any Christian to speak out, based essentially on the commandment to love the neighbor. She identifies this commandment as “Deut. 6” instead of Leviticus 19[:18]; evidently she did not check the Old Testament itself. It is likely that she was using Luther’s marginal reference next to Matthew 22[:37– 39], where the two love commandments are quoted; there Luther only gives “Deut. 6,” although in the parallel in Mark 12[:29–31] both Deuteronomy 6 and Leviticus 19 are named.44 Schütz Zell’s error is not surprising, since in 1524 there was no Protestant Old Testament in German, and although she may well have read the Bible since she was a child, as she claims, she was probably referring essentially to the New Testament. (It is not very likely that her family actually owned a complete German Bible, and she would not have been able to read the Vulgate.) Examples of Schütz Zell’s use of Luther’s biblical expositions are found in her references to specific texts. In her account to Schwenckfeld of what she has told Rabus, Schütz Zell speaks of “the saying of David in the eighth letter of the 119th Psalm” (Ps 119:63) (Hundert und achtzehend Psalm, 1527). Although she does not name Luther, this note that the Hebrew letters also have the value of 43

  McKee, Life and Thought, 217; Writings, [Meditations on Psalms], 315; Schütz Zell, Church Mother, 134: “Besides my concern for you, Sir Felix, I was also prompted to publish this book because of the many troubled people who have for a long time sought me out with great weeping and afflictions, and still do so. These people bewail with great cries not their physical problems, but the spiritual distress and illness of their consciences, and – throwing up their hands – they have said to me. ‘Oh, no bodily illness is so great that I would not gladly bear it, indeed would not complain about it, if God would take away this distress of my heart and tell me that He is gracious to me and forgives my sins.’” 44   McKee, Writings, [Apologia for Zell], 22–23. See Elsie Anne McKee, “‘Speaking Out’: Katharina Schütz Zell and the Commandment to Love One’s Neighbor as an Apologia for Defending the Truth,” in Ordenlich und Fruchtbar: Festschrift für Willem van’t Spijker, ed. W. H. Neuser and H. J. Selderhuis (Leiden: J. J. Groen en Zoon, 1997), 9–22.

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numbers may have been based on his explanation.45 There are a number of cases in her writings where the lay reformer seems to appropriate readings or information from Luther’s Bible. Sometimes these are cross references from marginal notes, sometimes translations, occasionally chapter divisions.46 However, the lay scripture scholar did not follow Luther – or anyone else! – blindly. She also used the Zurich translation, as is seen in the way she quotes Matthew 4:17 as “Bessert euch” [Zurich “besserend euch”] instead of Luther’s “Thut busse.”47 Schütz Zell was not tied to any one translation. At least once her usage departs from both Luther and the Zurich Bible, when both of the latter translate Romans 10:17 as “faith comes from the ‘predig(t)’” while the lay reformer follows the Vulgate “gehörd.” Even if the preachers read it as “sermon,” the person in the pew knows that it is “hearing.” On the whole, though, Schütz Zell probably used Luther’s translation most of the time. Some of Luther’s biblical works served a theological rather than an expository purpose in Schütz Zell’s writings. One is Der 82. Psalms ausgelegt (1518–20), to which she appeals for Luther’s rejection of titles and his claim that his doctorate authorized his teaching. Demonstrating that she knows how Luther understood the nature of Christ, Schütz Zell explicitly names the sermon on John 8:46–59 in the Winterpostille (1528) and the Auslegung des 109. Psalm (1518).48 The second reference to Psalm 110 is part of her extended christological statement in defense of Schwenckfeld as a follower of the gospel. “The Lord said to my Lord: Sit at my right hand [Ps 110:1]. Read the dear Dr. Luther and old writers about that.”49 Besides his expositions of biblical texts, Schütz Zell also read a number of Luther’s topical (polemical) pamphlets. Some she explicitly cites by name (sometimes paraphrased). Das Taufbüechlein verdeutscht (1523) she calls “seinem ersten Büechlein vom Tauf ” and she uses it to argue against the efficacy of the sacramental rite. Von Anbeten des Sacraments des heiligen Leichnams Christi (1523) she praises as “ein hüpsch herlich büechlein” and emphasizes this rejection of Rome against Rabus’ strong focus on the holy elements. The Sermon am grünen Donnerstag (2 April 1523) she describes as “gar hüpsch unnd Christlich” on treating

45

  McKee, Writings, [letter to Schwenckfeld], 132–33.   McKee, Writings, [Preface to Hymnbook], 60 (translation), [Rabus Correspondence], 290 (siding with Luther against the Vulgate and Zurich Bibles), [Meditations on Psalms], 314 (“Samuel” instead of “Kings”), 326 (marginal notes), 331 (chapter division), 332 (marginal notes), 333 (marginal notes). 47   McKee, Writings, [Meditations on Psalms], 352. 48   McKee, Writings, [Rabus Correspondence], 267 (WA 31/I:212), 296 (WA 21:136–146; WA 1:691–692). 49   McKee, Writings, [Rabus Correspondence], 293: “Der HERR sagte zuo meinem HERRN/ setze dich zuo meiner rechten [Ps 110:1] Da lesen den lieben D. Luther und die alten lehrer” (WA 1:691–692). 46

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neighbors with love.50 To explain Luther’s teaching on Christ and demonstrate that she knows it, Schütz Zell once lists three or possibly four texts together: the sermons on the Large Catechism (1529) and possibly Das Jesus Christus ein geborner Jude sei (1523), as well as the sermon on John 8:46–59 and exposition of Psalm 110 already mentioned.51 Other writings are identified more by content. Schütz Zell uses Von weltlicher Oberkeit (1523) when she rebukes Rabus for trying to make the magistrate persecute Anabaptists; Von der sunde wider den heiligen geist (1528–29) when Rabus accuses her of speaking lies from the devil. Her claim that Luther opposed emergency baptism may be founded on his Sermon von .  .  . Taufe (1519), though the allusion is general.52 Other Luther texts seem to have influenced Schütz Zell, though since she does not give actual citations it is only possible to identify his writings that treat the subject and/or use the images she cites. In her extended discussion of a spiritualized interpretation of adultery (explaining Psalm 51), Schütz Zell may have drawn on Luther’s Short Form of the Ten Commandments (1520). Describing how she explained “daily bread” in the Lord’s Prayer, Schütz Zell speaks of how “many grains of corn become one bread” and “many grapes become one drink,” a common image that she might have heard in preaching but could also have read in Luther’s Ein sermon vom Sakrament des Leichnams Christi (1519). Babylonian Captivity of the Church (1520) was a likely source for the rejection of emergency baptism, and Appeal to the Christian Nobility of the German Nation (1520) was probably one place where Schütz Zell noted Luther’s objection to the use of academic titles. A second reference to Das Taufbüechlein verdeutscht lies behind the objection to many baptismal ceremonies, which Schütz Zell lumps together under “singing and piping.” Against the Heavenly Prophets (1525) is the most likely source for the allusion to the feathers of the Holy Spirit, which Schütz Zell uses in her argument with a Strasbourg Schwenckfelder to cast scorn on the idea that she had ever claimed special revelation independent of biblical teaching. Eine treue Vermahnung (1522) may be a source for her affirmation that Luther did not want to create followers who would call themselves by his name. De votis monasticis .  .  . judicium (1521) is almost certainly the authority to which Schütz Zell appealed in arguing with that same Strasbourg Schwenckfelder who denied Luther’s influence even though Schütz Zell reminds the man that he had 50   McKee, Writings, [Rabus Correspondence], 247 (WA 12:47–48); 254 (WA 11:432–33, 441–42, 451 ff.); 255 (WA 21:162; 12:472 ff.). 51   McKee, Writings, [Rabus Correspondence], 296: “Dieweil das kein Jud zweifflet/ wo es nicht von einem Menschen regedt were/ Aber hie is glaubens zeit (sagt er) mit mehr dergleichen schönen wortten daselbs/ Wie auch im büechlein von Jesu Christo/ den Artickel unsers Glaubens betreffendt/ in seiner Postil/ und über den Psalmen/ Dixit Dominus domino meo/ [Ps 110:1] und vilen andern ördttern seiner büecher” (WA 30/1:185–87; 11:314– 36; 21:136–46; 1:691–92). 52   McKee, Writings, [Rabus Correspondence], 209 (WA 11:229–81); 227 (WA 28:10–20); 256 (WA 2:724 ff.).

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left his monastic order because of Luther’s teaching.53 Whether or not she read Sermon vom Neuen Testament (1520), the interpretation of John 6 is consonant with her husband’s and her own position, which she makes explicit.54 (It is notable that this more “spiritual” reading of John 6, which distinguishes inner and outer eating, remains the Zells’ interpretation, while Luther’s view changes. Schütz Zell does not cite the later Luther on this.) Schütz Zell also read publications by Luther’s associates and texts that he praised. She explicitly names Johannes Staupitz, “Luther’s colleague and teacher while he was in the cloister,” referring to Ein büchlein von der nachfolgung des willigen sterbens Christi (1515) and Ein seligs newes Jar von der lieb gottes (1518).55 Schütz Zell also names Melanchthon and “his first Loci communes.” She refers to Brenz’s Commentary on John and his treatise against civil authorities executing Anabaptists, and to something by Johannes Bugenhagen, probably meaning his Psalms commentary translated by Bucer.56 It is also very likely that she used Rhegius’s Dialogus on Luke 24 as a source of biblical citations in her meditations on the Psalms.57 Perhaps most interesting is her use of Brenz’s Commentary on John. In correspondence with him, Schütz Zell cites Brenz’s first publication and demonstrates that he had changed in his later and larger book on this Gospel. (Since both of these texts were in Latin, she was working with the help of Schwenckfeld’s translations, but the formulation of the argument was certainly her own.) 58 It should be remembered that these Lutheran texts were not the only ones Schütz Zell read or cited. There were also, naturally, a number by friends like Bucer or Schwenckfeld, but usually these are not recorded as carefully because they did not help her argument against Rabus’ monopolizing claim on Luther. However, as witnesses for the first generation of Strasbourg reform, they were important, especially words by her husband and writings by Bucer. While Zell did not publish much, Bucer’s corpus was extensive and Schütz Zell used at least some of it. At one point she names the Grund und Ursach, which she appropriately says was brought out “by Bucer along with the other preachers in the first years here in Strasbourg.” She also explicitly cites Bucer’s commentary on John 6, and probably used a number of other texts.59

53   McKee, Writings, [Meditations on Psalms], 328 (WA 7:110); [Rabus Correspondence], 252 (WA 2:748); 247 (WA 6:520); 266 (WA 6:457–58) ; 257 (WA 12:47); [Letter to Schwenckfeld], 127–28 (WA 18:66); 131 (WA 8:685); 148 (WA 8:578, 606 ff., 629 ff.). 54   McKee, Writings, [Rabus Correspondence], 251 (WA 6:372). 55   McKee, Writings, [Rabus Correspondence], 216–17. 56   McKee, Writings, [Rabus Correspondence], 247, 205, 296. 57   McKee, Life and Thought, 289–90. 58   See McKee, “Lay Voice in Sixteenth-Century ‘Ecumenics,’” 81–110. 59   McKee, Writings, [Rabus Correspondence], 256, 253.

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Great But Not Perfect Although Martin Luther was the great pioneer who opened a new understanding of the gospel and whom Schütz Zell honored all her life, she did not believe he was perfect, and she was willing to say so to his face. (Indeed, she never said something about someone which she had not already said to him.60 ) In arguing with Rabus, Schütz Zell could cite, as coming from Luther, the concluding phrase in the Marburg Articles about keeping love unbroken “as far as each one’s conscience can suffer.”61 However, as noted above, the lay reformer thought that Luther had overstepped the bounds of brotherly love. He had made an issue of conscience the basis for uncharitable treatment of Zwingli, and she took it upon herself to write him a note of respectful rebuke about the lack of love. When he eventually answered, he stated that he considered the Supper doctrine a matter of conscience; she almost certainly continued to disagree but said no more. Later she would remember his polite note as model behavior in cases of disagreement among followers of the gospel, holding it up to the Strasbourgers as the pattern of what Rabus should have done.62 (It could hardly have pleased the latter to read yet another difference between himself and his hero.) Almost all of Schütz Zell’s references to Luther are very positive, and when there is criticism, it usually comes through indirectly. The most interesting evidence for this is the way she refers to his writings and the ones she cites favorably: “The old books, as of our dear Dr. Luther and Johannes Staupitz .  .  . whose books I have read more than Mr. Rabus, thirty years ago, and I can still show what they say about things.”63 Writing in 1557, Schütz Zell is referring to the 1520s, probably particularly the earlier part of the decade. And that is very significant for the way this lay admirer in South Germany sees Luther. In arguing with Rabus, Schütz Zell frequently claims “the first and best books” of Luther and others: “inn den ersten unnd besten Büechern”; “jren alten oder ersten Büecheren.”64 This can also be phrased by reference to the authors as the “first 60   McKee, Writings, [Rabus Correspondence], 174. See the 1553 letter to Schwenckfeld as an example, in which Schütz Zell sets out what she has already told to others. 61   McKee, Writings, [Rabus Correspondence], 205–6: “Es hat auch der lieb Luther sälig zuo Marpurgk ein schrifft gestelt unnd lassen aussgan/ da sie bey einander warn des Sacraments halben/ Ob sich schon der verstandt uff beiden seitten/ nit eben zuosammen könne tragen/ so solle dannocht die liebe nit getrendt/ sonder das bandt des friedens bleiben/ einander dulden und tragen/ &c.” Here she does not take into account the phrase “so fern ydes geweissen ymmer leiden kan” (cf. 206 n135). 62   McKee, Life and Thought, 80–81. McKee, Writings, [Rabus Correspondence], 235: “wie auch unser jetz säliger D. Luther selbs/ da ich jhm in der schwern träfflichen handlung und zanck des Sacraments schribe/ und auch nit heüchlet/ wie fruntlich schribe er mir aber widerumb/ unnd nicht ein solchen Rabus Brieff.” 63   McKee, Writings, [Rabus Correspondence], 216. 64   McKee, Writings, [Rabus Correspondence], 296: “So dann der guote Schwenckfelt/ mit dem lieben Luther selbs unnd vill herlicher alter Gelerther unnd frummer Menner/ (inn den

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preachers” or teachers. Rejecting the second generation preachers’ claims for the rite of baptism having an objective efficacy, she says: “the old and first preachers of the gospel taught completely differently, and also Luther himself in his first Booklet on Baptism written thirty-five years ago.”65 In effect, Schütz Zell herself also cites exclusively Luther’s pre-1530 writings. She certainly knew of later writings, particularly attacks on Schwenckfeld and the Zwinglians, and she was prepared to uphold the “first and best” books against later ones.66 However, the late Luther appears only in correspondence; she studiously avoids citing these writings in her published works. It is clear that polemic against others who follow the gospel is not appropriate in Schütz Zell’s view, and the older Luther, while respected as a person, is not a good source for gospel teaching as the young reformer was.

Conclusion Martin Luther through the eyes of Katharina Schütz Zell: the great pioneer who brought the gospel to light again and opened the right understanding of God’s Word, to give assurance of salvation to all who trust in Christ alone for salvation. Indeed, Luther was the one Schütz Zell personally recognized as having freed her from her anxious efforts to find peace. He was the one whom she and her husband regarded with deep gratitude and great respect all their lives, and on whom they modeled key aspects of their religious lives. Luther was not, however, perfect or the only voice among the reformers. Schütz Zell’s love for the great man was tempered by objections to his uncharitable behavior on occasion, and in her appreciation for his teaching she maintained an independent judgment: “yes” to the early Luther, but “no” to the later writer. Katharina Schütz Zell knew Luther and his writings as well as any lay person who lived at a distance could. She revered the “apostle” who opened the closed ersten unnd besten Büechern) mit jm.”; 254: Luther “im anfang/ ein hüpsch herlich büechlein .  .  . gemacht hat”; 256: “Doctor Luther/ Pomeranus und ander gelerthen zuo Wittenberg in jren alten und ersten büecheren geschriben und geprediget”; 267: “solchs liset man in Luthers ersten Büechern.” See also 247, next note. 65   McKee, Writings, [Rabus Correspondence], 246–47: “welchs die alten unnd ersten Prediger des Evangelij/ gar anders gelert haben/ unnd auch Luther selbs inn seinem ersten Büechlein vom Tauff/ vor funff und dreissig jaren geschrieben/ Desgleichen auch der Herr Philippus Melanthon in seinem ersten Locis Communis. .  .  . Ach God wie hat Doctor Luther/ mein lieber Mann/ Capiton/ Bucer/ unnd ander alte oder erste Prediger/ des Evangelij/ den grossen unglauben/ unnd Jrthumb/ der im Bapsthumb gewesen ist/ verworffen.” See also 296, previous note. 66   For example, Schwenckfeld refers to Luther’s malediction of himself in a letter to Schütz Zell dated 23 April 1544, and to the Kurz bekentnis .  .  . vom heiligen Sacrament (1545) against the Swiss in his letter to Schütz Zell dated 11 February 1545. See Corpus Schwenckfeldianorum, vol. 9:88 (#440), and 287 (#491).

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book of the Bible to her understanding, but she regarded him as she believed he would wish: a servant of God and not a god himself. Her response to Luther was shaped at least in part by her lay perspective, which put “brotherly” love above fine points of theology (as distinct from basic teachings like justification by faith and grace alone), but it was also perhaps influenced by her place in the city reformation of Strasbourg, with its Reformed orientation.67 This essay shows, then, a view from South Germany of the great Wittenberg reformer, through the eyes of a devout lay person, a woman who received Luther’s biblical teaching with great thanksgiving to God and the independent judgment she believed the Holy Spirit requires of every serious Christian.

67

  See McKee, Life and Thought, chapter 10.

Jacob’s Branches and Laban’s Flocks Christianizing the Maternal Imagination Merry Wiesner-Hanks In his lectures on Genesis, given from 1535 to 1545, Luther reflected on Genesis 30, in which Jacob fathers a series of sons – and one daughter – from Leah, two female servants, and eventually Rachel, and then seeks to leave his fatherin-law Laban’s household with his wives and children. As wages for his long service, Jacob asks for the “speckled and spotted” goats and lambs and the black lambs, which Laban agrees to, but Laban then has his sons remove all of these from his flocks. Jacob responds by taking “fresh rods of poplar and almond and plane, and peel[ing] white streaks in them, exposing the white of the rods” (Gn 30:37). He puts the partially-peeled branches in front of the flocks in their watering-troughs, where the animals both drink and breed; the goats and sheep see the mottled branches, and give birth to spotted and striped kids. In what is one of the first records in world history about selective breeding, Jacob further improves his flocks by putting the “stronger of the flock” in front of the spotted rods, but leaving the weaker alone, so that his flocks grow increasingly superior to those of his father-in-law. Luther uses most of Genesis 30 to reflect on the blessings of fertility. He uses the story of Laban’s flocks (Gn 30:31–43) to comment on one particular aspect of fertility: the role of the maternal imagination in the shaping of offspring. He tells stories about how what mothers – animal and human – saw or experienced during pregnancy affected their offspring. A few of these stories come from his own experience, but most come from his reading of the church fathers and medieval authors. They are stories that would continue to be repeated even more often in the centuries after Luther, by Protestant and Catholic authors alike, one of many intellectual traditions that they shared. Several recent studies have traced this growing concern with the power of the maternal imagination, and linked it with the Protestant Reformation. In Marvelous Protestantism, Julia Crawford comments that, “In many ways women were responsible for forming – with correct consciences and curbed imaginations – the bodies and souls of their children, and thus it was women who were respon-

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sible for the reproduction of Protestantism itself.” In Monstrous Imagination, Marie-Hélène Huet is primarily interested in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, but argues in her opening chapter that stories about mothers who gave birth to deformed children by looking at images should be seen as part of the Reformation’s broader attack on images. Such monsters were thus punishment for idolatry, living demonstrations of the dangerous power of images. The most common images in pre-Reformation churches were those of the Virgin Mary, who was often represented as a pregnant mother, sometimes with a womb that opened to reveal Jesus or even the Trinity inside. In Huet’s opinion, the story of the woman who gave birth to a hairy girl after looking at a picture of John the Baptist “attack[s] both idolatry and the cult of the Virgin Mary. The monstrous birth is traced first and foremost to the dangerous contemplation of a sacred image; it is caused by a woman, and the result of her crime, so like idolatry, is a monster made to look like a caricature of the Virgin Mary.” In Vernacular Bodies, Mary Fissell largely agrees with Huet, though she finds the greatest concerns about the power of the maternal imagination emerge in England during the 1660s and 1670s, when both medical guides and popular ballads frequently discuss the power of a woman’s imagination to disrupt paternity and make husbands into cuckolds. These recent analyses of the maternal imagination have generally based their conclusions on a range of sources, all of which borrowed freely and extensively from a series of discussions of the maternal imagination that appeared just about the time that Luther’s lectures on Genesis were first published. Such discussions appeared in works by physicians, surgeons, and anatomists on normal and abnormal childbirth, and in works by clerics and scholars on wonders, prodigies, and monsters. Among these books were the Italian Catholic Benedetto Varchi’s Lezzione .  .  . sopra la generatione de’mostri e se sono intesi dalla natura o no (1548), the Swiss Protestant Jacob Rueff ’s De Conceptu et Generatione Hominis (1554), the German Protestant Conrad Lycosthenes’s Prodigiorum ac ostentorum chronicon (1557), the Flemish Catholic Levinus Lemnius’s De miraculis occultis naturae (1559), and the French Protestant Pierre Boaistuau’s Histoires prodigeuses (1560). Many of these were huge. Conrad Lycosthenes’s Prodigiorum ac ostentorum chronicon, for example, included nearly 1500 cases and 2000 woodcuts, although monstrous births make up only a small share of these, while the rest include earth   Julie Crawford, Marvelous Protestantism: Monstrous Births in Post-Reformation England (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2005), 20.    Marie-Hélène Huet, Monstrous Imagination (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1993), 27–30. In her discussion of the gendered implications of iconoclasm, Huet relies explicitly on Carlos M. N.  Eire’s War Against the Idols: The Reformation of Worship from Erasmus to Calvin (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986).    Mary Fissell, Vernacular Bodies: The Politics of Reproduction in Early Modern England (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), esp. Chapter 7, “The Restoration Crisis in Paternity.”

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quakes, meteorites, strange animals, and unusual occurrences of all types. These ranged from the beginning of time – the first “monster” was the talking snake that led Eve astray – to his own day, arranged chronologically. Many were also frequently re-issued and translated; Boaistuau saw thirty-seven editions, each larger and more up-to-date than the last, and translations into English, Dutch, French, and Welsh. The story of Laban’s flock shows up in all of these, but the authors of these works, and the many later authors who copied their stories, generally develop quite different lessons from it than does Luther, however. Most authors, both Protestant and Catholic, used the Genesis text, along with other stories about the maternal imagination, to comment on the disruptive power of female desire. Luther, by contrast, used them to advocate treating pregnant women better. The story of Jacob’s branches and Laban’s flocks provided him with an opportunity to encourage what he saw as properly Christian behavior in the present and future husbands who were listening to his lectures, and to provide them with advice for situations that they might well encounter with their own flocks when they became pastors. Cultivation provided Luther with metaphors and lessons for Christianization, but so did animal husbandry. This paper examines this contrast in more detail. Genesis makes no comment about where Jacob gets the idea to make and set up the partially-peeled rods, but Luther does. First, “God shows Jacob a special artifice with which to correct and change nature,” an artifice which Luther terms “an ingenious philosophy or magic art.” But God had not showed this to    A. W. Bates, Emblematic Monsters: Unnatural Conceptions and Deformed Births in Early Modern Europe (Amsterdam: Editions Rodopi, 2005), 72.    LW 5:380. The translations in Luther’s Works are made from D. Martin Luthers Werke: Kritische Gesamtausgabe, published at Weimar beginning in 1883 with a number of different editors. The lectures on Genesis 30 are in volume 43, edited by G. Koffman and D. Reichert and published in 1911, with the relevant section on pp.  685–95. The published version of Luther’s lectures on Genesis were taken from notes made by several of this students, and later edited and published in four volumes beginning in 1544. There is disagreement among Luther scholars about the extent to which the ideas of their editors (particularly Veit Dietrich, who was most responsible for the final form of their transcription) might have influenced the published versions. Reservations about the lectures were raised very forcefully by Peter Meinhold, Die Genesisvorlesung Luthers und ihre Herausgeber (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1936), but disputed by Jaroslav Pelikan in his introduction to the American edition of Luther’s works, of which they are the first volumes, and more recently by Ulrich Asendorf, Lectura in Biblia: Luthers Genesisvorlesung (1535–1545) (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1998); and John A. Maxfield, Luther’s Lectures on Genesis and the Formation of Evangelical Identity, Sixteenth Century Essays and Studies 80 (Kirksville, MO: Truman State University Press, 2008). A brief summary of the dispute may be found in James Arne Nestingen, “Luther in Front of the Text: The Genesis Commentary,” Word and World 14/2 (Spring 1994): 186–94; and a fuller one in Mickey Leland Mattox, “Defender of the Most Holy Matriarchs”: Martin Luther’s Interpretation of the Women of Genesis in the “Enarrationes in Genesin,” 1535–1545, Studies in Medieval and Reformation Thought 92 (Leiden: Brill, 2003), 259–73. Though Luther did not plan on publishing the lectures, he did write a preface to the first volume, comment-

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Jacob alone, for “this magic the fathers learned either by rather long practice or as a result of the instruction of their ancestors. For Jacob was undoubtedly taught by one of the patriarchs or by divine inspiration through the Holy Spirit.” This was not “magic” as Luther elsewhere uses that term, that is, a power that upsets the natural order of things, but instead part of the natural world: It is an established fact and in agreement with the teachings of physicians, who state that in the conception of all living beings, not only of dumb animals but also of human beings, special forms or marks are imprinted on the young, both as a result of a mental image and as a result of various objects that appear to the heart or the eyes, not only in the very heat of conception but also after impregnation has taken place.

How does Luther know this? First, from reading established sources: Thus Jerome states that among the Spaniards horses of the noblest stock are placed before the mares when mating takes place, in order that foals like them may be produced.

Commenting on another case, he notes: Jerome and the naturalists relate the example of a queen who gave birth to a child with the form and face of an Ethiopian as a result of a strong mental image of an Ethiopian, painted on a tablet near her bed. They also tell that another woman who was accused of adultery because, although she herself was ugly, she had given birth to a beautiful infant unlike both parents and the whole relationship. She would have been condemned, they say, had Hippocrates not obtained her liberation by giving the advice to ask her whether in her bedchamber she had had a painted tablet which had given her pleasure when she looked at it. When this had been found, she was absolved by the judges.

Luther most likely read these stories in Saint Jerome’s commentaries on Genesis 30, although Jerome has Quintilian rather than Hippocrates as the heroic physician.10 In the texts that Luther simply attributes to “the naturalists” – and which he may have learned about from his colleagues in the medical faculty of Wittenberg rather than from his own reading – the idea that what a mother saw during gestation and pregnancy could shape the fetus is usually attributed to ing that the lectures were not polished, but they might prove useful. Most scholars now agree with Martin Brecht, who comments, “we must be very cautious in making use of the lectures on Genesis. Nevertheless, the bulk of this commentary, with its amazing richness of features and allusions, undoubtedly does come from Luther.” Martin Brecht, Martin Luther: The Preservation of the Church, 1532–1546, translated by James L. Schaff (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1993), 136. Doubts about the texts center on the extent to which Dietrich may have been influenced by Melanchthon’s theological ideas, particularly about the law; how Melanchthon’s ideas about childbirth, fertility, or the maternal imagination differed from Luther’s is never mentioned in this debate.    LW 5:380.    Ibid.    Ibid., 381.    LW 5:380–81. 10   Jerome, Hebraicae quaestiones in libro Geneseos, Corpus Christianorum, Series Latina LXXII, 38.

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Empedocles. Empedocles’s text itself is lost, but it was cited in Plutarch, Galen, and other classical authors.11 Francesco da Barberino in the early fourteenth century and Marsilio Ficino in the fifteenth both noted the power of the maternal imagination, and recommended that women look at attractive images during pregnancy to assure attractive offspring.12 Along with citing earlier authors, Luther also relies on a second source of authority, his own experiences: We sometimes see bloody spots or spots of another color scattered on the face, on the eyes, on the cheeks, and on the neck of infants, namely, when pregnant women have been suddenly excited by the sight and fear of something unusual and have moved their hands to those members. Here at Wittenberg we have seen a citizen with a face like a corpse who stated that while his mother was pregnant, she was suddenly confronted by the sight of a corpse and was so terrified that the face of the fetus in her womb took on the form of a corpse. .  .  . I remember that when I was a boy at Eisenach, a beautiful and virtuous matron gave birth to a dormouse. This happened because one of the neighbors had hung a little bell on a dormouse in order that the rest might be put to flight when the bell made a sound. This dormouse met the pregnant woman, who, ignorant of the matter, was so terrified by the sudden meeting and sight of the dormouse that the fetus in her womb degenerated into the shape of the little beast. Such examples are all too common when pregnant women are often excited by sudden emotions and fears at the risk of their life.13

In telling stories drawn from his own experience, Luther followed a pattern similar to that of the authors of the books of prodigies. Most of the monstrous births described by Lycosthenes come from ancient sources, but he ends the book with about twenty that had appeared within the last decade, and about one comments, “I saw also the like monster in Bavaria.”14 Lycosthenes was translated into English by the cleric Stephen Batman in 1581, who added even more recent examples drawn from English broadsides. The most influential – though much smaller – of the sixteenth-century books of prodigies was the French royal physician Ambroise Paré’s Des monstres et prodiges (1573) published in the vernacular first as the second part of his Deux livres de chirurgie and then as a separately titled volume. The first part of Paré’s work provides guidance for handling delivery and illnesses in pregnant women, and the second discusses the causes for abnormal births. Paré plagiarized freely from earlier sources, especially Lycosthenes and Boaistuau, so that his work provides 11

  Huet, Monstrous Imagination, 4 and 271.   Valeria Finucci, “Maternal Imagination and Monstrous Births: Tasso’s Gerusalemme liberata,“ in Valeria Finucci and Kevin Brownlee, eds., Generation and Degeneration: Tropes of Reproduction in Literature and History from Antiquity to Early Modern Europe (Durham: Duke University Press, 2001), 54. 13   LW 5:381–82. 14   Quotation taken from the translation of Lycosthenes made by S. Batman, The Doome Warning of All Men to Judgement (London: R. Nubery, 1581), Appendix 1538b, cited in Bates, Emblematic Monsters, 68. 12

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a good example of the way in which university-trained authors of prodigy books approached the issue of the maternal imagination. In terms of the sources for his ideas, there is little difference from Luther. He, too, cites Genesis 30: “Jacob deceived his father-in-law, Laban, and enriched himself with his livestock by having rods barked and putting them in a watering trough, so that when the goats and ewes looked at these rods of various colors, they might form their young spotted in various colors, because the imagination has so much power over seed and reproduction that its influence and character remain on the thing bred.”15 Like Luther, Paré also mentions classical authorities: “the ancients, who sought out the secrets of Nature (i.e. Aristotle, Hippocrates, Empedocles) have taught of other causes for monstrous children and have referred them to the ardent and obstinate imagination or impression that the mother might receive at the moment she conceived.”16 He provides variants on the stories told by Luther, also linking them with earlier authors. From the eighth-century Christian scholar John Damescene comes the story of a girl “as furry as a bear, whom the mother had bred thus deformed and hideous, for having looked too intensely at the image of Saint John [the Baptist] dressed in skins, along with his [own] body hair and beard, which picture was attached to the foot of her bed while she was conceiving.”17 Paré combines Luther’s two stories, noting that Hippocrates “saved a princess accused of adultery, because she had given birth to a child as black as a Moor, her husband and she both having white skin; which woman was absolved upon Hippocrates’s persuasion that it was [caused by] the portrait of a Moor, similar to the child, which was customarily attached to her bed.”18 The hairy girl and the black baby were shown in pictures as well as words in Paré’s book. These were also not original with him, but had generally appeared in other recently-published books of monsters and prodigies.19 15   Ambroise Paré, On Monsters and Marvels, trans. Janis L. Pallister (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1982), 38. 16   Ibid. 17   Ibid. 18   Ibid. 19   The stories of the hairy girl and the black baby continued to appear in many different types of literature. In his Essays, published in 1580, Michel de Montaigne also spoke about the power of a mother’s imagination, using the same examples: “We know by experience that women transmit marks of their fancies to the bodies of the children they carry in the womb; witness the one who gave birth to the Moor; and there was presented to Charles, king of Bohemia and Emperor, a girl from near Pisa, all hairy and bristly, who her mother said had thus been conceived because of a picture of St. John the Baptist hanging by her bed.” Montaigne, The Complete Essays of Montaigne, trans. Donald M. Frame (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1958), Book I, Essay 21: Of the Power of Imagination. The images were shown on broadsides and in pamphlets, and in the early seventeenth century the Bolognese scientist Ulisse Aldrovandi included them in his Monstrorum historia, an enormous catalog of human and animal abnormalities. Ulisse Aldrovandi, Monstrorum historia (Bologna, 1642). They were picked up by the anonymous compiler of a guide to pregnancy and childbirth called

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Paré does not cite examples drawn from his own experience when he is discussing the maternal imagination, though he can’t resist telling a story about a child born with the face of a frog because its mother was holding a live frog in her hand as a remedy for fever when the child was conceived. Though he did not see this himself, he does point to a very specific date and place – 1517, at Blois-le-Roy in the forest of Biere – and includes the names of the surgeon and officials who saw the child. As Lorraine Daston and Katherine Park have noted, such chronological and geographical specificity initially resulted from people trying to interpret the prodigious meaning of an unusual event or monstrous birth, but grew into the standards of verisimilitude and authenticity expected of journalists, whether they report for the New York Times or the National Enquirer.20 Luther, too, is specific as to time and place even about things he has seen himself: the dormouse incident occurred at Eisenach when he was a boy, and the corpse-faced man recently at Wittenberg. The works published in the middle of the sixteenth century were only the beginning of a flood of books on prodigies, wonders, and “monsters,” which has been examined by a number of scholars.21 They have found a range of interpretations, although, unsurprisingly, the most common interpretation is that monsters and wonders were warnings from God. Lycosthenes, for example, does not deny that natural explanations were possible for some of the occurrences, but “nature is God’s minister in matters both favorable and unfavorable, and through her agency he aids the pious and publishes the impious .  .  . it is impossible to deny that a monster is an imposing sign of divine wrath and malediction.”22 Pierre Boaistuau agreed: “They do for the most part reveal to us the secret judgment and scourge of the ire of God .  .  . which makes us to feel his marvelous justice so sharply, that we are constrained to enter into ourselves, to knock with the hammer of our conscience, to examine our offences, and have Aristotle’s Masterpiece, first published in English in 1684, where they appeared directly across from the title page. This book went through several versions and many editions over the next hundred years, and remained the best-selling book on reproduction in English into the nineteenth century, on both sides of the Atlantic. Various publishers altered the image considerably over the years, but a hairy young woman and black baby were the first things any reader saw in most editions of Aristotle’s Masterpiece. See Mary Fissell, “Hairy Women and Naked Truths: Gender and the Politics of Knowledge in Aristotle’s Masterpiece,“ William and Mary Quarterly 60/1 ( January 2003): 43–74. 20   Lorraine Daston and Katherine Park, Wonders and the Order of Nature, 1150–1750 (New York: Zone Books, 1998), 191. 21   In addition to those cited elsewhere in the notes, see Peter G. Platt, ed., Wonders, Marvels, and Monsters in Early Modern Culture (Newark: University of Delaware Press, 1999); Timothy S. Jones and David A. Sprunger, eds., Marvels, Monsters, and Miracles: Studies in the Medieval and Early Modern Imaginations (Kalamazoo, MI: Medieval Institute, 2002); Laura Lunger Knoppers and Joan B. Landes, eds., Monstrous Bodies/Political Monstrosities in Early Modern Europe (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2004). 22   Konrad Lycosthenes, Prodigiorum ac ostentorum chronicon (Basel: H. Petri, 1557), dedicatory epistle, in Daston and Park, Wonders, 183.

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in horror our misdeeds.”23 Paré is viewed by some recent analysts as breaking with this pattern toward a more “scientific” and “secularized” view, which would become increasingly common in the seventeenth century.24 Others assert that this mispresents Paré, who began his list of “several things that cause monsters” with “The first is the glory of God and the second his wrath,” and commented, “Most often these monstrous and marvellous creatures proceed from the judgement of God.”25 There were some differences between Protestant and Catholic understandings of the role of monstrous births. Catholic interpretations often read them as warnings about the heresy of Protestant teachings. Ecclesia Militans, a 1569 broadsheet composed by the Dominican friar Johannes Nasus, for example, shows the Catholic Church being attacked by a host of monsters, each labeled with a numbered caption. All of the creatures, which included two-headed, headless, and huge-headed infants, as well as deformed animals, come from reports about monstrous births in Protestant areas. To Nasus, they all represented the deformity and disunity of Protestant teachings, all brought about by Luther, “who led a cow’s life.”26 Luther also viewed some monstrous births as pointing specifically to Catholics, most famously in his illustrated “interpretation” of the meaning of a calf born in 1522 with an unusual flap of skin around its neck: God has given the calf the dress of clergy and a holy cowl. In this, he has undoubtedly put great meaning. It will soon become completely evident that all of monkery and nunnery is only false pretext and lies, just external appearance of a holy, godly life. For until now we poor people have thought that the Holy Spirit was under the cowl, and that such a garment did not cover a frivolous spirit. But God shows with this that it only covers a calf, as if he was saying: It is a scoundrel’s cap. .  .  . If you look at this monk-calf, you see that the cowl is the whole clerical way of life with all of the church services that they regard so highly with prayers, masses, singing, fasting, etc. But who are they doing these 23

  Edward Fenton, Certaine Secrete Wonders of Nature, containing a description of sundry strange things, seeming monstrous .  .  . (London, 1569) (translation of Pierre Boaistuau, Histoires prodigieuses .  .  .), cited in Dudley Wilson, Signs and Portents: Monstrous Births from the Middle Ages to the Enlightenment (London: Routledge, 1993), 53. 24   On Paré as scientific and secular, see Katherine Park and Lorraine Daston, “Unnatural Conceptions: The Study of Monsters in Sixteenth- and Seventeeth-Century France and England,” Past and Present 91 (1981): 23–24; Janis Palliser’s introduction to Paré’s On Monsters and Marvels, xxvi; Jacques Gélis, History of Childbirth: Fertility, Pregnancy and Birth in Early Modern Europe, trans. Rosemary Morris (Boston: Northeastern University Press, 1991), 267; and Finucci, “Maternal Imagination,” 53. In their more recent Wonders and the Order of Nature, however, Daston and Park emphasize “the multiplicity and lability of the meanings that early modern writers attached to monsters,” (191) rather than a uniform line of transformation from religious to secular understandings. 25   A. W. Bates stresses Paré’s emphasis on the power of God in Bates, Emblematic Monsters, 73–75. The quotations from Paré are from On Monsters and Marvels, 3 and 5. 26   Jennifer Spinks, “Monstrous Births and Counter-Reformation Visual Polemics: Johann Nass and the 1569 Ecclesia Militans,” Sixteenth Century Journal 40/2 (Summer 2009): 346.

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services for? Who is honored with these? What do they hang on? On a calf. For the cowl decorates and clothes a calf, as you see. What is this calf? It is their false idol in their hearts full of lies.27

In general, however, Protestants more often viewed monsters as pointing toward the rapidly approaching end of the world, or to moral failings that were shared by Protestants and Catholics, rather than toward specifically Catholic sins. Every monstrous birth was a portent for all to heed, but monsters born to human mothers were also signs of God’s wrath against individual sinners, often the parents or the mother. An illustrated broadside describing a “monstrous childe” born in Essex in 1562 noted that it was a word of warning to everyone in “this monstrous world,” but especially to the parents for their “want of honesty and excess of sin” because the child was born out of wedlock. Another detailing a monstrous birth in Kent in 1568 described the child as a “terror to all workers of filthiness and iniquity,” but also blamed the mother, “who being unmarried played the naughty pack, and was gotten with child.”28 The learned authors of books of marvels and monsters largely agreed with the anonymous pamphleteers that the sins of parents could lead to monsters, and emphasized the role of internal drives and qualities as well as outward actions. Lycosthenes linked the deformities of his prodigies with particular sins: swollen bellies came from gluttony or greed, enlarged heads from pride, fingerless hands from sloth, and malformed sexual organs from lust. Both Rueff and Paré, and also Paracelsus, noted that women who had a craving for plums or strawberries but did not eat any might have a child born with a grape- or strawberry-shaped birthmark.29 Similarly, the unfulfilled desire to eat hare could cause harelip. Paré makes this a general medical principle: “when one might seek to examine all those who are thus marked, it will be found that their mothers have been moved during pregnancy by some such appetite or happening.”30 Because of the connection between lust and original sin, lust was the most commonly cited parental desire. Paré notes that God “permits fathers and mothers to produce such abominations from the disorder that they make in copulation, like brutish beasts, in which their appetite guides them, without respecting the time, or other laws ordained by God and Nature.”31 Rueff asserts that mon27   Martin Luther and Philip Melanchthon, Deuttung der czwo grewlichen Figuren, Bapstesels czu Rom und Munchkalbs zu Freijberg ijnn Meijsszen funden (Wittenberg, 1523). My translation. 28   Cited in David Cressy, Agnes Bowker’s Cat: Travesties and Transgressions in Tudor and Stuart England (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000), 40. 29   Paracelsus discusses this in “Das dritte Buch von den Unsichtbaren Wercken,” in his Bücher und Schriften, ed. J. Huser, 6 vols. (Basel, 1589, repr. Hildesheim, 1971–5), 1:269–88. 30   Paré, On Monsters and Marvels, 54. 31   Paré, On Monsters and Marvels, 5. I have discussed ideas about sexual passion turning people into animals in Merry Wiesner-Hanks, The Marvelous Hairy Girls: The Gonzales Sisters and their Worlds (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2009), 168–71.

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sters and hydatidiform moles occur “especially in those women which are somewhat more lascivious than others.”32 Sex during menstruation was officially a sin for Catholics and frowned upon by Protestants, and those whose desire drove them to have sex anyway risked giving birth to monsters, or at the very least to children with reddish birthmarks or red hair.33 Citing the books of Esdras and Leviticus, Paré comments that “the women sullied by menstrual blood will conceive monsters.”34 In some ways, the influence of the maternal imagination on the fetus negated the role of sinful desire because it operated almost automatically. Laban’s goats and sheep simply saw the mottled sticks and had spotted young. The woman in Eisenach saw the dormouse, the woman in Wittenberg the corpse, and the woman in Blois-le-Rey the frog, and they had children that resembled these, though they certainly did not wish this. These were unfortunate accidents, and many authors recommended that pregnant women be kept away from distressing things. Paré comments: “We will note in passing how dangerous it is to disturb a pregnant woman, to show her or to remind her of some food which she cannot enjoy immediately, and indeed to show them animals, or even pictures of them, when they are deformed and monstrous.”35 Implicit in this comment was a recommendation for those who surrounded pregnant women, which Luther makes explicit: “Therefore there should be no joking with pregnant women, but they should receive careful attention because of the fetus. For there are countless dangers of miscarriages, monsters, and various deformities.”36 This concern for what pregnant women might see sometimes translated into official action. The Nuremberg city council in 1478 ordered beggars with misformed limbs to hide them from pregnant women, and the Weinsburg district court in 1685 ordered a woman with malformed hands to “cover them in public so that pregnant women would not be disturbed by them.”37 Paré reports (citing 32   Jacob Rueff, The Expert Midwife, or An Excellent and Most Necessary Treatise of the Generation and Birth of Man (London, 1637), 139. This is an English translation of Rueff ’s 1554 De Conceptu et Generatione Hominis. A hydatidiform mole is a growth that forms inside the uterus at the beginning of pregnancy, which sometimes contains only watery tissue and sometimes a few signs of embryonic development. Molar pregnancies have been described for thousands of years, and are still quite common. 33   Ottavia Niccoli, “‘Menstruum quasi Monstruum,’ Monstrous Births and Menstrual Taboo in the 16th Century,” trans. Mary M. Gallucci, in Edward Muir and Guido Ruggiero, eds., Sex and Gender in Historical Perspective (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1990), 1–25. 34   Paré, On Monsters and Marvels, 5. 35   Paré, On Monsters and Marvels, 54–55. This may seem an odd comment in the middle of an illustrated treatise on reproduction. Paré notes that someone may “object to me that I therefore shouldn’t have inserted anything like this into my book on reproduction,” but defends himself with the assertion, “I do not write for women at all.” 36   LW 5:381. 37   Ulinka Rublack, “Pregnancy, Childbirth, and the Female Body in Early Modern Germany,” Past and Present 150 (February 1996), 96–97.

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Lycosthenes) that the Duke of Bavaria had ordered a two-headed girl driven out of the duchy because “she could spoil the fruit of the pregnant women by the apprehension and ideas which might remain in their imaginative faculty, over the form of this so monstrous a creature.”38 Embedded within many of the stories of women influenced by looking at pictures or at human or animal deformities, however, is the notion that the woman to some degree chose to have her child shaped by what she saw. In Luther’s story of Hippocrates, the ugly woman with the ugly husband had chosen to put a painting in her bedchamber “which had given her pleasure when she looked at it.” In Paré’s story, the woman whose child was hairy had looked “too intensely” at the image of John the Baptist. Writing in 1558, the Italian natural philosopher Giambattista Della Porta told of a woman who had had a marble statue placed in her bedroom with the features of the son she wanted; she successfully gave birth to a son that looked just like the statue.39 “Women with child,” Della Porta explains, “when they long most vehemently and have their minds earnestly set upon any thing, do thereby alter their inward spirits; the spirits move the blood, and so imprint the likeness of the thing mused upon, in the tender substance of the child.”40 He recommended that women put the images of attractive gods such as Adonis in their bedrooms, which the translator of Pliny Lodovico Domenichi reported in 1561 had become the custom in Venice.41 After the middle of the sixteenth century, the power of maternal desire and imagination to shape the child was increasingly used to criticize women’s behavior. In a treatise on childbirth first published in Paris in 1609 and in English translation in 1612, the physician Jacques Guillemeau noted that “discreet women, and such as desire to have children, will not give ear unto lamentable or fearfull tales or storyes, nor cast their eyes upon pictures or persons which are uglie or deformed, least the imagination imprint on the child the similitude of the said person or picture.”42 Thus malformed infants were accidents that truly good mothers could have prevented by looking away or not listening. Other physicians, including Antonio Persio, Giovanni Marinello, John Sadler, and Lemnius, began to stress the ways in which women in adulterous affairs were able to deceive their husbands: by imagining the husband at the time of conception, they made their lovers’ children look like their husbands.43 In its discussion 38

  Paré, On Monsters and Marvels, 8–9.   Finucci, “Maternal Imagination,” 59. 40   From Natural Magick, a 1658 English translation of Della Porta’s 1558 Magiae naturalis, as quoted in Crawford, Marvelous Protestantism, 19. 41   Finucci, “Maternal Imagination,” 54. 42   Jacques Guillemeau, Child-birth or, The happy deliuerie of vvomen .  .  . (London: Printed by A. Hatfield, 1612), quoted in Gail Paster, The Body Embarrassed: Drama and the Disciplines of Shame in Early Modern England (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1993), 181. 43   Finucci, “Maternal Imagination,” 60; Fissell, Vernacular Bodies, 211. John Sadler’s comments on this appear in his The Sicke Woman’s Private Looking-Glasse (London, 1636), 138. 39

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of the “tacite Imagination of the Woman,” the English translation of Lemnius’s treatise notes that “forms taken up at the very instant of Conception, and a suddain thought rising of any thing, is supposed to give the form and similitude.”44 Lemnius includes the account of Laban’s flocks, but instead of relating the other standard stories of the hairy girl and black baby, spends several pages detailing ways in which women could use this power to deceive their husbands. The chapter ends with an epigram attributed to Sir Thomas More about the maternal imagination and adultery. In response to a man who had rejected his oldest four sons because they did not look like him, but accepted the fifth because it did, More comments that the oldest “four were begot/when That many miles/ From home, thou wert not/Feared, nor thy wiles.” But “this last like to thee/Was begot in fear,/Thy Wife was not free,/Thou wert then too near/This I think was it,/That thy likeness hit.” Thus the only reason the fifth son looked like the woman’s husband was because he loomed large in her imagination during the adulterous sex. More’s epigram ends: “Yet wise men suppose/That the Mother’s mind/Doth the Child dispose/For likeness in’s kind.”45 Luther could have used the stories of Laban’s flocks and the various malformed births as Lemnius did, to tell a tale of female duplicity and the power of adulterous sexual desire to disrupt marriages. He certainly focused on these themes in other of his writings and in his verbal comments as recorded in the table talk. He could have used the stories as Guillemeau did, to condemn women for their credulity and warn about the dangers of the female imagination. He comments on these freely elsewhere as well.46 He could have linked the misformed births with God’s judgment, and used the stories to attack the veneration of images, both of which he does in other works.47 He does none of these, 44   Levinus Lemnius, A Discourse Touching Generation .  .  . (London, 1664), 43. This book is a selection of chapters on reproduction, drawn from the earlier full English translation of Lemnius’s treatise, The Secret Miracles of Nature (London, 1658). 45   Lemnius, Discourse, 47. 46   For an excellent brief summary of Luther’s ideas about women (and men), see Susan C. Karant-Nunn, “The Masculinity of Martin Luther,” and for his ideas about male sexuality, see Merry Wiesner-Hanks, “Lustful Luther: Male Libido in Luther’s Lectures on Genesis,” both in Masculinity in the Reformation Era, ed. Scott H. Hendrix and Susan C. Karant-Nunn, Sixteenth Century Essays and Studies 83 (Kirksville, MO: Truman State University Press, 2008), 167–90 and 190–212. For more on Luther’s ideas about women, marriage, and sexuality, with long extracts from his writings, see Susan C. Karant-Nunn and Merry E. WiesnerHanks, editors and translators, Luther on Women: A Sourcebook (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003). 47   Among recent studies that discuss Luther’s view of the veneration of images are two that focus especially on the Virgin Mary: Beth Kreitzer, Reforming Mary: Changing Images of the Virgin Mary in Lutheran Sermons of the Sixteenth Century (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004); and Bridget Heal, The Cult of the Virgin Mary in Early Modern Germany: Protestant and Catholic Piety, 1500–1648 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007). In contrast to Huet, neither Kreitzer nor Heal link changes in ideas about Mary to concerns about the maternal imagination.

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however. Instead he draws a very different lesson, and uses the stories not simply to discuss the proper treatment of pregnant women in general, but particularly to condemn husbands’ violent treatment of their wives: Therefore a husband should live “considerately” with his wife at this time most of all, as Peter says (1 Pt 3:17). .  .  . Accordingly, one must be on guard, lest they [pregnant women] experience both bodily and mental disturbances that are rather violent. For those who pay no attention to pregnant women and do not spare the tender fetus become murderers and parricides. Thus some men are so cruel that they vent their rage on pregnant women even with blows. Of course, they are brave and full of courage against the weak sex! Otherwise, however, they are complete cowards.48

He does not leave this as a general condemnation of “some men,” but becomes more specific: We heard recently that a certain prince, noted for many other crimes and outrages, drew his sword against his wife when she was sick and bedfast. Truly an outstanding hero and a mighty soldier! But this is by no means heroic; it is outrageous and most disgraceful. For if you are a man, you will find your equal with whom you may clash. Heroes are brave against the brave and weak against the weak. For why is it that you stir up a fight against a child or a pregnant woman? Even in the company of temperate husbands this sex has dangers enough and more than enough in other respects from neighbors, from the devil, and from various apparitions and picture of dumb animals. It is an outrage if they are increased by your cruelty.49

It is not clear exactly to whom Luther is referring in his reference to a “certain prince.” This was shortly after he had clashed with Philip of Hesse over his bigamous second marriage, but Philip was not known to physically abuse his wife, and, in fact, had three more children with her after his bigamous marriage, the first just a little over a year after the second marriage.50 Sexual relations are no proof that there was no abuse, of course, but this reference may have been to a different German prince. Luther then provides classical examples of proper husbandly behavior: Indeed, even the heathen have praised this virtue in their heroes, namely, that they were gentle and pleasant toward their wives. For the description of Achilles and Hector, etc., in Homer bears this out. Armed Hector kisses his little son. Thus they were women with women, so much so that nothing seemed more womanish than those heroes in the com48

  LW 5:381, 382.   LW 5:382. 50   Philip’s second marriage to Margarethe von der Saale occurred on 4 March 1540, and his son Philip was born to his first wife Christine of Saxony on 22 April 1541, the seventh of her nine living children. Margarethe also bore a son named Philip in 1541, the first of her nine children with Philip. We might consider Philip’s second marriage to be emotional abuse, but such relationships were hardly unusual, and there is evidence that Christine did not oppose it, particularly because Philip agreed that she would continue to be his legally-recognized spouse and her children alone would inherit his titles. 49

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pany of their wives. But in battle Achilles conducts himself differently against Hector from the way he conducts himself when he amuses himself with Briseis. Therefore those who are brave and pugnacious against the unarmed and the weak sex are worthy of hatred.51

And he ends with an explicit delineation of the proper vocations of both sexes: We men are born not to harm but to defend the weaker sex. For a woman has a body created for pregnancy, for the nourishment of the fetus, and she is exposed to very many dangers. Therefore she must be treated with wisdom and moderation.52

Luther thus uses the story of Laban’s flocks and the other stories about the maternal imagination not to comment on women’s behavior, but on men’s. It is men’s actions that need to be reformed, that need to be Christianized so that they are at least as praiseworthy as those of noble pagans. Luther’s concern with husbandly conduct was not especially surprising, given that the audience for these lectures was students of theology at the University of Wittenberg, which by the time the lectures were given included married men. Many of those who attended these lectures would soon be assuming pastoral positions, and, as both Mickey Mattox and John Maxfield have recently argued, Luther used the matriarchs and patriarchs of Genesis to provide models for his students as to how proper Hausväter and Hausmütter should behave.53 This was also not the first time that Luther had spoken specifically about men’s violence toward their wives. In his 1525 sermon on marriage, he commented, “Men should govern their wives not with great cudgels, flails, or drawn knives, but rather with friendly words or gestures and with all gentleness so that they do not become shy or take fright .  .  . as pious, obedient wives are accustomed to saying, unbeaten is best.”54 Luther’s conclusions from these stories are still very different from those of the learned authors of prodigy books, however, despite the fact that they, too, were writing for audiences that consisted primarily of married men. The story of Laban’s flocks and Jacob’s branches continued to be retold in the later sixteenth and seventeenth centuries in many different types of works, but the lesson Luther drew from it did not become part of the standard narrative. One can only wish that it had. The newest research on fetal origins is returning to the idea that a pregnant woman’s emotional as well as physical experiences shape her child.55 One can hope that it, too, occasionally also looks beyond the mother to those who surround her if something goes awry. 51

  LW 5:382.   Ibid. 53   Mattox, Defender; and Maxfeld Luther’s Lectures on Genesis. Neither of these authors discusses Luther’s consideration of the story of Laban’s flocks. 54   WA 17/1: 25, 27. 55   For a brief overview of the research on fetal origins, see Annie Murphy Paul, “How the First Nine Months Shape the Rest of Your Life: The New Science of Fetal Origins,” Time (September 4, 2010): 49–55. 52

The Tenderness of Daughters, the Waywardness of Sons Martin Luther as a Father Susan C. Karant-Nunn A great deal of attention has been paid in the last generation to Martin Luther as a human being – as an anti-Semite or not, as a man who lost his temper and raged against theologians who would not accept his interpretation of Scripture and the theology built upon it, as a husband, and to some extent as a father. More remains to be said on the last subject. The reformer thought that human reproduction was little short of miraculous, and he told his students just that in his lectures on Genesis in about 1539–1540. He had a keen interest in parenthood and its processes, from pregnancy through birth and childrearing. In general, references to Luther and fatherhood have treated boy-children and girlchildren without adequate differentiation. In the main, biographers have used    The notes provide examples only. Heiko A. Oberman, The Roots of Anti-Semitism in the Age of Renaissance and Reformation (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1981), especially 94–136; Kenneth Hagen, “Luther’s So-Called Judenschriften: A Genre Approach,” Archive for Reformation History 90 (1999): 130–58.    Mark U. Edwards, Jr., Luther and the False Brethren (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1975); idem, Luther’s Last Battles: Politics and Polemics 1531–46 (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1983).    (At least implicitly) in Merry E. Wiesner, “Luther and Women: The Death of Two Marys,” Disciplines of Faith: Studies in Religion, Politics and Patriarchy, ed. Jim Obelkevich, Lyndal Roper, and Raphael Samuel (London and New York: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1987), 295–308; reprinted in Feminist Theology: A Reader, ed. Ann Loades (London: SPCK, 1990), 123–37; Susan C. Karant-Nunn, “The Transmission of Luther’s Teachings on Women and Matrimony: The Case of Zwickau,” Archive for Reformation History 77 (1986): 31–46; Merry E. Wiesner and Susan Karant-Nunn, eds., Luther on Women: A Sourcebook (Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 186–201; Scott Hendrix, “Luther on Marriage,” Lutheran Quarterly 14 (2000): 335–50.    Susan C. Karant-Nunn, “‘Fast wäre mir ein weibliches Gemüt verblieben’: Martin Luthers Männlichkeit,” in Martin Luther zwischen den Kulturen, ed. Hans Medick and Peer Schmidt (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2004), 49–65.    “.  .  . We can correctly state about the birth of a human being that it is just as miraculous today as was the birth of Isaac.” LW 4:4.    Ewald Plass, for example, in What Luther Says: An Anthology, 3 vols. (St. Louis: Concordia Publishing House, 1959), s.v. “Children,” makes no distinction between sons and daughters.

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the reformer’s domestic life as a brief interlude to demonstrate their subject’s fundamental humanity. The thesis of this essay is that Luther treated his offspring differently depending on their sex and that this was the result of the prevailing social attitudes of the day, his theological convictions, and his psychological makeup. Elsewhere I have written about Luther’s masculinity and implicitly within it his ideas concerning proper Christian femininity. Luther’s division of the universe into male and female and his prescriptions for and perceptions of gendered behavior are visible in the small record that he has left us of his treatment of his progeny. By the standards of his day, when fathers were ordinarily not to undertake any of the burdensome domestic tasks of nurturing infants and toddlers, Luther was concerned for his children’s wellbeing, in practice as well as theory, and regardless of their sex. In the abstract, following St. Cyprian, he advocated kissing the newly born, still-unbaptised baby, despite its being technically still “a child of wrath,” for the very marvel of having caught God “in the act” of creation. He opined that it was all right for fathers to wash diapers if they did so in faith. We have no evidence that Father Luther did kiss his brand-new offspring, although he might well have done so. It is highly unlikely that he washed diapers in a household presided over by Katharina and Muhme Lehne, where the most unpleasant tasks may well have been carried out by the maidservants. In the concrete, Luther advised his wife, at Käthe’s request, on how to wean the year-old Magdalena. He told her from his eyrie in the Festung Coburg in 1530, “In my view, if you wanted to wean her, it would be good to do it gradually, so that the first day you would leave out one nursing, and the day after that two, until you have completely stopped.” Luther’s infants were present in the dining room when the reformer’s several devoted followers were recording his every substantial word, and some insubstantial ones as well. He held them, but, curiously, we only have records of his holding and speaking to or commenting on two of the boys, Martin and Paul, though one of them might have been Margarete.10 At some time in the early 1530s, he remarked to one, “How have you deserved, or why should I care for    Roland H. Bainton, Here I Stand: A Life of Martin Luther (New York: New American Library, 1950), 223–37; Martin Brecht, Martin Luther, vol. 2: Shaping and Defining the Reformation 1521–1532, trans. James L. Schaaf (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1990), 195–204; Gerhard Brendler, Martin Luther: Theology and Revolution, trans. Claude R. Foster, Jr. (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991), 302–10; John M. Todd, Luther, a Life (New York: Crossroad, 1982), 260–67.    See n. 4 above, and my “The Masculinity of Martin Luther: Theory, Practicality, and Humor,” in Scott H. Hendrix and Susan C. Karant-Nunn, eds., Masculinity in the Reformation Era, Sixteenth Century Essays and Studies 83 (Kirksville, MO: Truman State University Press, 2008), 167–89.    WABr 5:347–48 (no. 1582), 5 June 1530. 10   See the chronological table in Martin Treu, Katharina von Bora (Wittenberg: Drei Kas­ tanien Verlag, 1995), 88–89. There is slight disagreement over which day Paul Luther was

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you so much that I make you the heir of all that I have? [How have you deserved] with your shitting, peeing [Roland Bainton omitted these words in his account! 11], crying, and filling the whole house with screaming, that I should worry about you so much?”12 Receiving little Martin into his arms, he said, “Ah, that God can set such fine, black little eyes in a piece of flesh [that is born] out of a stinking sack [the mother’s body]! It is just as though somebody making a blintz set fine little eyes into it. To make a nose, mouth, hands, and feet from a little bit of flesh in the body of the mother is also an art.”13 On another occasion, he blessed either Hans or Martin as he was being taken off to bed: “Go along and sleep, dear little child, but be pious. I won’t leave you any money, but I will leave you a rich God – only be pious! He will not desert you. May God help you thereto!”14 These incidents hint that Luther had a readier physical contact with his tiny sons, possibly for no reason other than that his wife thought it more appropriate to hand him his sons than his daughters when he was entertaining dinner-guests. By convention, although mothers cared for and disciplined her children of both sexes when they were little, the Hausväterliteratur specifies that fathers ought to mete out punishment to growing sons (and male servants) and mothers to their daughters (and female servants) regardless of age. In Winkel­ schulen or dame schools, women could teach the ABCs to both little boys and girls, but the boys were seen quickly to outgrow this tutelage owing to the gender and the gender-limited skills of the instructor. It is, then, possible that Luther was handed only his male children. Yet he loved his daughters dearly. Luther paid attention to his toddlers’ behavior. There are three renderings in the Table Talk of his comment about one of his sons at the age of three, who was unselfconsciously playing and talking to himself: “This child is like a person who is drunk: it doesn’t know that it is alive. It lives most securely and happily, leaps and hops. Such children enjoy themselves in great, wide structures and dwellings, where they have enough room.”15 Social attitudes were such in that day that one wonders whether Luther would have admired such leaping and hopping in a little girl. Girls were not expected to lay claim to or expand into large spaces but to stay at home and quiet, strictly under their mothers’ eyes. On their mothers’ laps and at their knees, toddlers of both sexes learned their simplest prayers, Bible verses, and hymns. The proverbial Lutheran paterfamilias, modeled by Luther to successive generations, directed family devotions on a somewhat higher plane, beginning with blessings at the table. born on: cf. Ernst Kroker, Katharina von Bora, Martin Luthers Frau (Berlin: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 1974), 123. 11   Bainton, Here I Stand, 235. 12   WATr 1:505 (no. 1004). 13   WATr 2:530 (no. 2578). 14   WATr 3:26 (nos. 2848a and 2848b). 15   WATr 5:488 (no. 6099).

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Luther’s famous letter to the four-year-old Hans could not have been directed to a daughter, for its language is in three respects designed for a boy. It describes a pleasure garden to which he may be admitted only if he “prays, studies, and is good.”16 Girls even of this tender age might be expected to pray and be good, but not to study. Luther declared elsewhere, “There is no shirt or dress that looks worse on a woman or maiden than wanting to be clever,” and he supported limiting the curriculum of girls’ schools.17 The objects that are held out to Hans now as rewards are partly gender-specific: whistles, drums, and “fine silver crossbows.” Girls, too, could enjoy fresh fruit, play the lute, and dance (modestly), but these other items were reserved for males even in the adult world. Finally, there are ponies in the garden, and this is to attract Hans. We assume that if he gains admittance, he will get to ride one. This is not a reward extended to a girl. Boys, however, needed to learn the military arts; riding would have been among those suitable for a lad descended on his mother’s side from the lower nobility. This would accord with the proffered satisfaction of shooting with “little crossbows.” Carrying the theme of the pleasure garden farther, Martin wrote to Katharina on 8 September 1530, “I have a large, lovely box of sugar for Hans Luther. Cyriacus [Kaufmann] brought it from Nuremberg, from the lovely garden.”18 While we know that Hans studied, and all the Luthers’ sons (Paul became a physician), we do not know what opportunities existed for Magdalena and, later, for Margareta. The reformer certainly advocated basic literacy for girls as well as boys. In An die Ratherren aller Städte deutschen Lands, daß sie christliche Schulen aufrichten und halten sollen, 1524, Luther opines, This one consideration alone would be sufficient to justify the establishment everywhere of the very best schools for both boys and girls, namely, that in order to maintain its temporal estate outwardly the world must have good and capable men and women – men able to rule well over land and people, women able to manage the household and train children and servants aright. .  .  . It is a matter of properly educating and training our boys and girls to that end.19

There is no question that Luther’s surviving daughters (Elisabeth died as an infant) learned to read and write. Their mother, an ex-nun, was highly literate in the vernacular herself and had some acquaintance with Latin. As we know, Luther paid Katharina to read the Bible. But their father thought that girls did not need an elevated level of learning. They should be able to read the Bible and other devotional works, write letters, and keep household accounts. They should know how much to pay for necessities and when they were receiving correct 16   WABr 5:377–78, dated approximately 19 June 1530, when Hans would just have turned four. 17   WATr 2:130 (no. 1555). 18   WABr 5:609 (no. 1713), from the Veste Coburg. 19   WA 15:44.

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weight and change in the marketplace. They should be able to raise their children to Christian piety, which required the assistance of a limited number of texts.20 Beyond a few years of part-time tutelage at school, girls should learn the arts of housekeeping from their mothers.21 Luther had high hopes for Hans, and the boy disappointed him. Before this pattern was clear, the reformer wrote to Käthe when Hans was five and Magdalena nearly three, “Kiss young Hans for me, and tell little Hans, Lehnchen, and Muhme Lehna to pray for the young prince and for me.”22 Again, it may have seemed inappropriate for him to send a kiss to a girl-child however much he cared for her. But earlier, in October 1529, when Hans was only four and Lehnchen five months old, he sent a kiss to both.23 A year later, however, he greeted by name only Hans and Aunt Lehna – not Magdalena.24 The pattern is not clear. He wanted, too, to be in touch with Hans’s teachers, such as Hieronymus Weller, and was initially heartened by Hans’s progress.25 A father oversaw his sons’ education. Martin did care deeply for his daughters. He was delighted when Käthe sent him a picture of Magdalena – the medium is not stated – at the age of one year, when he was in Coburg. He replied to his wife, “At first I did not recognize the little whore [hürlin], so dark did she appear to me to be.”26 His sexual label shocks the modern sensibility, and yet his intention is clearly loving. Females were inseparable from their sexual functions in early modern Germany, no matter how young their ages. Elisabeth’s and Magdalena’s deaths grieved the reformer profoundly. His reactions are well-known. When baby Elisabeth died in the summer of 1528, he wrote his famous letter to Nicolaus Hausmann, pastor in Zwickau: “My little daughter, my little Elisabeth, has died. It is marvelous how this grieves me; it has left my spirit almost womanish, so much am I moved by compassion. I never could have believed before that parents’ spirits could be so tender toward a child.”27 His experience of this young baby’s death, as well as his pastoral insights, bring him to write to Margaret of Anhalt that a child’s illness hurts the parents more than the child itself.28 His plentiful outpouring of 20   See my “The Reality of Early Lutheran Education: The Electoral District of Saxony – a Case Study,” Lutherjahrbuch 57 (1990): 128–46, which I admit is a bit shrill. 21   This generalization is borne out by Reinhold Vormbaum, ed., Die evangelischen Schul­ ordnungen des 16. Jahrhunderts (Gütersloh: C. Bertelsmann, 1860), which contains predominately ordinances for boys’ curricula. Nonetheless, prescriptions for girls’ schools are to be found there. Visitation protocols also amply bear out this principle. 22   WABr 6:271 (no. 1908), 27 Feb. 1532. 23   WABr 5:154 (no. 1476). 24   WABr 5:545–46 (no. 1683), 15 August 1530. 25   For example, to Weller, WABr 5:373–75 (no. 1593); WABr 5:546–47 (no. 1684), both from the Veste Coburg in 1530. 26   WABr 5:347 (no. 1582), 5 June 1530. 27   WABr 4:511 (no. 1303), 5 August 1528. 28   WABr 8:190 (no. 3211), 9 January 1538.

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admonition in 1542 to others around him not to sorrow too much for Magdalena belies his loss, and he does admit that “in the flesh” he is bereft.29 He claims to hold his mourning within bounds, as he required others around him to do in the face of their own losses. But he is audibly affected. He writes to Wolfgang, prince of Anhalt, “My most beloved daughter Magdalena has gone to the heavenly Father, dying with complete faith in Christ. .  .  . I have loved her vehemently.”30 Martin Luther treats his children in accordance with the gender-specific natures that he attributes to them. At first, male and female infants are quite alike. About the age of seven, he observes, boys undergo a change. Luther calls it climactericus. He depicts a life-course for boys that brings their infancy to an end at seven. The following seven years he characterizes as variativus: “the seventh year always changes people.” He uses the word menschen, but in the rest of the passage, we see that he is talking only about males. They develop; they become educated; they grow into patresfamilias and public figures. Girls, on the contrary, “may not speak publicly; it is contrary to custom.”31 They remain much as they had been as infants. Magdalena, although thirteen years old when she died, was, he thought, still a child and did not suffer in dying: Children don’t dispute; they believe what they are told. For children everything is simple, [and] they die without pain or fear, without argument, without death’s vexing them, without physical pain, just as they go to sleep.32

Girls were a special worry. Among his neighbors on the way to the cemetery to bury Magdalena, Luther says, One has to provide for the children, and particularly the poor girls. We cannot take it for granted [?] that someone else will take them [literally her] on. I have no mercy for the boys: a boy nourishes himself wherever he goes, if he is just willing to work. If he chooses to be lazy, so he remains a rascal. But the poor little girlfolk have to have a cane to lean on. A schoolboy can run after handouts [alms], and he can afterward become a fine man if he wants to. But a little girl cannot do this. She quickly comes to shame if she gets her belly full.33

Again, a female cannot be separated from her sexuality. If she is allowed free rein, either she will get herself into a sexual relationship, or a male will inveigle her into one. The results will be disaster in a society in which unwed mothers and their offspring were ostracized. As his children grew older, Luther treated them differently according to their sex. Serious punishment of the daughters was Katharina’s business. Luther, as 29

  WATr 5:189–94 (nos. 5494–5500).   WABr 10:147–48 (no. 3793), 18 September 1542. 31   “Das siebend jahr wandelt alle mhal die menschen.” WATr 5:10 (no. 5210). 32   WATr 5:187 (no. 5490); see also 187–88 (nos. 5491, 5492). 33   WATr 5:191 (no. 5494); this is virtually repeated as no. 5550 (p.  194). 30

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father, would have had to mete out corporal penalties to his sons. But just as Luther believed that husbands should ordinarily not beat their wives (“Ungeschlagen ist am besten!”34 ), he came to believe that excessive beating of children was wrong. This was a shift from the days before he became a parent. In 1519, he could still categorically maintain that the father who spared the rod, spoiled the child and was responsible for its ultimate damnation. He admonishes mothers and fathers not to care more for the child’s body than for its soul, and the soul’s wellbeing requires stern measures.35 After the birth of his little ones, Father Martin sang another tune. It was as head of a family that he looked back on having been beaten by his own father: One ought not to beat children too hard. For my father once beat me so hard that I fled from him and was afraid, until he reconciled me to himself. I would not want to strike Hans hard, for if I did he would become timid and would be hostile toward me – and I would know of no greater pain. This is what God does: [He says,] I will correct my sons but by other means – through Satan or [the trials of the] world; but if you will cry out and run to me, I will rescue you and lift you up. For our Lord God would not like it if we grew hostile toward Him.36

We know that on one occasion, when young Hans had incurred his father’s great disfavor, Luther did not beat him but rather banned him from his presence. He relented only after three days and through the mediation of his wife, Justus Jonas, and Kaspar von Teutleben. As ever, when the reformer was angry his language became immoderate: I would rather have a dead son than an ill-behaved one. Not for nothing did Saint Paul say “that a bishop shall be a man who presides well over his household and has wellraised children,” so that other people are instructed thereby, receive a good example, and are not annoyed. We preachers are placed so high so that we can give others a good example; but our misbehaving children vex others. Our bad boys commit sins against our privileges. Yet even if they sin a great deal and carry out all kinds of knavishness, I don’t learn about it; one doesn’t tell me anything about it but keeps it a secret from me. .  .  . For that reason one has to punish him and absolutely not look through the fingers or let him go unpunished.37

Luther realizes that those around him connive to keep him from learning of at least one son’s misbehavior, for his volatile temperament brings with it unrest for the entire household. 34   WA 17/1:27, Predigten des Jahres 1525, no. 3, 15 January. On p.  24, he says, “Also soll man auch die Weiber regieren, nicht mit grossen knütteln, flegeln oder ausgezogenen messern, sonder mit freuntlichen worten, freundtlichen geberden und mit aller sanfftmuth, damit sie nicht schuchter werden wie S. Peter j. Pet. [sic] am 3. Capitel saget. .  .  .” 35   WA 2:169–71, “Eyn Sermon von dem Elichen Standt.” 36   WATr 2:134 (no. 1559). 37   WATr 5:489 (no. 6102). This is undated but probably comes from 1538, when Hans was 11 or 12.

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He did not even reflect on corporal punishment for his daughters. Luther was deliberately harder on his sons, he said, than on his daughters, for the latter were soft and vulnerable. He commented in February 1539, when Hans was twelve and Magdalena nine, that people ruin children by letting them have their own will and not punishing them. “For that reason, I do not want anybody to let my Hans get away with things. I don’t joke with him as much as I do with my daughter.” About women and girls, the host at table opines, “Even if they have shortcomings and faults, one ought not to slander them either with words or in writing, but punish them in secret. Women have many weaknesses; for that reason Saint Peter says from the mouth of God, ‘The feminine sex is a weak vessel.’”38 Luther admits that he allows his daughter more latitude than his son. He expects far less from Magdalena than from Hans. He is personally warm to his daughter but stern and distant with his son. When Hans was a little boy, Luther had been able to express his affection, but the misbehavior of the older child alienates him. We have all read Erik Erikson’s Young Man Luther.39 In this study, the psychoanalyst makes Luther’s relationship to his own father decisive in his identityformation as reformer. It is perhaps ironic to see how difficult a father Luther himself could be, especially toward Hans – unfortunately, owing to their later births and Luther’s early death, we do not learn how he behaved toward Paul or Martin as they grew older, or toward Margarete. At least of Hans, the firstborn son, of whom much is expected, Martin demanded a great deal and did not get it. His daughters enjoyed the advantage of lower expectations. They were to be cheerful, tractable, domestic, pious, and quiet – and as far as we know, Magdalena and Margarete were. Luther was prepared to “look through his fingers” at his daughters’ faults inasmuch as the girls, like all females, were the “daughters of Eve.” They were collectively the weaker vessel and had to be molded but their foibles also forborne. They were to be joked with, just as husbands joked with their wives as an aspect of marital intimacy.40 They were also to be loved. “Husbands, love your wives,” was, to be sure an enjoinder to one of the spouses in a marriage, but by extension, female progeny were also to be loved. Luther’s view of daughters is closely related to his view of Eve and all her descendants. Males were always more excellent and stronger, but Luther repeated throughout his life that a good housewife is a jewel beyond price. Nonetheless, all females were afflicted with Fürwitz, a self-asserting desire to know about matters that did not

38

  WATr 3:376 (no. 3523).   Erik H. Erikson, Young Man Luther: A Study in Psychoanalysis and History (New York: Norton, 1958). 40   See my discussion of Martin joking with Käthe as an aspect of their marital relationship in “Martin Luther’s Masculinity,” as in n. 7 above, 167–89. 39

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pertain to them.41 But one had to guide and be fond of them anyway. Not so the boys. By virtue of being males, they had greater use of reason and were more deliberate in their transgressions. Fathers ought not to make concessions to them but confront and control their misdeeds. If Hans Luther had grown up to be the towering figure that his father was, such that modern psychoanalysts troubled themselves about his identity-formation, we might have noticed long before now Martin Luther’s high expectations and his resort to emotional withdrawal as a means of punishment. Luther loved his family unrestrainedly. In this he may have surpassed the moderation that some early modern writers urged upon their readers.42 He tells his dinner guests, “I would rather die than that Käthe and the little children should die.”43 On another occasion he reminisces, Ah, how heartily I yearned for my family when I lay deathly ill in Smalkald! I was of the opinion that I would never again see my wife and little children on earth. How deeply this apartness and separation pained me! Now I well believe that in people who are dying this natural affection and love that a husband has for his wife and that parents have for their children is the greatest of all. Now that by God’s grace I have returned to good health, I love my wife and little children all the more.44

In contemplating the horror of God’s command to Abraham to sacrifice his only child Isaac, Luther later inquired of his students, “Who is there who does not know how intense a father’s affection toward his children and his wife is. It is easier for a parent to suffer death than to forsake his own and to permit great harm to be done to them.”45 A theological indication of Luther’s love for his children may be found in his developing views on the fate of infants who die unbaptised. His early Taufbüchlein contains the long-enduring words that the unchristened baby is a “child of wrath.” Yet when ministering to parents who had lost a little one before baptism and who were frightened that he might spend eternity in hell – or perhaps still limbo – the reformer had words of consolation. Even as he insisted that a baby that had not completely emerged from the birth canal could not be baptised, he said that the women who were assisting ought to kneel down and call upon God 41

  WA 14:133, “Predigten über das erste Buch Mose, gehalten 1523/24,” contrasting Adam and Eve: “Er ist hoher vorstendig geweßen, sie war schlecht und einfeldig. Non animadvertit Sathanae insidias.” “.  .  . Dehr furbitz bleibet bey allen weibern.” 42   See Rudolf Lenz, “‘Ehestand, Wehestandt, Süßbitter Standt’? Betrachtungen zur Fami­ lie der frühen Neuzeit,” Archiv für Kulturgeschichte 68/2 (1986): 371–405, esp.  390–403; idem, “Emotion und Affektion in der Familie der frühen Neuzeit: Leichenpredigten als Quellen der historischen Familienforschung,” in Die Familie als sozialer und historischer Verband. Untersuchungen zum Spätmittelalter und zur frühen Neuzeit, ed. Peter-Johannes Schuler (Sigmaringen: J. Thorbecke, 1987), 121–46. 43   WATr 2:135 (no. 1563). 44   WATr 4:505 (no. 4786). 45   LW 4:41, Lectures on Genesis, 1535–45.

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in faith. God was “mightier than we and may do more than we ask. Without a doubt, he will take up that baby on account of the prayers of the faithful.”46 God would send the Holy Spirit and christen the infant spiritually. This utterance is dated on Christmas Eve, 1539, a day on which we know from other evidence that Luther was also thinking tenderly of the Baby Jesus. As a father, Luther was unselfconscious. He was not surrounded by school psychologists and parenting classes. He probably saw himself as primarily guided by the Bible, which underscored the gender stereotypes of sixteenth-century Europe. Luther’s saving grace, from the modern point of view, is the outspoken love that he bore his family. One hopes that Hans, the son, was able to find an analog to justification by faith, by means of which to salve his sometimes strained and burdensome relations with his own earthly father, the renowned reformer of Wittenberg. From Martin Luther’s perspective, fatherhood was central to Protestant masculinity. Luther had launched a revolution in the clerical world not just of theology but of the social placement of the pastor. In a literal sense, Luther had clergymen rejoin society by marrying and founding households. Henceforward, their liaisons were public and legitimate, and very quickly their spouses came to be drawn from social ranks that were commensurate with their own. Concubines had a more humble provenance, which symbolized their fragile respectability. After the Reformation, pastors, preacher, and deacons no longer paid concubinage and cradle fees, for they were doing nothing to be fined for. Late medieval and early modern secular society regarded marriage and reproduction as the norm. Even though the Catholic priesthood had officially practiced celibacy, chastity in the form of sexual abstinence often did not accompany the unwed state. Probably out of their desire for stability and a sense of the irresistibility of sexual desire, communities tolerated the long-term cohabitation of priests and their “housekeepers.” For similar reasons and their monetary advantage, bishops, too, accepted an annual fine and “looked through their fingers” at paired-off clergymen. Their progeny were a bit of an embarrassment and an inconvenience. They were barred from craftguilds and from claims to inherit. The Protestant cleric, however, could join the laity in taking pride in the birth of each successive child. He was a progenitor, like the patriarchs of old. His offspring were legitimate and could proceed into any trade. Whereas Erasmus needed to acquire a dispensation from his illegitimate birth as the son of a priest in order to be ordained, Martin Luther could found a line of descent, a Geschlecht, and establish a pedigree. He felt blessed by fatherhood and shared his contemporaries’ sympathy for all married people who did not have children. The Reformation could have laid the groundwork for a relationship of trust and intimacy between pastor-fathers and their children. The religious move46

  WATr 6:172–73 (no. 6763).

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ment occurred, however, at a time when a spirit of discipline was in the ascendancy. Fathers, Luther thought, should not be soft toward their sons. This outlook had impeded Luther’s closeness to his own father, and the reformer lived out this conviction in turn toward his male children. He joked with his daughters and criticized his sons – even as he inwardly loved both intensely. Additionally, owing to their standing in society, both generations suffered under public scrutiny. Unquestionably, numerous clerical fathers manifested great warmth toward their sons nevertheless. They simply did not leave to posterity the testimony of Luther’s vast opus. Whether the Lutheran Reformation contained within itself the promotion of closer ties between parents and children is a question still to be posed and explored.47

47   On this subject, Philip J. Greven, The Protestant Temperament: Patterns of Child-Rearing, Religious Experience, and the Self in Early America (New York: Knopf, 1977), and all the discussion that arose concerning its assertions would still be apropos.

Christianizing Church, State, and Household The Sermons of Aegidius Hunnius (1550–1603) on the Household Table of Duties Austra Reinis 1.  Introduction Scott Hendrix in his Recultivating the Vineyard: The Reformation Agendas of Christianization argues for a single Reformation of the sixteenth century embracing not only Protestants, but their Catholic opponents as well. His thesis is that “the primary reformers, most of whom were clergy .  .  . cherished a similar theological vision,” namely, the “renewal of Christendom.” In his discussion of Martin Luther’s vision, Hendrix posits that by the time Luther returned to Wittenberg after his year in protective custody at the Wartburg castle, his goal was to “provide a religious environment” in which Christians would “be free through faith to serve others in love.” Luther’s reforms of worship, such as the abolition of indulgences and the cult of the saints, Hendrix argues, were designed to create this environment. His writings on politics, marriage, and business sought to do the same: to convince Christians that they “could be involved in politics and should obey civil law,” that they should exercise love and forgiveness in marriage, and that they should settle business disputes peaceably without resorting to lawsuits. Hendrix concludes that in Luther’s thought and writings, the “abstract ideal of love for the neighbor was concretized by teachings that affirmed the world and encouraged specifically Christian forms of engagement.” I contend that Hendrix’s understanding of Luther’s vision of the “renewal of Christendom” is useful in understanding the sermons that the Lutheran court preacher Aegidius Hunnius published under the title Christliche Haußtafel (1586). In these sermons, Hunnius sought to “concretize” the “abstract ideal of love for    Missouri State University sabbatical funding and a grant from the Herzog August Bibliothek in Wolfenbüttel made research and writing of this article possible; I am deeply grateful for the support of both of these institutions.    Scott H. Hendrix, Recultivating the Vineyard: The Reformation Agendas of Christianization (Louisville; London: Westminster John Knox Press, 2004), xix, xxii.    Hendrix, Recultivating the Vineyard, 37, 49–51, 60–63.

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the neighbor” by explaining to his parishioners how, as Christians, they were to live their daily lives as members of the three estates: church, state, and household. I use Bruce Lincoln’s theory of discourse to demonstrate that Hunnius put to use three elements of discourse – ritual, myth, and classification – to “Christianize” the faith and feelings of his parishioners, and thereby also the hierarchical relationships characteristic of the society in which they lived – late sixteenth-century Marburg in Hesse. In addition, I use Clifford Geertz’s idea that religion establishes pervasive moods and motivations in people to show that love toward God and other Christians and aversion toward godless heretics were the fundamental motivations that Hunnius sought to instil in his parishioners. Hunnius’s vision of church, state, and household was a Lutheran one, as distinct from a Catholic, a Calvinist, or an Anabaptist vision, because for Hunnius, the only true form of Christianity was that formulated at the outset of the Reformation by Martin Luther.

2.  Preaching on the Household Table of Duties (Haustafel) and Luther’s Doctrine of the Three Estates The sermons in Hunnius’s Christliche Haußtafel belong to a homiletical genre known as the Haustafel sermon. This is a distinct genre of preaching that arose out of the Reformation; it is a subgenre of the catechism sermon. Martin Luther published the first edition of his Small Catechism in 1529 as an aid for preachers in educating their congregations in the Christian faith. The five principal parts of the catechism treat the Ten Commandments, the Apostles’ Creed, the Lord’s Prayer, Baptism, and the Lord’s Supper. To these Luther appended German versions of the marriage and baptismal services, several household prayers, and a chart of Bible passages for the household, also known as the Haustafel or Household Table of Duties. Luther’s Household Table of Duties encompassed the following rubrics: 1). Bishops, pastors, and preachers; 2). Governing authorities; 3). Husbands; 4). Wives; 5). Parents; 6). Children; 7). Male and female servants; 8). Masters and mistresses; 9). Young people in general; 10). Widows; 11). All in the community. Subsequent editions of the Small Catechism also

   On the catechism sermon and its subgenres see Werner Jetter, “Katechismuspredigt,” in Theologische Realenzyklopädie, hereafter cited as TRE. The most extensive study of Lutheran catechetical preaching is Mary Jane Haemig, “The Living Voice of the Catechism: German Lutheran Catechetical Preaching 1530–1580,” (PhD diss., Harvard University, 1996).    On the genesis of Luther’s Small Catechism, see “Editors’ Introduction to the Small Catechism” in The Book of Concord: The Confessions of the Evangelical Lutheran Church, ed. Robert Kolb and Timothy J. Wengert (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2000), 346. This edition hereafter cited as Kolb/Wengert, Book of Concord.

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included the duties of parishioners (beginning in 1540) and of subjects (beginning in 1542) as separate rubrics. Luther himself preached on the Ten Commandments in 1516/17; subsequently, in 1519, 1522, and 1523, he expanded his catechism preaching to include the Lord’s Prayer and the Creed. Many of his successors followed his example. While the first generation of Lutheran pastors limited themselves to expositions of the five principal parts of the catechism, a considerable number of secondgeneration and later pastors also preached on the Household Table of Duties, beginning with Cyriakus Spangenberg (1528–1604) in 1556 and ending with Philipp Jakob Spener (1635–1705) in 1689. The most extensive study of Haustafel sermons to date is Julius Hoffmann’s Die “Hausväterliteratur” und die “Predigten über den christlichen Hausstand” (1959). Hoffmann identifies thirteen collections of Haustafel sermons; unfortunately, he overlooks the sermons of Aegidius Hunnius, which are the subject of this article. He focuses exclusively on the sermons on the household, discussing the Lutheran social and ethical teaching found in these sermons and demonstrating the indebtedness of the Lutheran authors to writers of pagan antiquity such as Xenophon, Aristotle, Cato, Varro, and Columella.10 In what is the only existing study of a Haustafel sermon by Hunnius, Walter Behrendt identifies the principal points of Hunnius’s teaching on marriage as found in his sermon on the duties of husbands and wives.11 The present study takes into consideration Hunnius’s sermons on all three of Luther’s estates – church, state, and household – and examines how they contribute to Hunnius’s vision of the “renewal of Christendom” in Hesse-Marburg. Luther’s doctrine of the three estates underlies the social and ethical teaching propagated in the Haustafel sermons of his successors. According to Luther, so   An English translation of Luther’s Haustafel can be found in Kolb/Wengert, Book of Concord, 365–67; for references to the scripture texts spelling out the duties of parishioners and subjects, see 365, nn. 114–15. The German and Latin versions of the Haustafel, including the scripture passages relating to parishioners and subjects, are provided in Die Bekenntnis­ schriften der evangelisch-lutherischen Kirche, 10th ed. (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1986), 522–27.    On Luther’s catechetical preaching see Jetter, “Katechismuspredigt.”    Cyriacus Spangenberg, Die Geistliche // HAVSTA= // FEL / Wie sich ein jglich Gott= // selig Mensch in seinem Stande // vnd beruff nach Gottes wil= // len rechtschaffen halten // solle .  .  . (Wittenberg, 1556); and Philipp Jacob Spener, Kurtze Catechismus-Predigten / Darinnen Die fünff Haupt-Stück / auß dem Catechismo / Und die Hauß-Taffel / Samt Den Fest-Materien / Einfältig erkläret werden .  .  . (Frankfurt am Main: Zunner, 1689).    Julius Hoffmann, Die “Hausväterliteratur” und die “Predigten über den christlichen Hausstand”: Lehre vom Hause und Bildung für das häusliche Leben im 16., 17. und 18. Jhdt. (Weinheim; Belin: Verlag Julius Beltz, 1959). For an annotated bibliography of the thirteen sermon collections Hoffmann identifies, see 50–56. 10   Hoffmann, Die “Hausväterliteratur,” 7–15, 18–20. 11   Walter Behrendt, “Lutherisch-orthodoxe Ehelehre in der Haustafelliteratur des 16. Jahrhunderts,” in Text und Geschlecht: Mann und Frau in Eheschriften der frühen Neuzeit, ed. Rüdiger Schnell (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1997), 214–29.

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ciety as created by God consisted of three estates or regiments: the spiritual, the political, and the economic (also called the estate of marriage (Ehestand) or house regiment (Hausstand)).12 Each of these regiments was not a distinct group of persons, but rather a set of relationships in which a person found him- or herself and which involved duties that person had to perform.13 Thus a craftsman such as a printer was simultaneously the head of his household in the house regiment, a subject in the political regiment, and a parishioner in the spiritual regiment. Luther’s idea of the three estates had developed in response to a variety of medieval ideas on social structure. Some medieval thinkers had conceived of society, or Christendom, as consisting of three separate estates or social groups: those who pray (monks and clergy), those who fight (nobility), and those who work (peasants).14 Others had distinguished between two estates: the spiritual estate, consisting of celibate priests, monks, and nuns; and the temporal estate, to which everyone else belonged. Because the spiritual estate was concerned with the spiritual well-being of all people and with the glory of God, it was considered superior to the temporal estate, which was concerned with bodily well-being. Eternal salvation was more readily accessible to members of this estate.15 Luther with his own teaching on the three estates and his idea of the priesthood of all believers envisioned a new social and spiritual order in which all human beings had equal access to salvation. The Haustafel sermons of his successors served to propagate this vision.

3.  Aegidius Hunnius and Sixteenth-Century Hesse Hunnius was court chaplain to the Lutheran prince Ludwig IV of Hesse-Marburg (b. 1537, r. 1567–1604), and an early leader of Lutheran Orthodoxy.16 Ludwig IV of Hesse-Marburg was one of four heirs of Philip of Hesse or Philip 12

  For a chronological survey of the development of Luther’s doctrine of the three estates, see Wilhelm Maurer, Luthers Lehre von den drei Hierarchien und ihr mittelalterlicher Hintergrund (München: Verlag der Bayerischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1970), 18–28. 13   See Maurer, Luthers Lehre von den drei Hierarchien, 31; and Reinhard Schwarz, “Luthers Lehre von den drei Ständen und die drei Dimensionen der Ethik,” Lutherjahrbuch 45 (1978): 18. 14   See Otto Gerhard Oexle, “Gesellschaft / Gesellschaft und Christentum, V. Mittelalter,” in TRE; and Georges Duby, The Three Orders: Feudal Society Imagined, trans. Arthur Goldhammer (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1980). 15   Jürgen Küppers, “Luthers Dreihierarchienlehre als Kritik an der mittelalterlichen Ge­ sellschaftsauffasung,” Evangelische Theologie 19 (14, Neue Folge), no. 8 (1959): 364. Küppers provides a succinct overview of the medieval idea of the two estates, spiritual and temporal, and attributes its origins to Thomas Aquinas. 16   Bodo Nischan has observed that “court chaplains had a decisive hand in molding princely opinion and shaping public policy” in early modern Europe; see his “Calvinism, the Thirty Years’ War, and the Beginning of Absolutism in Brandenburg: The Political Thought of John Bergius,” Central European History 15 (1982): 203–23.

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the Magnanimous (b. 1504, r. 1518–1567). With his brother, Wilhelm IV of Hesse-Kassel (b. 1532, r. 1567–1592), Ludwig shared jurisdiction over the University of Marburg. Ludwig had been educated at the Lutheran court of Duke Christoph of Württemberg (b. 1515, r. 1550–1568). Following Duke Christoph’s example, he wished to transform Hesse into a Lutheran state in which all members of the social hierarchy, from the leading elites, to the university professors, to the laity, would identify themselves with the state and the church. In its political alliances, such a Lutheran state would remain loyal to the emperor and abide by the Peace of Augsburg (1555).17 Wilhelm IV, whose education had led him to favor Reformed (Calvinist) doctrine and to sympathize with Reformed theologians and princes, had only reluctantly agreed with Ludwig’s proposal to call Aegidius Hunnius to Marburg in 1576 to become professor at the University of Marburg, chaplain to the landgraves, and preacher at the city church (Stadtkirche).18 Although Hunnius ultimately failed to win over Wilhelm IV to Lutheranism, within four years he had persuaded both the theologians at the University of Marburg and the clergy of Hesse-Marburg to accept the doctrinal positions of the Formula of Concord (1577). During 1578 and 1579, the clergy of Upper Hesse agreed to a series of Lutheran documents that came to be known as the Marburg Confession.19 In the years that followed, Hunnius devoted himself to the religious education of the people of Marburg in the strict Lutheranism of the Formula of Concord. This he did by preaching in his churches and by publishing six volumes of printed sermons, of which his Christliche Haußtafel was one of the earliest.20 The Christliche Haußtafel was published separately in at least five editions by Johann Spies in Frankfurt am Main, in 17

  Manfred Rudersdorf, Ludwig IV. Landgraf von Hessen-Marburg 1537–1604 (Mainz: Philipp von Zabern, 1991), 120–27; see also idem, “Lutherische Erneuerung und Zweite Reformation? Die Beispiele Württemberg und Hessen,” in Die reformierte Konfessionalisierung in Deutschland – Das Problem der “Zweiten Reformation,” ed. Heinz Schilling (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus Gerd Mohn, 1986), 145–46. 18   Markus Matthias, Theologie und Konfession: Der Beitrag von Ägidius Hunnius (1550–1603) zur Entstehung einer lutherischen Religionskultur (Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 2004), 71–82, esp.  79–80. This is the most recent and significant biographical and theological study of Hunnius to date; unfortunately, it breaks off at the point of Hunnius’s departure from Marburg in 1592. The Marburg years are also the focus of Hans H. Weißgerber’s “Ägidius Hunnius in Marburg (1576–1592),” in Jahrbuch der Hessischen Kirchengeschichtlichen Vereinigung 6 (1955): 1–88. 19   Rudersdorf, Ludwig IV., 231–32. 20   Aegidius Hunnius, Die Klaglieder Des heiligen Propheten Jeremie (Frankfurt am Main: Johann Spies, 1586); Christliche Haußtafel (Frankfurt am Main: Johann Spies, 1586); idem, Sechs Propheten .  .  . außgelegt (Frankfurt am Main: Johann Spies, 1587); idem, Postilla / Oder AVßlegunge der Euangelien (Frankfurt am Main: Johann Spies, 1588); idem, Postilla / Oder AVßlegunge der Episteln (Frankfurt am Main: Johann Spies, 1589); and idem, Catechismus / Oder Kinderlehr (Frankfurt am Main: Johann Spies, 1592). A seventh volume, a collection of funeral sermons, was published after his move to Wittenberg in Saxony where he became dean (Probst) of the Castle Church and university professor: Sieben vnd Zwentzig Leychpredigten (Wittenberg: Georg Müller, 1600).

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1586, 1588, 1591, 1593, and 1594, respectively. After that, in 1596, 1597, 1598, and 1604, it was published as part of Hunnius’s Catechismus oder Kinderlehr.21

4.  Method Bruce Lincoln in his Discourse and the Construction of Society explains how social leaders use specific modes of discourse, namely myth, ritual, and classification, “not only for the replication of established social forms .  .  . but more broadly for the construction, deconstruction, and reconstruction of society itself.” By the construction of society, Lincoln means the maintenance and modification of “social borders, hierarchies, institutional formations, and habituated patterns of behavior.”22 Lincoln’s theory of discourse is useful in understanding how Hunnius with his preaching supported the efforts of Ludwig IV to create a Lutheran state. Lincoln observes that both force and discourse can be used to bring about social change. Force alone, however, is unworkable; in the long term social harmony can only be achieved by accomplishing a “transformation of .  .  . consciousness” or a “recasting of collective identity.” Discourse, however, can supplement force to “win the consent of those over whom power is exercised, thereby obviating the need for the direct coercive use of force and transforming simple power into ‘legitimate’ authority.”23 While Philip of Hesse, Ludwig’s father, had pursued a religious policy under which there had been room for both Lutheran and Calvinist thought, and even though Wilhelm IV, Ludwig’s brother, was a decided Calvinist, Ludwig IV wished to establish a Lutheran state. He had two reasons for desiring religious uniformity. First, his upbringing at the Lutheran court of Christoph of Württemberg had led him to develop Lutheran convictions. Second, the Peace of Augsburg (1555), which had concluded the Schmalcaldic War, had extended toleration in the Empire only to Catholics and to Protestants who subscribed to the Augsburg Confession (1530). Because the Augsburg Confession was a Lutheran document, the treaty essentially excluded Calvinists from toleration and meant that tolerance of Calvinist views could potentially be considered seditious by the emperor.24 To succeed in establishing Lutheranism, however, Ludwig IV had to win over nobility, professors, clergy, and burghers to Lutheran convictions. Hunnius’s task as court and city preacher was to assist his prince with this task. 21

  Cf. Matthias, Theologie und Konfession, 341 and 353.   Bruce Lincoln, Discourse and the Construction of Society: Comparative Studies of Myth, Ritual, and Classification (New York & Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989), 3. 23   Ibid., 4. 24   On the terms of the Peace of Augsburg, see Gerhard Pfeiffer, “Augsburger Religionsfriede,” in TRE. 22

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As a preacher of Haustafel sermons, Hunnius made use of all three of Lincoln’s modes of discourse – sacred scripture (myth), ritual, and classification. Preaching services were the primary religious “ritual” in Hesse following the Reformation. By means of his Haustafel sermons, Hunnius shaped and reinforced an elaborate system of “classification” – a social hierarchy in which each member had well-defined mutual rights and responsibilities. To legitimate this social hierarchy, Hunnius made ample use of “sacred scripture” – biblical texts interpreted in harmony with Martin Luther.25 In drawing on biblical texts, Hunnius offered his listeners what Clifford Geertz calls a “religious perspective.” Geertz posits that the religious perspective, as contrasted with a common-sense perspective, is one that “moves beyond the realities of everyday life” in that it places these within “wider ones which correct and complete them.”26 In the Christian, specifically the Lutheran, world-view, the wider realities, from the perspective of which everyday life was to be seen, included the existence of God the creator, the ethical precepts of this God, the existence of a mediator and reconciler between God and humans in the person of Jesus Christ, and the existence of a life beyond the present one in which obedience to divine precepts was rewarded and disobedience was punished. Hunnius appealed to his listeners’ faith in these wider cosmic realities to urge them to perform specific everyday duties within the hierarchical order of the three estates. Hunnius also drew on Scripture to evoke what Geertz calls “powerful, pervasive, and long-lasting moods and motivations.”27 Love and gratitude toward God were the principal moods Hunnius’s preaching sought to evoke; the principal ethical motivation in his sermons was that of love toward and a willingness to serve the neighbor. On account, however, of the polemical nature of Hunnius’s preaching, additional moods or sentiments were created, chief among them aversion toward the “heretical” teachings of competing religious groups. Lincoln explains that sentiments function to create social boundaries. By sentiments Lincoln means “affinity and estrangement.” These are, “on the one hand, all feelings of likeness, common belonging, mutual attachment, and solidarity .  .  . and on the other hand, those corresponding feelings of distance, separation, otherness, and alienation.”28 Hunnius consistently appealed to the emotions of his audience to draw social boundaries between those he considered true Chris-

25

  Although Lincoln uses the term “myth” to refer to sacred texts, the terms “Christian scripture(s),” “Scripture,” or “the Bible” will be used here because they more accurately reflect the Lutheran context. 26   Clifford Geertz, “Religion as a Cultural System,” in The Interpretation of Cultures: Selected Essays (New York: Basic Books, 1973), 112. 27   Geertz, “Religion as a Cultural System,” 94. 28   Lincoln, Discourse, 8–10.

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tians – Lutherans – and those whom he deemed heretics, chief among them Anabaptists, Calvinists, and “papists.”

5.  Analysis Hunnius’s sermons on the Haustafel explain the duties of Christians in each of the three estates or regiments: the church (pastors and listeners), the political regiment (rulers and subjects), and the household regiment (husbands and wives, parents and children, servants and masters, young persons, widows, and all people).29 Because Hunnius preached separate sermons on the duties of parishioners and subjects, it is likely that he used an edition of the Small Catechism published after 1542, which would have provided separate rubrics for each of these two groups. While in most cases Hunnius used the scripture passages provided by Luther in his Haustafel, he selected his own sermon texts for the duties of husbands and wives and the duties of Christians in general. Hunnius begins his sermon on the duties of “bishops, pastors, and preachers” with an appeal to “sacred scripture,” that is, a reading of the sermon text, which is a conflation of 1 Timothy 3:2–6 and Titus 1:7: A bishop must be above reproach, the husband of one wife, temperate, sensible, respectable, hospitable, an apt teacher, as God’s steward, not a drunkard, not violent, not greedy for shameful gain, but gentle, not quarrelsome, and not a miser. He must manage his household well and have obedient children, honorable in every way. For if someone does not know how to manage his own household, how can he take care of God’s church? He must not be a recent convert, or he may be puffed up with conceit and fall into the condemnation of the devil (1 Tm 3[:2–6], Ti 1[:7, italicized above]).30 29   Aegidius Hunnius, Catechismus / Oder Kinderlehr / von den fu(e)rnemmen Ha(e)uptpuncten Christlicher Religion / als da sind: Die H. Zehen Gebott: die Artickel deß Apostolischen Glaubens: das Gebett Christi: die Tauff vnd Abentmal. Sampt angehengter Christlicher Haußtafel. .  .  . Auch mit einem newen vnd vollkommenen Register gemehret vnd verbessert / Durch Egidivm Hvnnivm .  .  . (Frankfurt am Main: Johann Spies, 1596), 703–4; this 1596 edition, which contains both the catechism sermons and the sermons on the Haustafel, is the primary source used in this study. 30   “AJn Bischoff soll vnstra(e)fflich seyn / eines Weibes Mann / nu(e)chtern / sittig / ma(e)ssig / gastfrey / lehrhafftig / als ein Haußhalter Gottes / nicht ein Weinsa(e)uffer / nicht beissig / nicht vnehrliche Handthierung treiben / sondern gelinde / nicht haderhafftig / nicht geitzig / der seinem eygen Hause wol fu(e)rstehe / der gehorsame Kinder habe / mit aller Erbarkeit. So aber jemandt seinem eygen Hause nicht weiß fu(e)rzustehen / wie wirdt er die Gemein GOttes versorgen? nicht ein Newling / auff daß er sich nicht auff blase / vnnd dem La(e)sterer ins Vrtheil falle / (et)c.” Hunnius uses the scripture text found in Luther’s Small Catechism, 1 Tm 3:2–4; 6a, but adds vv. 5 and 6b; cf. SC, Household Chart 2 and Der Kleine Catechismus, Haustafel, 2. My translations of the scripture passages quoted by Hunnius follow the NRSV with adaptations where necessary to reflect the German Luther Bible text quoted by Hunnius. I have also consulted the translations provided in Kolb/Wengert, Book of Concord, 365–67.

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Hunnius identifies three principal duties of preachers; underlying each of these duties is what Geertz terms moods and ethical motivations. First, pastors are to teach the Word of God and administer the sacraments “purely and without falsification.”31 In order to do so, they must be educated in Scripture and must have been called by a congregation. Second, their preaching must consist of law and gospel; in it “the godless .  .  . must be frightened by the serious law of God” and “simple consciences must be built up and comforted by the gracious teaching of the holy gospel.”32 Third, preachers must practice what they preach.33 Pastors must embody the ethical value of integrity; they must also inculcate in their parishioners fear of God’s righteousness and the peace of mind that comes from confidence in God’s forgiveness. Clearly, Hunnius is legitimating the power and privilege of pastors here, but along with that he is constructing a Lutheran ecclesiological identity. His teaching that the duty of pastors is to preach according to the pattern of “law and gospel” implicitly follows Luther’s understanding as worked out in The Freedom of a Christian (1520).34 Explicitly, Hunnius rejects the Anabaptist idea that preachers do not need education, and scoffs at the fact that “commonly their leaders come running [directly] from threshing or other work and give clumsy sermons, which have no substance, in which nothing proper is treated but rather everything is mixed together.”35 In using derogatory language, Hunnius creates a sentiment of disaffinity and thereby draws a clear religious boundary between Anabaptists and Lutherans. Calvinists most likely are the implicit target of Hunnius’s words when he says that pastors must not only scold the moral failings of their congregants, but also erroneous doctrine, because “it is the character of God’s pure Word that it does not tolerate the addition of human teaching. For how can these things be reconciled: Truth and lies, God’s Word and error, the pure dough of the Word and the sourdough of human teaching, error, falsity, and deception?”36

31

  “rein vnnd lauter ohn alle Verfa(e)lschung.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 708.   “daß die Gottlosen .  .  . auß dem ernsten Gesetz Gottes erschrecket / die blo(e)den gewissen .  .  . durch die holdselsge [sic!] Lehr deß heyligen Euangelij auffgerichtet vnd getro(e)stet werden.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 708, 711. 33   Hunnius, Catechismus, 714. 34   Cf. Martin Luther, The Freedom of a Christian, 1520; LW 31:346; WA 7:22.23–23.6. 35   “jhre Vorsteher gemeiniglich vom Dreschen oder anderer Arbeit daher getrollet lauffen / eine vngeschickte Predigt thun / die weder Ha(e)nd noch Fu(e)ß hat / da nichts ordentlichs gehandelt / sondern das Hundert ins Tausendt geworffen .  .  . wirdt.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 709. The use of colloquial language heightens the note of contempt in Hunnius’s criticism of Anabaptist preachers. 36   “es mit Gottes reinem Wort also beschaffen / daß es keinen Zusatz der Mensch­lichen Lehr duldet. Dann wie solten sich zusammen reymen / Warheit vnd Lu(e)gen / Gottes Wort vnd Jrrthumb / der reine lautere Teig deß Worts / vnnd der Sauwerteig der Menschen Lehr / Jrrthumb / Falschheit vnd Verfu(e)hrung?” Hunnius, Catechismus, 712–13. 32

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Having in sermon one established the authority and duties of Lutheran clergy, Hunnius in sermon two proceeds to explain the duties of parishioners. The sermon text consists of St. Paul’s exhortation to the Thessalonians: We appeal to you, brothers, to respect those who labor among you, and have charge of you in the Lord and admonish you; love them all the more because of their work, and live peaceably with them (1 Thes 5[:12–13]).37

From this text Hunnius derives five duties of parishioners, each of which has ethical and affective dimensions. Parishioners are, first, to love their pastors; second, to honor them; third, to obey them. Fourth, parishioners are not to take offense at the shortcomings of their pastors, but rather excuse them. Fifth, they must financially support their leaders. Clearly, the relationship between pastors and parishioners, as envisaged by Hunnius, consists of mutual duties and obligations. Just as pastors are truly to care for their flocks, so parishioners are to love and honor their pastors. Obedience and disobedience to pastors is seen in the wider cosmic perspective of the tension between God and his opponent, the devil. Listeners are to listen to and seek to follow the instruction and admonition of their pastors. This is because when preachers chastise the shortcomings of their flock, “they don’t do so in their own name but in the place of God.”38 Christ himself says: “The Holy Spirit will punish the world on account of its sins, on account of righteousness, and on account of judgment, John 16[:8].”39 Important to note is that although Hunnius does not here limit the obedience owed by parishioners, this obedience is not to be understood as entirely unqualified. In the sermon he preached earlier on the Fourth Commandment, “Honor your father and your mother (Ex 20:12),” Hunnius specifically stated that parishioners were not to obey their pastors “without distinction in each and every article .  .  . without further research.”40 Such invitation to reflection is based on Luther’s idea that every Christian has the duty to read the Bible and to hold pastors accountable to preaching the gospel.41

37   “WJr bitten euch lieben Bru(e)der / daß jhr erkennet die an euch arbeiten / vnd euch fu(e)rstehen in dem HERREN / vnd euch ermahnen: Habt sie desto lieber vmb jhres Wercks willen / vnnd seydt Friedsam mit jhnen.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 720. Hunnius here uses one of several texts found in the Small Catechism after 1542; cf. Der Kleine Catechismus, Haustafel 3. 38   “so thun sie es nicht in jrem eygen Namen / sondern sie thuns an Gottes statt.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 725. 39   “der H. Geist werde die Welt straffen von wegen der Su(e)nden / von wegen der Gerechtigkeit / vnnd von wegen deß Gerichts / Johan. 16.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 725. 40   “ohne Vnterscheidt in allen vnnd jeden Stu(e)cken .  .  . ohn einige fernere Nachfor­ schung.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 130. 41   Cf. Martin Luther, That a Christian Assembly or Congregation Has the Right and Power to Judge All Teaching and to Call, Appoint, and Dismiss Teachers, Estabished and Proven by Scripture, 1523; LW 39:306; WA 11:409.20–25.

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In his third sermon, Hunnius shifts his attention from the ecclesiastical to the political regiment. The scripture text, taken from St. Paul’s letter to the Romans, provides divine legitimation for the existence of temporal authority: Let every person be subject to the governing authorities; for there is no authority except from God, and those authorities that exist have been instituted by God. Therefore whoever resists authority resists what God has appointed, and those who resist will incur judgment. .  .  . [F]or the authority does not bear the sword in vain! It is the servant of God; an avenger to execute wrath on the wrongdoer (Rom 13[:1–2, 4b]).42

Hunnius begins the sermon by again drawing confessional boundaries and evoking a sentiment of disaffinity toward Anabaptists: “There are people who .  .  . dismiss this order as unchristian, as one in which one .  .  . cannot serve or please God. These are the seductive Anabaptists.”43 He adduces a variety of biblical passages to prove that temporal authority is divinely ordained and may rightfully be wielded by Christians. In taking this position, Hunnius is following Luther’s teaching as set forth in his Temporal Authority (1523) and as formulated in the Augsburg Confession (1530).44 The two principal duties of rulers, according to Hunnius, are to establish proper worship and to manage temporal affairs. The Peace of Augsburg (1555) had enshrined into law the idea that rulers were to determine the religion – Lutheran or Catholic – of their subjects according to the principle cuius regio, eius religio. Hence for Hunnius, as for his Lutheran contemporaries, separation of church and state was inconceivable. The first duty of Christian authorities, according to Hunnius, is to maintain “the single, right, true worship of God” and not allow “false worship, error, or deceptive teaching to slip into the church.” In order distinguish between true and false worship, temporal rulers must apply themselves to the study of Scripture.45 42   “JEderman sey vnterthan der Obrigkeit / die Gewalt vber jhn hat. Denn es ist kein Obrigkeit / ohne von Gott. Wo aber Obrigkeit ist / die ist von Gott geordnet. Wer sich nun wider die Obrigkeit setzet / der widerstrebet GOttes Ordnung: Die aber widerstreben / werden vber sich ein Vrtheil empfangen. Denn sie tra(e)get das Schwerdt nicht vmb sonst. Sie ist GOTtes Dienerin / eine Ra(e)cherin zur Straff vber den / der Bo(e)ses thut / Rom. 13.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 733. Hunnius uses the text found in Luther’s Small Catechism; cf. SC, Household Chart 4 and Der Kleine Catechismus, Haustafel 4. 43   “findet man Leut / welche diesen Standt als Vnchristlich .  .  . verwerffen / als in welchem man .  .  . nicht ko(e)ndte Gott dienen oder gefallen. Das sind die verfu(e)hrische Widerta(e)uffer …” Hunnius, Catechismus, 734. Pacifist Anabaptists such as Michael Sattler refused to serve in secular government because they believed that Christians should not use the sword or take oaths; cf. “The Schleitheim Confession of Faith (1527),” Articles 4 and 6–7, in The Protestant Reformation, ed. Hans J. Hillerbrand (London; Melbourne: Macmillan, 1968), 132–35. 44   Hunnius, Catechismus, 734–37. Cf. Martin Luther, Temporal Authority: To What Extent It Should Be Obeyed, 1523; LW 45:93–95; WA 11:253.17–255.4; and AC XVI.1–2. 45   “den einigen / rechten / warhafftigen Gottesdienst .  .  . falschen Gottesdienst / Jrrthumb / oder verfu(e)hrische Lehr nicht in die Kirche lasse eynschleichen.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 737.

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Besides exercising their religious duties, Lutheran rulers must also manage temporal affairs. They are to see to it “that laws, courts, justice, [and] good order, are maintained, as well as an honorable, calm, quiet, and peaceable life among subjects; that the innocent and righteous are legally protected and taken care of; [and] that the wilfulness, malice, and crimes of the godless are resisted.”46 This statement is in accord with Luther’s teaching about the function of temporal government. According to Luther, it is the duty of every Christian to love and serve his neighbor. A prince or magistrate exercises this duty by protecting the righteous and punishing evildoers (cf. 1 Pt 2:14).47 In the remainder of this sermon, Hunnius dwells in particular on the need to protect the weak and poor members of society. He quotes, among other passages, Isaiah 1:17: “Seek justice, says the Lord, rescue the oppressed, defend the orphan, plead for the widow.”48 Near the end of the sermon, Hunnius touches on economic matters. While it is appropriate that rulers receive taxes, Hunnius warns that excessive taxes lead to the impoverishment of subjects, arouse their anger, and cause them to curse their rulers. In this way, “the sincere trust, which should exist between rulers and subjects, is markedly weakened, and sometimes ignorant people are moved to disloyalty.”49 Evident in this sermon is the fact that Hunnius is inculcating what Geertz terms moods and ethical motivations. Rulers have an ethical obligation to truly care for the welfare of their subjects, especially the weaker members of society. Such care is to result in an attitude of “sincere trust” between rulers and ruled. Moods or feelings are at the heart of the attitudes that Hunnius seeks to evoke in his fourth sermon, which is devoted to the duties of subjects. The sermon text is taken from St. Paul’s letter to the Romans: Therefore one must be subject, not only because of punishment, but also because of conscience. For the same reason you must also pay taxes, for they [the authorities] are God’s servants, busy with such protection. So give to all what you owe them, taxes to whom taxes are due, revenue to whom revenue is due, fear to whom fear is due, honor to whom honor is due (Rom 13[:5–7]).50 46   “daß nemlich Recht / Gericht / Gerechtigkeit / gu(e)te Policey / vnnd vnter den Vnter­thanen ein ehrbar / ru(e)hig / still vnnd friedlich Leben erhalten / die Vnschu(e)ldigen vnd Frommen bey Recht geschu(e)tzet vnd handtgehabt / dem Muhtwillen aber / Boßheit vnd Vbertrettung der Gottlosen gestewret werde.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 738. 47   See, for example, Luther, Temporal Authority, LW 45:95; WA 11:253.17–32. 48   “Trachtet nach Recht / spricht der HERR / hellfet den Verdruckten / schaffet den Waisen Recht / vnd helffet der Wittwen Sachen.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 740. 49   “wirdt auch das hertzliche Vertrauwen / welches zwischen Obrigkeit vnd Vnterthanen seyn solte / mercklich geschwa(e)cht / vnd manchmal das vnversta(e)ndige Volck zum Abfall bewegt.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 747. 50   “SO seydt nun auß Noht vnterthan / nicht allein vmb der Straffe willen / sondern auch vmb deß Gewissens willen. Derhalben mu(e)sset jhr auch Schoß geben. Denn sie seyn GOttes Diener / die solchen Schutz sollen handhaben. So gebet nun jederman / was jhr schu(e)ldig seydt / Schoß / dem der Schoß gebu(e)rt / Zoll / dem der Zoll gebu(e)rt / Forcht

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The first two duties of subjects are explicitly affective in nature: Subjects are to honor and to fear their rulers. Hunnius explicitly requires that honor toward rulers be sincere: “One is to honor them not only with gestures or outward reverence or respect; rather, this honor shall be grounded in the heart.”51 The third duty of subjects is obedience “to all their [the rulers’] commands and prohibitions, laws and statutes, as long as they accord with the law of God and his holy Word, and are not contrary to it.”52 Disobedience to rulers, and especially violent uprising, will not escape divine punishment. Hunnius adduces the example of the Peasants’ War and imbues the peasants’ defeat with cosmic meaning: “the frightful judgment of God struck them, so that thousands of them died in various countries, most of them dying both body and soul, so that they are lost forever.”53 Obedience to rulers, however, just like obedience to clergy, is qualified: “For when the temporal authorities command something that is against God, his Word, [against] what is right and proper, one is not in such ungodly things obligated to render any obedience [whatsoever].” An appeal to Scripture in the form of a saying of the Apostle Peter provides divine legitimation: “One must obey God rather than men (Acts 5[:29]).”54 Under no circumstances is one to fall away from one’s religion in order to please authorities. Resistance to ungodly rulers, however, is never to be violent. Subjects are “not to resist with force, but rather suffer.”55 The command of obedience to rulers and of nonviolent resistance in matters of faith is consistent with the teaching of Luther, who writes that temporal lords who command a person to “believe this or that” or “give up certain books,” “overreach” themselves. Luther counsels: “Should he [your temporal lord] seize your property on account of this and punish such disobedience, blessed are you; thank God that you are worthy to suffer for the sake of the divine Word.”56 / dem die Forcht gebu(e)rt / Ehr / dem die Ehr gebu(e)rt.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 748. Hunnius here uses one of several texts found in the Small Catechism after 1542; cf. Der Kleine Catechismus, Haustafel 5. 51   “Ehren aber soll man sie / nicht allein mit Geberden / oder a(e)usserlicher Reuerentz vnd Ehrerbietung: Sondern es soll diese Ehr jhren Grundt im Hertzen haben.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 749. 52   “gegen alle jhre Gebott vnnd Verbott / Gesetz vnnd Statuten / so dem Gesetz Gottes vnd seinem heyligen Wort gema(e)ß / vnnd dem nicht zuwider seynd.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 752. 53   “das erschreckliche Gericht GOTtes hat sie getroffen / daß sie mit vielen tausenden hin vnnd wider in vnterschiedlichen Landen vmbkommen / vnd mehrertheils an Leib vnnd Seel zeitlich vnnd ewiglich verdorben seynd.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 755. 54   “Dann da die Weltliche Obrigkeit etwas gebieten wolte / welches wider GOTT / sein Wort / Recht vnnd Billichkeit wa(e)re / ist man jhr in solchen Vngo(e)ttlichen Dingen keinen Gehorsam zu leysten verpflichtet. .  .  . Man muß Gott mehr gehorsam seyn / dan(n) den Menschen / Actor. 5.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 756. 55   “auch nicht zur Wehr greiffen / sondern vielmehr daru(e)ber leyden.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 758. 56   “Nympt er dyr dru(e)ber deyn gu(o)tt vnnd strafft solchen ungehorsam, selig bistu

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The fourth duty of subjects, like the third, is of an ethical nature: Subjects are to pay assessments, taxes, and customs duties. The fifth duty has an affective dimension: Subjects owe their rulers “homage, love, and loyalty,” which means they must defend them with life and limb in case this becomes necessary.57 The sixth and final duty of Christian subjects toward their rulers is a religious one. They are to pray for them, even if they persecute the gospel, because “God, who has the hearts of rulers in his almighty hand, can and will in consideration of faithful prayers incline and lead rulers toward good deeds.”58 In his fifth sermon, Hunnius turns to the domestic sphere. Here he lays out, in a single sermon, the responsibilities of husbands and wives toward each other. As is his custom, he begins with appeal to Scripture; in this case to the letter of the Apostle Paul to the congregation in Ephesus. The passage on the duties of husbands is prefaced with the words, “To husbands,” and reads: Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her, in order to make her holy by cleansing her with the washing of water by the Word, so as to present the church to himself in splendor, without a spot or wrinkle or anything of the kind – yes, so that she may be holy and without blemish. In the same way, husbands should love their wives as they do their own bodies. He who loves his wife loves himself. For no one ever hates his own body, but he nourishes and tenderly cares for it, just as the Lord does for the church [Eph 5:25–29].59

The text on the duties of wives in parallel fashion is entitled “To wives”: Wives, be subject to your husbands as you are to the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife just as Christ is the head of the church, the body of which he is the Savior. Just as the church is subject to Christ, so also wives ought to be, in everything, to their husbands [Eph 5:22–24].60 unnd danck Gott, das du wirdig bist umb gotlichs worts willen zu(o) leyden.” Luther, Temporal Authority, LW 45:111–12; WA 11:267.1–10. 57   “Huldt / Liebe vnnd Trew.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 761. 58   “Dann GOtt / der das Hertz der Obrigkeit in seiner Allma(e)chtigen Handt hat / kan vnd wil / in gna(e)diger Behertzigung solcher Glaubigen Fu(e)rbitt / die Herrschafften zu Gutem neigen vnd lencken.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 763. 59   “Jhr Ma(e)nner / liebet euwre Weiber / gleich wie Christus geliebet hat die Gemein / vnnd hat sich selbst fu(e)r sie gegeben / auff daß er sie heyliget / vnd hat sie gereyniget durch das Wasserbadt im Wort / auff daß er sie jhm selbst darstellet ein Gemein / die herrlich sey / die nicht habe einen Flecken oder Runtzel / oder deß etwas / sondern daß sie heilig sey vnd vnstra(e)fflich. Also sollen auch die Ma(e)nner jhre Weiber lieben / als jre eygene Leibe. Wer sein Weib liebet / der liebet sich selbs. Denn niemandt hat jemal sein eygen Fleisch gehasset / sondern er nehret es / vnd pfleget sein / gleich wie auch der HERR die Gemeine.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 764. This text differs from the one found in Luther’s Small Catechism; Luther had cited 1 Pt 3:7 and Col 3:19; cf. SC, Household Chart 6 and Der Kleine Catechismus, Haustafel 6. 60   “DJe Weiber seyen vnterthan jhren Ma(e)nnern / als dem HERREN.  Denn der Mann ist deß Weibes Haupt / wie auch Christus das Haupt ist der Gemein / vnnd er ist seines Leibes Heylandt. Aber wie nun die Gemein Christo ist vnterthan / also auch die Weiber jhren Ma(e)nnern in allen Dingen.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 765. This text differs from the

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Hunnius states at the outset that he will treat three points in this sermon: “First, how the estate of marriage is to be understood; then how the husband toward his wife and how the wife toward her husband are to show and comport themselves.”61 The thrust of Hunnius’s argument about the correct understanding of marriage is that marriage is divinely instituted and ordained and that any teaching to the contrary is of the devil (cf. 1 Tm 4:1–3a). He asserts that Satan himself, using false teachers, the pope among them, has undertaken to make marriage “suspect as a sinful estate.”62 The “papists” have interpreted the words of Paul, “those who are in the flesh cannot please God [Rom 8:8],” as referring to marriage.63 By adducing the creation story in Genesis 1, Hunnius refutes traditional teaching and proceeds to prove that marriage has been ordained by and is pleasing to God: “So God created man in his image, indeed in the image of God he created him. Male and female he created them. And God blessed them, and said to them, ‘Be fruitful and multiply, and fill the earth and subdue it (Gn 1[:27–28a]).’”64 In differentiating his own teaching from what he characterizes as Catholic doctrine, Hunnius delineates a Lutheran identity and creates a sentiment of disaffinity on the part of his listeners toward the Catholic Church. Turning to the duties of husbands, Hunnius follows Ephesians 5:25–29 in emphasizing the need for husbands to love their wives: “In this single word ‘love’ he has comprehended everything that a Christian husband must render his wife.”65 The love husbands are to have toward their wives is to be sincere, “because … the loyalty and love with which Christ embraced his congregation was not small or cold or lukewarm, but rather entirely ardent, heartfelt, and true, mightily proven and demonstrated in an incontrovertible work.”66 Hunnius suggests that a husband’s relationship to his wife is inseparable from his relationship to God, reminding his listeners that St. Paul wrote concerning men one found in Luther’s Small Catechism; Luther had cited 1 Pt 3:1; cf. SC, Household Chart 7 and Der Kleine Catechismus, Haustafel 7. 61   “was erstlich von dem heyligen Ehestandt zu halten: Darnach / wie beydes der Mann gegen das Weib: Vnnd dann hinwiderumb das Weib gegen jhren Mann sich erzeigen vnnd halten soll.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 765. Cf. the analysis of this sermon provided by Behrendt, “Lutherisch-orthodoxe Ehelehre,” 223–25. 62   “als einen su(e)ndlichen Standt verda(e)chtig zu machen.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 766. 63   “Welche im Fleisch leben / ko(e)nnen Gott nicht gefallen.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 766. 64   “Gott schuff den Menschen jhm selbst zum Bilde / ja zum Bilde Gottes schuff er jhn / er schuff sie ein Ma(e)nnlin vnd Fra(e)ulin / vnd Gott segenet sie / vnd sprach zu jnen: Seyd fruchtbar vnnd mehret euch / vnnd fu(e)llet die Erden / vnd machet sie euch vnterthan.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 767. 65   “Durch das einige Wort (liebet) hat er alles das begriffen / was ein Christlicher Ehemann seinem Weib zu leysten schuldig ist.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 770–71. 66   “Dann .  .  . die Trew vnd Liebe / darmit Christus seine Gemeine vmbfangen / nicht gering / nicht kalt oder lohe ist / sondern gantz innbru(e)nstig / hertzlich vnd warhafftig / im vnwidersprechlichen Werck gewaltig bewa(e)hret vnd erwiesen.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 771–72.

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that “they should lift pure hands up in prayer without anger or doubt [1 Tm 2:8].”67 St. Paul wished with these words to teach that if husbands do not love their wives, “but rather are angry, bitter, and malevolent toward them, then they will not be able to pray; their prayer will be vain and will not bear fruit.”68 He goes on to advise husbands to be patient with their wives and overlook their weaknesses. Finally he enjoins marital faithfulness and condemns adultery.69 If love is the principal mood and ethical motivation that is to characterize the attitude of husbands toward wives, then obedience is the most important attitude required of wives. Hunnius forcefully drives this point home with the help of a rhetorical question: “What is then the office of Christian, honorable, and righteous wives? St. Paul has explained it to them: ‘Wives, be subject to your husbands as you are to the Lord, etc.’ Thus subjection and obedience are required of them.”70 Hunnius puts this obedience into a wider, cosmic context when he teaches that “such humility does not belittle [wives], but rather when, in honor of God and his commandment, they are obedient to their husbands in quietness and gentleness in all proper, honorable, and godly things, then they earn praise from God, from the elect angels, and from righteous and honorable people.”71 Although wives are to submit to their husbands, there are limits to the obedience that they must render, just as there are limits to the obedience owed by parishioners and subjects to clergy and temporal authorities, respectively. In accordance with the injunction to subjection and obedience is Hunnius’s view that any suggestion of equality of the sexes is inspired by the devil himself: Therefore, if you are a wife, and the thought comes to you that you should not defer to your husband because you are of equally high standing as he is, equally wealthy, equally wise and understanding – then ask yourself: From whom does such a thought come? Immediately your conscience will be able to tell you that it comes not from the good and Holy Spirit (for he wills obedience on the part of wives toward their husbands). Rather,

67   “sie sollen im Betten reine Ha(e)nde auff heben / ohne Zorn vnnd ohne Zweiffel.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 772–73. 68   “sondern zornig / bitter vnnd bo(e)ß gegen sie seyn / so ko(e)nnen sie nicht betten / jhr Gebett sey vergebens / vnd gehe ohne alle Frucht ab.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 773. 69   Hunnius, Catechismus, 774–75. 70   “WAs ist aber hergegen das Ampt Christlicher / ehrbarer vnd frommer Eheweiber? Das hat S. Paulus also jhnen erkla(e)ret: Die Weiber seyen vnterthan den Ma(e)nnern als dem HERREN / etc. Wirdt also Vntertha(e)nigkeit vnnd Gehorsam von jhnen erfordert.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 776. 71   “Jst jhnen auch diese Demuht nicht verkleinerlich / sondern vielmehr / wenn sie GOTT vnd seinem Gebott zu Ehren / jhren Ma(e)nnern in Stille vnd Sanfftmuht gehorsam sind in allen billichen / ehrbarn / Go(e)ttlichen Sachen / so erlangen sie dardurch Ruhm bey GOTT / bey den außerwelten Engeln / vnnd bey frommen / Ehrliebenden Menschen.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 776–77.

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it comes from the despicable devil, who gladly would overturn the order of God, so that wives would not be obedient, but rather rebellious toward their husbands.72

Toward the end of the sermon, Hunnius promises at another time to speak in more detail about the other duties of wives. Very briefly he enumerates some of them: Wives are to be modest and chaste. They are to love their children and rear them in the fear of God. They are to look after their households.73 Additional instruction on the duties of wives is provided in the sermon on parents which follows, although the sermon does not explicitly differentiate between the respective duties of the two spouses. The sermon text reads: You fathers, do not provoke your children to anger, lest they become fearful. Instead, bring them up in the discipline and admonition of the Lord (Eph 6[:4]).74

According to Hunnius, the duties of mothers and fathers have both affective and ethical dimensions. The first obligation of parents is to love their children. Parental love is to be expressed in teaching children “inward fear of God and outward discipline.”75 Instruction in the faith involves baptizing one’s children and teaching them to pray; in this connection Hunnius points out that every father is to be a “Hausprediger,” or preacher and teacher to the members of his household.76 Discipline is necessary for the well-being of children; parents should set a good example for their children with their own disciplined lives.77 However, Hunnius also cautions parents not to treat their children too harshly; through excessive discipline not a few children become “fearful and foolish and do not know what to do to earn praise or avoid blows.”78 Parental duties further involve the ethical obligations of supporting one’s children, teaching them “honorable skills, occupations, or crafts,” and when they come of age, helping them to find a spouse.79 72   “Darumb wenn du ein Weib bist / vnnd es wil dir ein solcher Gedanck eynfallen / daß du deinem Man(n) nichts bevor geben sollest / du seyest von so gutem Geschlecht / als er / so reich als er / so klug vnnd versta(e)ndig als er: So dencke also baldt zu ru(e)ck / von wem wol solcher Gedanck herkommen mo(e)ge? Wirt dir so baldt dein Gewissen sagen ko(e)nnen / er komme nicht her von dem guten vnd heyligen Geist (dann der wil den Gehorsam von Weibern gegen jhre Ehema(e)nner haben) Sonder von dem leydigen Teuffel / der die Ordnung GOTtes gern vmbwenden wolt / daß das Weib dem Mann nicht gehorsam / sondern widerspa(e)nstig soll seyn.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 778–79. 73   Hunnius, Catechismus, 777–80. 74   “JHr Va(e)tter / reitzet euwere Kinder nicht zu Zorn / daß sie nicht scheuw werden: Sondern ziehet sie auff in der Zucht vnd Ermahnung zu dem HERREN.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 780. Hunnius uses the text found in Luther’s Small Catechism; cf. SC, Household Chart 8 and Der Kleine Catechismus, Haustafel 8. 75   “jnnerlichen GOTtes Forcht / vnnd a(e)sserlicher Zucht.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 794. 76   Hunnius, Catechismus, 785–88. 77   Hunnius, Catechismus, 789, 791. 78   “scheuw vnd blo(e)d werden / wissen nicht / wie sie es machen sollen / damit sie Danck verdienen / oder Schla(e)g verrmeiden.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 793. 79   “ehrlichen Ku(e)nsten / Handthierungen / oder Handwercken.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 794.

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Parental love and discipline are to be reciprocated by love and obedience on the part of children, as the scripture text for the sermon on the duties of children indicates: You children, be obedient to your parents in the Lord, for this is right. ‘Honor your father and mother’. This is the first commandment that has a promise, namely: ‘that it may go well for you and that you may live long on earth’ (Eph 6:[1–3]).80

Hunnius offers Ruth’s love toward Naomi as an example for children to imitate; after the death of her husband, Ruth would not allow herself to be dissuaded from following her mother-in-law, who wished to return to the land of Israel (Ruth 1:16b-17a). Children also have a duty to honor their parents, both inwardly “in their hearts” and outwardly “with humble and disciplined gestures and due outward respect.”81 Love and honor lead to obedience; children owe it to their parents “to obey them in all things which are in accord with and not contrary to God’s Word, truth, righteousness, and honor.” If parents command something ungodly, then one is to be more obedient to God than to them (cf. Ac 5:29).82 Clearly, Hunnius expects increasing discernment on the part of children as they grow up; such discernment presupposes appropriate education. In particular, obedience to parents is necessary in choosing a spouse; Hunnius strongly condemns young people who secretly betrothe themselves without the knowledge and consent of their parents, thereby causing their parents great grief and pain.83 The remaining duties Hunnius enumerates concern obligations of children to their aging parents. With reference to Sirach 3:8a, 12–13, Hunnius teaches children to be patient with their parents’ mistakes and shortcomings, “especially when they begin to grow old, weak, and sometimes also strange and odd.”84 God’s word, Hunnius explains, additionally requires children to provide material support for their aged parents; again he adduces the example of Ruth. Finally, when God summons parents away from this world, then children are to “fittingly mourn and honorably bury them.”85 80   “JHr Kinder seydt gehorsam euwern Eltern in dem HERRN.  Denn das ist billich: Ehre Vatter vnd Mutter. Das ist das erste Gebott / das Verheissung hat / auff daß dirs wolgehe / vnnd du lang lebest auff Erden.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 795. Hunnius uses the text found in Luther’s Small Catechism; cf. SC, Household Chart 9 and Der Kleine Catechismus, Haustafel 9. 81   “in ihrem Hertzen,” “mit demu(e)htigen / zu(e)chtigen Gebehrden.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 796–97. 82   “jhnen zu gehorchen / in allem / was GOTtes Wort / der Warheit / Gerechtigkeit vnnd Ehrbarkeit gemeß vnd nicht zu wider ist.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 798. 83   Hunnius, Catechismus, 799. 84   “Sonderlich wenn sie anfangen / alt / vnvermo(e)glich / vnnd zun Zeiten auch seltzam vnnd wu(e)nderlich zu werden .  .  . .” Hunnius, Catechismus, 800–801. 85   “daß sie alsdann dieselbe nach aller Gebu(e)r beklagen / vnd ehrlich zur Erden besta­ tten.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 801–802.

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Besides children, the early modern household commonly included male and female servants. Servants, says Hunnius, are not to think that God holds them in contempt on account of their low estate. With this wider perspective based on religious realities, Hunnius opens his sermon on the obligations of servants, which takes as its text a passage from St. Paul’s letter to the Ephesians: You servants, be obedient to your bodily lords with fear and trembling, with singleness of heart, as to Christ himself; not with service meant only for the eyes, done to please people, but rather as servants of Christ, so that you do the will of God from the heart with a good will. Imagine to yourselves that you are serving the Lord and not people, and know that whatever good anyone does, the same will that person receive, whether servant or free (Eph 6[:5–8]).86

Servants, according to Hunnius, owe their masters honor, loyalty, and homage, to the point of risking their lives for them. Servants are also to be obedient. The obedience required by Scripture has an affective dimension: it is to be rendered “with due fear, from the bottom of the heart.”87 Obedience extends to serving masters who are “sometimes odd and angry” (bißweilen wunderlich vnd zornig) and to taking care of children. Hunnius makes it clear, however, that just as the obedience of subjects to rulers and children to parents is not to be unconditional, obedience of servants to masters has its limits, and extends only as far as they are commanded to do honorable and proper things. Scripture does not teach that they should let themselves be used for dishonorable, ungodly, and improper things, rather, it utterly forbids such things. Because this is and remains a general, eternal, and unchanging rule: One is to obey God more than men (Acts 5[:29]).88

As examples of servants who broke this rule Hunnius cites the servants of David, who brought Uriah’s wife Bathsheba to him (2 Sm 11:2–4). Joseph, who rebuffed the advances of Potiphar’s wife (Gn 39:6b-9), on the other hand, is held up as virtuous example.89 86   “JHr Knechte seydt gehorsam ewern leiblichen Herren mit Forcht vnnd Zittern / in Eynfa(e)ltigkeit euwers Hertzen / als Christo / nicht mit Dienst allein vor Augen / als den Menschen zu Gefallen / sondern als die Knecht Christi / daß jhr solchen Willen Gottes thut von Hertzen / mit gutem Willen. Lasset euch du(e)ncken / daß jhr dem HERREN dienet / vnnd nicht den Menschen / vnnd wisset / was ein jeglicher Gutes thun wirdt / das wirdt er empfangen / er sey Knecht oder Freyer.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 810. Hunnius uses the text found in Luther’s Small Catechism; cf. SC, Household Chart 10 and Der Kleine Catechismus, Haustafel 10. 87   “in gebu(e)rlicher Forcht / von Hertzen Grundt.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 812, 814. 88   “seyn gewisse Maß hat / vnnd sich so weit erstrecket / so lang vnnd viel jhnen ehrbare vnnd billiche Ding werden gebotten. Denn daß sie sonst solten zu vnehrlichen / vngo(e)ttlichen vnnd vnbillichen Sachen sich gebrauchen lassen / das heißt vnd lehret sie Gottes Wort nicht / vielmehr aber verbeuts dasselbige zum ho(e)chsten. Weil diß ein allgemeine / ewige vnnd vnwandelbare Regul ist vnnd bleibet: Man soll Gott mehr gehorsam seyn / dan(n) den Menschen.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 816. 89   Hunnius, Catechismus, 816–17.

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In the second part of the sermon, Hunnius turns to the reasons that are to motivate servants to faithful service. Here Hunnius lays out the religious perspective in which service to masters is to be seen. In line with Luther’s doctrine of vocation, Hunnius lifts up the equal dignity of all work before God: And when a maid diligently does her housework, as lowly as her work may appear to reason, she is doing much, much better works in the sight of God and our savior Jesus Christ than in the past monks and nuns did in [their] cloisters to earn their salvation. Concerning such works it is written: “In vain do they serve me with human precepts (Mt 15[:9]).”90

The polemic against monks and nuns seeks to evoke sentiments of disaffinity toward Catholics on the part of Hunnius’s congregation. Just as servants are to love their masters and serve them faithfully, so masters also have ethical and affective obligations toward their servants. The text for the sermon on their duties reads: You lords, do the same to them, and refrain from making threats, and know that you also have a Lord in heaven, and there is no partiality with him (Eph 6[:9]).91

Hunnius prefaces this sermon with a warning to masters against arbitrary treatment of servants: Masters and mistresses are not to think that because God has conferred on them a higher rank, they may treat their poor servants and maids as they please. Rather, they are bound to each other by God’s Word, to a given extent and in various respects.92

The first duty of masters is to love their servants, because the commandment of love (Mt 22:39) extends to all people and because servants, just like their masters, are created in God’s image and are dearly redeemed through Christ. Second, masters are to instruct their servants in God’s Word: “They (the masters and mistresses) themselves are also to be like house-preachers, and often emphasize and impress on them [their servants] the necessary principal articles in 90   “Vnd also wen(n) eine Dienstmagd jre Haußarbeit / wie gering auch jm(m)er dieselbe vor der Vernunfft scheinete / fleissig thut / sie vor Gott vnd vnserm Erfo(e)ser Jesu Christo viel viel bessere Werck thut / den(n) vor Zeiten Mo(e)nche vnd Nonnen in Klo(e)stern / die Seligkeit dardurch zu erlangen / haben gethan: Als von welchen Wercken geschrieben stehet: Vergebens dienen sie mir mit Menschen Satzungen / Matth. 15.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 818. 91   “JHr Herrn thut auch dasselbige gegen jhnen / vnd lasset das Dra(e)uwen / vnd wisset / daß auch euwer HERR im Himmel ist / vnd ist bey jm kein Ansehen der Person.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 823. Hunnius uses the text found in Luther’s Small Catechism; cf. SC, Household Chart 11 and Der Kleine Catechismus, Haustafel 11. 92   “Dann es solten Herren vnnd Frauwen nicht gedencken / weil sie eines Grads ho(e)her von Gott in der Welt gewu(e)rdiget / so mo(e)gen sie jhres Gefallens mit jhren armen Knecht vn(d) Ma(e)gden vmbgehn: Sondern sie seynd beyderseits jedes Theil dem andern auff gewisse Maß vnnd vnterschiedliche Puncten durch Gottes Wort verbunden.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 823.

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which their salvation lies.” It is to this end, Hunnius points out, that God instituted the Sabbath.93 The duty to love servants has specific ethical ramifications. Masters and mistresses are to set a good example for them. They are to teach their servants with integrity, and not withhold knowledge and skills from them. Hunnius condemns masters, especially craftsmen, who “only half-teach their apprentices their craft, and out of ill-will withhold from them many teachings which they do not want to reveal to them.”94 Furthermore, masters and mistresses are to pay their servants promptly and provide them with adequate food and drink. They are to treat them mildly and kindly, not sullenly or tyrannically, keeping in mind the biblical stories in which God punishes persons who treat their servants badly.95 Kindness to servants, however, does not preclude discipline. The final obligations of masters and mistresses are the duty to care for sick servants in their employ, and the duty to protect them from “undue harm from other people.”96 Sermon ten treats the duties of “young people in general”: You young people, be subject to your elders and in this way show humility. For ‘God opposes the proud but gives grace to the humble.’ Therefore humble yourselves under the mighty hand of God, so that he may exalt you in his time (1 Pt 5[:5–6]).97

Young people, Hunnius affirms, are to submit to their elders “in right, true, genuine Christian humility and abasement.”98 Humility, thus, is to be inward and heartfelt, not outward and superficial. Furthermore, youth are to study the catechism, to learn to fear God, and to lead an “umblemished life in the sight of the Lord.”99 Finally, they are to exercise moderation in their enjoyments. Young people who have learned humility, piety, and moderation will be well-qualified to love and serve their neighbor:

93   “Sie (die Herrn vnnd Frauwen) selber auch sollen gleich als Haußprediger seyn / vnnd jhnen die nohtwendige Hauptstu(e)ck / darinnen die Seligkeit steht / offtmals scha(e)rpffen vnnd wol eynbilden.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 823–24. 94   “die ihre Lehr Jungen ein Handtwerck nur halb lehren / vnnd auß Mißgunst je etliche Stu(e)ck hinderhalten / die sie jhnen nicht wo(e)llen offenbaren.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 825. 95   Hunnius, Catechismus, 825–27, 829. 96   “anderer Leut vngebu(e)rlichen Gewalt.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 831–33. 97   “JHR Jungen seydt den Alten vnterthan / vnnd beweiset darinn die Demuht. Denn Gott widerstehet den Hoffertigen / aber den Demu(e)htigen gibt er Gnad. So demu(e)htiget euch nun vnter die gewaltige Handt Gottes / daß er euch erho(e)he zu seiner Zeit.” Hun­ nius, Catechismus, 834. Hunnius uses the text found in Luther’s Small Catechism; cf. SC, Household Chart 12 and Der Kleine Catechismus, Haustafel 12. 98   “in rechter / wahrer / vngefa(e)rbter / Christlicher Demut vnd Nidertra(e)chtigkeit.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 835. 99   “ein vnbeflecktes Leben vor dem HERRN.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 839.

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And with such young, upcoming, persons the positions left by the old and retiring are usefully filled, so that they serve God and people in the spiritual and temporal regiments with great praise and usefulness.100

Again, Luther’s doctrine of vocation again is in evidence. Widows are the topic of sermon eleven: She who is a real widow and is left all alone sets her hope on God and remains in prayer day and night; whereas she who lives self-indulgently is dead while alive (1 Tm 5[:5– 6]).101

Referring to subsequent verses, 1 Timothy 5:7–16, Hunnius points out that St. Paul distinguishes between older widows and younger ones. Younger ones are to remarry; Hunnius cites the example of the widow Ruth who remarried and gave birth to Obed, who became an ancestor of Christ (Mt 1:5). Older widows who have children are to teach them industry, discipline, and honor.102 Widows with means are to do good to “righteous Christians, especially strangers, and to persons who have become refugees on account of the gospel.” Poor widows, when asked, are to care for the sick.103 Other than that, such widows are to remain in their homes, place their faith in God, attend church services to hear the Word of God and receive the sacraments, and pray not only for themselves but for all people. They are to look to the prophetess Anna, who served God with fasting and prayer in the temple (Lk 2:36–38), as an example.104 The sermon concludes with a dire warning that God will punish the ungodly widow who “begins to submit to worldly pleasures.”105 The twelfth and last sermon in the collection concerns what Christians owe to all people. Here Hunnius selects his own sermon text; this text allows him to link Haustafel ethics with the Ten Commandments: Owe no one anything, except to love one another; for the one who loves another has fulfilled the law. The commandments, “You shall not commit adultery; you shall not kill; You shall not steal; You shall not bear false witness; You shall not covet”; and any

100   “Vnnd mit solchen jungen / angehenden Leuten werden die sta(e)tt der alten abgehenden Leut nu(e)tzlich widerumb ersetzt / daß sie im Geistlichen vnnd Weltlichen Regiment Gott vnd den Menschen mit grossem Lob vnd Nutz dienen.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 843–44. 101   “DAs ist eine rechte Wittwe / die einsam ist / die jhr Hoffnung auff Gott stellet / vnd bleibet am Gebett vnnd Flehen Tag vnnd Nacht. Welche aber in Wollu(e)sten lebet / die ist lebendig todt.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 845. Hunnius uses the text found in Luther’s Small Catechism; cf. SC, Household Chart 13 and Der Kleine Catechismus, Haustafel 13. 102   Hunnius, Catechismus, 850–51. 103   “den frommen Christen / sonderlich den Frembden / vnnd vmb deß Evangeliums willen Verjagten.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 852. 104   Hunnius, Catechismus, 852–54. 105   “anfa(e)ngt den Weltlichen Wollu(e)sten sich zu ergeben.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 854.

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other commandment, are summed up in this word, “Love your neighbor as yourself ” (Rom 13[:8–10]).106

Hunnius first addresses the question of the extent to which it is even possible to fulfill this commandment. He reassures his listeners that because Christ has fulfilled the law, he “is content with [one’s] initial, yet sincere obedience, when one loves one’s neighbor from one’s heart, even if imperfection slips in.”107 He goes on to characterize Christian love: It is sincere; it manifests itself in good works, unity, peace, and prayer; it results in care for the poor, the hungry, and the sick; it overlooks the weaknesses and faults of the neighbor; indeed it also does good to the enemy.108 “Where love has the upper hand in a Christian congregation,” Hunnius continues, “the entire Haustafel is in right and proper use.”109 He proceeds to recap the duties of the members of each of the three regiments, and concludes that when each member does his duty, “love spreads itself out over all people in general, and over every person in his particular vocation.”110

6.  Hunnius and the Haustafel Sermons of Other Preachers In general it can be said that Lutheran Haustafel sermons are remarkably similar to each other in structure and content over the life of the genre; Hunnius’s sermons are no exception to this. This similarity is due to a number of factors, among them the tendency of the preachers to preach on the biblical texts selected by Luther, their desire to propagate Luther’s major theological insights, and their inclination to draw on published sermons of their colleagues. The most common differences lie in the manner in which the major points are illustrated and the extent to which they are developed. Only rarely do the preachers disagree on matters of substance. 106   “SEydt niemandt nichts schuldig / Denn daß jhr euch vnter einander liebet / denn wer den andern liebet / der hat das Gesetz erfu(e)llet. Denn das da gesagt ist: Du solt nicht Ehebrechen / Du solt nicht to(e)dten / Du solt nicht stelen / Du solt nicht falsch Gezeugniß geben / Dich soll nichts gelu(e)sten / vnnd so ein anders Gebott mehr ist / das wirdt in diesem Wort verfasset / Du solt deinen Nechsten lieben / als dich selbst.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 856. The italicized phrase is inserted by Hunnius; cf. Ex 20:16. Luther in his Small Catechism cites 1 Tm 2[:1] instead; cf. SC, Household Chart 14 and Der Kleine Catechismus, Haustafel 14. 107   “ist an dem angefangenen doch warhafftigen Gehorsam vergnu(e)get / wen(n) man den Nehesten von Hertzen liebet / ob schon Vnvollkom(m)enheit mit vnterla(e)ufft.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 858. 108   Hunnius, Catechismus, 859–62. 109   “Wo auch die Liebe in einer Christlichen Gemeine die Oberhandt beha(e)lt / da gehet alsdann die gantze Haußtafel in jrem rechten ordentlichen Schwang.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 863. 110   “die Liebe sich außbreytet auff alle Menschen ins gemein / vnnd auff einen jeden in seinem Beruff insonderheit.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 865.

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For example, concerning the duties of husbands and wives to each other, Hunnius’s teaching on most points agrees with that of his colleagues as described in Hoffmann’s study of Haustafel sermons. Husbands are to love their wives and to be patient with their wives’ shortcomings.111 They are to be faithful to their wives.112 Wives, in turn, are to submit to their husbands and to obey them, as long as what their husbands require of them accords with God’s commandments.113 One difference between Hunnius’s sermons and those of most of his colleagues is that Hunnius almost exclusively uses biblical sayings and characters to illustrate his points. Husbands, he says, are to love their wives as “Adam loved his Eve, Abraham his Sarah, and Isaac his Rebekah.”114 By contrast, Hunnius’s contemporary in Königsberg in Prussia, Sebastian Artomedes (1544– 1602), does not hesitate to look to pagan antiquity for examples. Socrates, he notes, patiently bore the scolding of his “screaming Xanthippe.”115 A substantial difference between Hunnius and Artomedes lies in their estimation of the intellectual capabilities of women. While Hunnius believes the devil himself to be the originator of any thought that a woman might be “equally wise and understanding” (kluge vnnd versta(e)ndig) as her husband, Artomedes considers it self evident that “there are some women superior in intelligence and skill to men” (verstand vnd geschickligkeit), and counsels husbands to take into account the advice of their wives in weighty matters.116

7.  Conclusion Bruce Lincoln’s theory of discourse is useful in understanding Hunnius’s use of religious discourse in the form of sacred scripture, ritual, and classification to increase religious uniformity in a society previously tolerant of some diversity and to legitimate a complex set of hierarchical relationships. Hunnius preached several times a week; preaching was the principal religious ritual in late sixteenth-century Marburg. He drew on the Christian Bible to delineate and legitimate a Christian social hierarchy encompassing church, state, and house111

28.

  Hunnius, Catechismus, 770–71, 774; Hoffmann, Die “Hausväterliteratur,” 122–23, 127–

112

  Hunnius, Catechismus, 774–76; Hoffmann, Die “Hausväterliteratur,” 125.   Hunnius, Catechismus, 776–77; Hoffmann, Die “Hausväterliteratur,” 118–20. 114   “wie Adam seine Euam / Abraham die Saram / Jsaac die Rebeccam geliebet.” Hunnius, Catechismus, 772. 115   “schreiende Xanthippe.” Sebastian Artomedes, Christliche Auslegung vnd // Erklerung der // Haußtaffel . . . , pt. 2 of Kurtze vnd einfeltige / jedoch // richtige vnd reine Erklerung // des Heiligen // Catechismi / // sampt der Christlichen Haus= // tafel .  .  . (Leipzig: Thomas Schürer, 1605), 145–46. 116   Hunnius, Catechismus, 777; “es thuts manches Weib mit verstand vnd geschickligkeit auch wol Ma(e)nnern bevor.” Artomedes, Christliche Auslegung vnd // Erklerung der // Haußtaffel, 143. 113

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hold. Hunnius did not, however, content himself with seeking the superficial compliance of the citizens of Marburg to this hierarchy. Rather, based on Jesus’ commandment, “Love your neighbor as yourself ” (Mt 22:39), he sought to persuade his listeners to “internalize” the hierarchy: the strong were to sincerely love and care for the weak and the weak were to sincerely fear and love the strong. Love, however, had its limits: Anabaptists, Calvinists, and “papists” were not to be tolerated on account of their heretical teachings. Here Clifford Geertz’s idea that religion establishes “powerful, pervasive, and long-lasting moods and motivations in men” helps to explain the emotional dimension of religion and its potential to persuade human beings to embrace a given social order and its boundaries. Lutheran obedience, however, of the weak to the strong was subject to limits: If a subject had to choose between obeying authority and obeying God, he was to “obey God rather than men” (Acts 5:29), and, if necessary, to suffer for his convictions. Violent uprising was not an option. Clearly, Hunnius with his preaching was helping his prince, Ludwig IV, to implement in Marburg a Christian social order encompassing church, state, and household. Although Hunnius’s interpretation of biblical texts was consistent with Luther’s thought and the Lutheran confessional writings, explicit appeals to these were conspicuously absent in the Haustafel sermons. Instead, Hunnius appealed to the Christian Scriptures – the Bible. Thus it can be said with confidence that Hunnius was continuing the project initiated by the first generation of sixteenth-century Reformers – the renewal of Christendom.

Reforming Religious Practice

Reform, Reformation, Confession The Development of New Forms of Religious Meaning from the Manifold Tensions of the Middle Ages Berndt Hamm Translated by Anna Marie Johnson 1.  The Late Middle Ages as the Key to Understanding the Sixteenth Century Around the middle of the sixteenth century – that is, at the end of the Reformation era and the beginning of the era of Confessionalization – there was a religious diversity and religious confrontation that had not existed at the end of the Middle Ages. Because of the Reformation and the way in which it was fought, the existing universality and unity of Western Christendom that had existed was shattered, and a new kind of plurality of different confessional churches emerged. At least, this is what we usually read in textbooks. Less often do we read what is likewise correct: The religious fights and fixations of the sixteenth century ended late medieval diversity and a wealth of religious tensions, which gave way to the new ideal of confessional centering (Zentrierung) and homogenization, making such diversity unimaginable. The spectrum of ecclesiastical cultures, orders, institutions, rituals, teachings, opinions, and forms of piety around 1500 that simultaneously were accepted, competed, and conflated with each other, or peacefully coexisted, is difficult to reconstruct and to comprehend from the perspective of the late sixteenth century. Yet the manifold tensions of the late Middle Ages present the key to understanding the dynamics of the Reformation and the development of Protestant confessions, as well as the dynamic of Catholic Reform and confessional development. My thesis is that these plural and diverging forces of the late Middle Ages build the breeding grounds for everything that was to come, for the religious antagonisms and the confessional oppositions of the sixteenth century; although I would like to emphasize from the start that many effects emerge during these conflicts that assume a late 

  I would like to thank Dr. Gudrun Litz (of the Haus der Geschichte-Stadtarchiv Ulm) for her valuable assistance in the development of this essay.

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medieval dynamic but cannot simply be deduced from it in a completely conclusive way.

2.  First Example: The Woodcut Broadsheet “Golgotha” (ca. 1480) – The Grace of Christ and the Grace of Indulgences: Internalization and External Orientation in the Piety of Prayer To illustrate this, I begin with an example that combines multiple, potentially competing tendencies of late medieval theology and piety in a characteristic way, a woodcut broadsheet produced around 1480 in Southern Germany (Fig.  1). The picture shows the scene at Golgotha. The text next to the picture contains a prayer to Christ on the cross that begins with the invocation, “Oh, beloved Lord Jesus Christ! I pray to you through your exceeding love through which you have loved the human race, so that you, heavenly king, hang on the cross with divine love, with so gentle a soul, with so sad a manner, with a distressed disposition, with a pierced heart, with a broken body, with bloody wounds. .  .  .” After further descriptions of the suffering figure of Christ, especially the marks of torture and death on his head, the prayer expresses the heart of the plea: “Oh, beloved Lord Jesus Christ, in the same love for which your fervent heart was cut in two, I ask you to be gracious to me despite the number of my sins and that you deign to give me a good, blessed end to my life and also a clear and happy resurrection through your great mercy, who lives and reigns with God the Father and the Holy Spirit forever and ever. Amen.” This prayer gives a very good impression of the strength of a christocentric understanding of grace in the piety of the late Middle Ages. The view is directed entirely toward humanity’s sinfulness and need for redemption, to God’s infinite love and mercy, and to the Christ pro nobis, who mercifully suffers for our sins in our place. The late medieval dynamic of such a theology of love and the cross is based primarily on the impact of Bernhard of Clairvaux (1090–1153) and his school. It reached its highpoint just before the Reformation in the theol

  The Crucified One between the Thieves. Single-leaf woodcut on paper with xylographical text, 35.2 x 25.3  cm; Munich, Staatliche Graphische Sammlung, Inv.-No.  118.124; Schreiber No.  964. The figures appear on pp.  302–3.    “O Du allerliebster herr ihesu criste Ich bit dich durch die übertreffenlich liebe / durch die du hast liebgehabt das menschlich Geslecht / da du himlischer künig hiengest an dem Creütz / mit götlicher liebe / mit gar senffter Sele / mit gar traurigem geperd / mit betrübten Sÿnnen / mit durchstochem herczen / mit durcherslagnem leib / mit plutigen wunden. .  .  .”    “O du allerliebster herr ihesu Christe in derselben lieb dardurch dein inprünstigs hercz durchsniten ward / Bit ich dich / Daz du mit seÿest gnedig / über die menig meiner sünd / und geruchest mir zugeben ein guts seligs ennde meines lebens / vnd auch ein clare fröliche vrstend / durch deiner grossen parmherczigkait willen / der du mit Got dem vater / und dem heiligen Geist / lebest / und regnirest ymer und ewigclich. Amen.”

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ogy and preaching of the Augustinian hermit, Johannes von Staupitz (ca. 1468– 1524), who was Luther’s superior in the order, his teacher, his confessor and his fatherly friend. In Staupitz, the Cistercian and Franciscan idea of the condescendence of God – that the merciful God has lowered himself to wretched and sinful humanity through Jesus’ suffering – merges with the full weight of a pointed understanding of predestination from the anti-pelagian Augustine. This radically grace-centered Augustine found famous supporters in the late Middle Ages, especially among the theologians of the Order of Augustinian Hermits; here I will mention only Gregory of Rimini and his school. Concurring with this school of thought in his order, Staupitz, too, anchored the way to salvation in repentance, justification, and sanctification solely in God’s election before all time. There was no room for even a minimal ability to make religious decisions here, and for these strict students of Augustine, all works done from natural powers before the reception of justifying grace were abominable. In the broad spectrum of teachings before the Reformation, this was, of course, only a minority position; the large majority conceded the freedom of the will to one in the natural state of mortal sin to decide for or against God’s sanctifying grace. Among these were especially the Scotists and the Ockhamists, such as Gabriel Biel, who was especially important for Luther. For all theologians throughout the different camps, however, the goodness, mercy, and love of God and the expiatory suffering of Christ were fundamental to the salvation of humanity such that they all would have been able to adapt this prayer from the woodcut. They were all also in agreement that someone at the end of his life can be spared from damnation to hell only if he has the justifying, received habitus of grace and the necessarily connected virtues of the love of God and the true pain of remorse over past sins that is motivated from this love that contritio feels. The promise of indulgence also speaks of these minimal conditions for the admittance to salvation at the end of the page, after exhorting the reader to an Our Father and an Ave Maria. Pope Benedict XII (1334–1342) granted all those who say these prayers piously, with true contrition and sorrow over their sins, as many years of indulgence as there are wounds on the body of Christ (according to common calculation, 5,490 wounds) each time they repeat it. This granting of indulgence was confirmed by other popes. This brief text is enormously    Thus the popular numerical figures given in the Vita Jesu Christi of Ludolf von Sachsen, probably the most wide-spread devotional work of the late Middle Ages. Cf. Arnold Angenendt et al., “Gezählte Frömmigkeit,” Frühmittelalterliche Studien 29 (1995): 1–71, especially 45; Sabine Griese, “Dirigierte Kommunikation: Beobachtungen zu xylographischen Einblattdrucken und ihren Textsorten im 15. Jahrhundert,” in Das illustrierte Flugblatt in der Kultur der Frühen Neuzeit: Wolfenbütteler Arbeitsgespräch 1997, ed. Wolfgang Harms and Michael Schilling, Mikrokosmos 50 (Frankfurt/M.; New York: P. Lang, 1998), 75–99, especially 94, n47.    See the text under the picture in the first example: “Der heilig vater Pabst Benedictus der xij. hat allen den / die mit rechter rew vnd laid Jrer sünden / dises obgemelt gebet an-

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revealing. First, the terms contrition, sorrow, and “reverently” (andechtigclich) – where reverence (Andacht) is used in the sense of the emotional activation of the habitus of love and contrition – stresses that this broadside aims to help the reader internalize these emotions. It emphasizes that the reader should visualize and meditate on the body and suffering of Christ in the spiritual imagination by contemplating the picture at Golgotha and saying these pre-formulated prayers. On the other hand, the broadside also treats the external aspects of piety, and not only the extra nos and the pro nobis of the Passion and its visible representation, but also by the repeating of the prayer, which promised the power of papal authority of indulgences to reduce the time in purgatory by a quantitative, exact, and guaranteed period. In this way, the broadside invites the reader to a “piety of accounting” (gezählte Frömmigkeit)  and to a trust in the effective jurisdiction of grace by the pope. This is a kind of “representational piety” (Repräsentationsfrömmigkeit), which believes that the sacred and the sanctifying (das Heilige und Heilwirkende) are present, visible, tangible, and quantifiable in specific people, places, times, objects, and works. We see this side of late medieval religiosity in, for example, the immense multiplication of patron saints, relics, images of saints, processions, pilgrimages, endowments, masses, priests, chapels, altars and various forms of devotion that promised protection from evil. In their awareness of their own weaknesses and sinfulness, and in their fear of the terrible penalties in the afterlife, they seek to gain certain guarantees for grace and salvation. This strongly external orientation of piety stands in tension with its opposite, an approach to piety that does not cling to the assurances of the church as sacred institution and the protective aura of material cult objects, but instead finds the unmediated presence of grace in the internal experience. As I have shown, this inner dimension of the understanding of grace is very much present in the piety of prayer presented in this woodcut. The woodcut combines this inner orientation with the attention to externals. This is typical for the late Middle Ages. Again and again both poles are found together in the same author and in the same source. One example of this is the much-read Augustinian hermit Johannes von Paltz (ca. 1445–1511), an elder cloister brother of Luther’s in the Erfurt convent, an enthusiastic propagandist of the jubilee indulgence, and also someone who emphasized the inward meditation on the Passion. dechtigclich sprechen / Vnd ainem ÿglichen alsofft Er das also spricht / souil Jar Ablass geben / als vil der wunden vnsers herren Jhesu Cristi gewest sein. Das darnach durch annder Pebst confirmirt vnd bestetigt worden ist.”    Cf. the title of the essay by Angenendt et al., n5 above.    Cf. Volker Leppin, “Repräsentationsfrömmigkeit. Vergegenwärtigung des Heiligen in der Frömmigkeit des späten Mittelalters und ihre Transformation in der Wittenberger Re­ formation,” in Die Gegenwart des Gegenwärtigen. Festschrift für Gerd Haeffner zum 65. Geburtstag, ed. Margarethe Drewsen and Mario Fischer (Freiburg/Br.; München: K. Alber, 2006), 376– 91.

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3.  Second Example: The Broadside Copperplate Engraving “The Christ Child in the Heart” by Master E. S. (1467) – Mystical Immediacy to Christ and to Salvation In the diverse world of late medieval forms of piety, it is also common that the two tendencies in piety outlined above, exteriorizing and interiorizing, drift apart. In the sphere of a simplified and popularized mysticism, it is not uncommon to find a type of subjective internalization that pushes aside the entire external sphere of institutional, priestly and material mediation of grace and concentrates completely on the direct contact of the soul with Christ. As a pictorial example of this tendency I have again chosen a broadside, although this time it is a copperplate engraving, done in 1467 by the famous master with the initials E. S., probably from the Upper Rhine region (Fig.  2). The middle of the page has a large heart surrounded by putti, with the instruments of the Passion just under a dew-shaped crossbeam. The wide-open wound of his heart represents the wound in the side that the crucified Jesus received from the lance of the Roman soldier. In the middle of this wound is a naked Christ-child making the sign of blessing, and in his left hand is a long banner with the inscription: “He who carries Jesus in his heart already has eternal joy for all times.”10 The broadside, with this very programmatic and promising text, is full of semantic references to the mental and visual world of Upper Rhine-South German mysticism, and it resembles the strongly imaginative, mystical theology of Heinrich Seuse (ca. 1295–1366).11 With this background it is clear that the wounded heart symbolizes not only the side wounds of Christ but also the heart of the Christian viewer. It makes the revelation of the love of Christ in his passion clear in a meditative way by showing how the Son of God allows himself to be wounded and killed for the sake of humanity. The viewer, then, will have his own heart wounded with love and tortured with the pain of contrition in response to this image, and he will receive Christ in his heart and become the    Master E. S., The Christ Child in the Heart. Single-leaf copper engraving on paper, 16.0 x 11.4  cm; Berlin, Kupferstichkabinett, Sammlung der Zeichnungen und Druckgraphik; reproduction and description by Holger Jacob-Friesen, in Spätmittelalter am Oberrhein. Maler und Werkstätten 1450–1525, Ausstellungskatalog, ed. Dietmar Lüdke et al. (Stuttgart: Jan Thorbecke, 2001), p.  137, No.  55. 10   “wer ihs in sinem herczen tret dem ist alle zit die ewig fro(e)d beraeit.” 11   See, for example, Heinrich Seuse, Horologium sapientiae: Erste kritische Ausbage unter Benützung der Vorarbeiten von Dominiker Planzer, O. P., ed. Pius Künzle, O. P., Spicilegium Friburgense: Texte zur Geschichte des kirchlichen Lebens 23 (Freiburg/Schweiz: Universitätsverlag, 1977), 493.24–494.3 (1,14): “Ceterum ex his, o sapientia aeterna, hanc mihi summam colligo, quod quicumque aeternam salutem et praemiorum magnitudinem desiderat habere .  .  ., debet te Iesum, Iesum inquam crucifixum, iugiter in pectore suo portare.” (“As for the rest, O eternal wisdom, I take from it for myself the following principle: Whoever desires to have eternal salvation and the magnitude of rewards .  .  . must carry you, Jesus, that is, the crucified Jesus, always in his heart.”)

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birthplace and nativity of the Christ-child. Then he “carries Jesus in his heart,” as the broadside says, and then he “already has eternal joy for all times,” i.e., heavenly salvation has come so close that it waits for him at all times for whenever he dies. In this way, eternal salvation is immanently present for him in every moment of his life.

4.  Grace that is Near (Die nahe Gnade) We look now at the commonalities that tie together the two examples of images and texts that I have chosen. Both are records of the medium of the broadside, which appeared in the fifteenth century and developed into an enormous publicity force in the confessional polemic of the sixteenth century. In both of these cases, this innovative modality serves to convey a “grace that is near”12 to the recipient – a grace that can be so close and present because Christ himself in his incarnation and passion has come near to the sinful, guilt-ridden human in infinite mercy. This type of centering on Christ, the Passion, and proximate grace would experience a significant increase in the sixteenth century, especially by followers of the Protestant Reformation, but also in the camps of Catholic Reform. The first broadside’s representation makes saving grace proximate through the presence of the grace of indulgences, and thereby merges with the salvation-mediating significance of the church hierarchy. The second broadside articulates an immediate relationship to Jesus and to eternal salvation that essentially makes the mediating role of the church as sacred institution, the papacy, the priesthood, the sacraments, and indulgences dispensable, but does not reject them. And while, on the first broadside, Mary the Mother of God is involved in the transmission of grace – both visually and through the recommendation of the prayer, Ave Maria – on the second broadside, the pious person himself takes on the maternal roll in that he “carries Jesus in his heart.”

5.  Religious Independence and the Church’s Power among Laity The texts of both broadsides are vernacular. Their intended audience is not only clerics and nuns, but especially lay, highly-literate men and women of the bourgeoisie. As we know, religious broadsides of the late fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries were produced especially for the private devotional sphere of the urban household. In this sense, they bolstered the increasing privatization, indi12   Cf. Berndt Hamm, “Die ‘nahe Gnade’: innovative Züge der spätmittelalterlichen Theo­ logie und Frömmigkeit,” in Herbst des Mittelalters? Fragen zur Bewertung des 14. und 15. Jahrhunderts, ed. Jan A. Aertsen and Martin Pickavé, Miscellanea Mediaevalia 31 (Berlin; New York: W. de Gruyter, 2004), 541–77.

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vidualization, and independence of lay piety as opposed to a cultish dependence on clerics. In the late Middle Ages, both existed in all sorts of variations: on the one side, a strong demand by laity for priestly and papal grace and for the religious offers of assurance in cloisters; on the other, growing aversion to and hostility toward the striving for power, the financial improprieties, the lack of education, the immorality, and the pastoral negligence of the priests and monks. Relatively independent of this tendency toward greater or lesser reverence or disdain of clerics, however, was the great increase in the education of lay people, and with that development was connected a keen striving to religious self-sufficiency according to a sort of devout self-pastoring, following an individual reading program of devotional and prayer literature, catechisms, liturgical and biblical texts, and private prayer and meditation while contemplating pious images. The first broadside, with the scene from Golgotha, shows how much the demand for individually accessible religious media can be merged with the hierarchical mediation of salvation and the standardization of piety. On the other hand, the second broadside shows where this striving for spiritual self-sufficiency on the part of laity could lead when the clergy’s mediation of salvation is de-emphasized, relativized, or completely devalued. Either way, the growth of religious education and the emancipation of the laity was connected to a growing need for church reform and to the expansive reach into the sacred sphere of priests and the orders; and increasingly, the lay authorities claimed sovereignty over the institutions, buildings, and people of a church that they saw as their church. This push opposed the claim of the hierarchical church establishment to their traditional clerical privileges, influence, and monopoly on the mediation of grace. The trend of continuously strengthening lay elements in the church that was so striking in the fifteenth century corresponds to the strengthening of national, territorial, and local powers, which took power away from a central Roman church and aimed for a decentralized form of the church. Against these forces stood the powers that worked toward a strengthening of the centralized power of the papacy in the vein of the bull Unam sanctam of Pope Boniface VIII (1302), which was quite successful after the middle of the fifteenth century. The potential for conflict between decentralization and centralization developed. It was discharged (not inevitably, but de facto) in the split of Protestant powers from the central, Roman papacy, e.g., the split of a monarchy as in England, a principality like electoral Saxony, or an imperial city like Nuremburg.

6.  The Manifold Strains and Oppositions in the Late Medieval Church What I have briefly outlined above based on the two broadsides is only a small sector of the manifold strains, polarities, and antagonisms that are characteristic

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of the plurality of late medieval understandings of the church, piety, and theology. For example, I have not mentioned that the concept of “grace that is near” (nahe Gnade) – grace which lies within the direct reach of the people – contradicts a conception of threatening severity, which emphasizes that salvation is only for some people via a ladder of virtue that is difficult to climb and that arrives at a steep, narrow, and dangerous path. What connects these concepts with each other is the call to the reform (reformatio) of Christendom that spans opposing tendencies in the late Middle Ages, a desire, for example, that comprises the demands for reform from Renaissance humanists who were both pious and critical of the church. But how do these manifold, tension-filled, divergent and complementary late medieval ideas of and attempts at reform become what we retrospectively call the Reformation: the Reformation of Luther, Melanchthon, Zwingli, and Calvin, the Reformation of the urban and rural parishes, the Reformation of the governments and authorities, and the Reformation of the Anabaptists and Spiritualists?

7.  The Relationship between Reformation and the Late Middle Ages: Selective Reception and Radicalization in the Example of Indulgences What all Reformation-minded figures have in common is that they broke with the tension- and contradiction-filled plurality of late medieval religiosity and selectively employed only a few particular strands or components of the late medieval spectrum of reform. Simultaneously, they transformed and radicalized these components through the manner of their reception. Martin Luther was challenged by his opponents before, during, and after the controversy over indulgences, and step by step he broke with the traditional church. In this manner, we see this innovative process of selection, reduction, and forced transformation happening for the first time. In the late Middle Ages of the later fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries, between the harsh critics of indulgences, who saw indulgences as an exploitative deception, and fervent devotees of indulgences, who saw the jubilee indulgence as a culmination of divine affection, were people with every possible variety of theological and political opinion on the value of indulgences. Luther took up the most vehement attack on indulgences already present in the tradition. At the same time, he fundamentally changed the nature of the critique in that he made the attack on indulgences an attack on the authority of the pope, the teaching of the “treasury of the church,” the idea of purgatory, and the entire theology of penance, with its cornerstones of contrition, confession, and satisfaction. Thus, the conditions for entrance into heaven were not true contrition, the act of confession, and expiating satisfaction, but rather God’s forgiveness alone, which is received in faith.

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8.  The New Understanding of Justification In terms of his theology of justification, Luther stands in the tradition of the anti-pelagian Augustine with his strict teaching on predestination, which precludes any religious freedom of choice by the sinner. In late scholasticism, this Augustinian teaching was one among many varieties of the doctrine of justification, as we have seen; yet Luther accepted only this one option, that of his mentor, Johannes von Staupitz. At the same time, Luther transformed even this teaching so much that we can speak of a Reformation break from the entire spectrum of medieval teachings on justification and salvation. All theologians in the Middle Ages were of the opinion that the individual is admitted to eternal salvation by God at the end of his life on account of how his character and morality have been shaped by grace in his capacity for love. Luther, however, advanced a competing understanding of existence between 1513 and 1518: The sinner is accepted into heaven completely freely, before and independent of all works, and without regard to any question of character. Every justified Christian who trusts and believes this is naturally filled with the activating spirit of love and penance and thus experiences sanctification, which impels one to good works. No one is saved because of his sanctification, however, but only for the sake of Christ. Salvation is granted as a pure gift of grace, not on the basis of one’s inner and outer activity, but rather in pure passivity.13

9.  Further Examples for Selection, Transformation, and Change (Umbruch): Solus Christus, The Priesthood of All Believers, Sola Scriptura The model presented here for the relationship of the Reformation to late medieval plurality and to the variety of reform initiatives can be summarized by the aspects of continuity, selection, transformation, and change (Umbruch). This model applies to all topics, conceptions, and movements of the Reformation, which can be illustrated by a few further examples. As we have seen, the late Middle Ages developed a strong tendency toward christocentric contemplation of the incarnate and suffering Savior. This concentration on the wretchedness, mercy, and atoning redemption of Christ continues in the Reformation, especially in Luther’s theology of the cross. In the Christ-centered piety of the late Middle Ages, however, solus Christus integrated the assistance of Mary and the saints in obtaining grace. It was characteristic of the Reformation that Christ’s 13   Cf. Ingolf U. Dalferth, “Mere Passive. Die Passivität der Gabe bei Luther,” in Word – Gift – Being. Justification – Economy – Ontology, ed. Bo Kristian Holm and Peter Widmann, Religion in Philosophy and Theology 37 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009), 43–71.

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mediation of salvation was presented as sufficient without the mediation of Mary and the saints and that God’s efficacy in the process of redemption is understood to be exclusive. The programmatic elevation of lay people and their spiritual authority in the Reformation also must be seen together with the preceding late medieval independence of laity and their expansive penetration into the realm of the clergy. Here, too, there are noteworthy continuities, but also change (Umbruch). While the increased role of the laity generally did not encroach on the special, consecrated status of priests and the hierarchical gradation of church officials from the pope on down, the Reformation did – at least in theory – make priests into lay people and lay people into priests, and it ended the hierarchy among clergy. Further, lay authorities ruled not only over the external entity of the church, but also over the theological, liturgical, and disciplinary substance of the evangelical Reform. Likewise, the normative primacy of the Bible in the Reformation depends on a late medieval thrust toward vernacular dissemination of the Bible or of parts of the Bible, and on the increased normative validity of these texts. Nevertheless, the question of whether the Bible belongs in lay hands was constantly and controversially debated; and in a plural understanding of norms, the authority of the Bible can co-exist with the authority of the councils to interpret it and the authority of the pope to define doctrine, as well as the church’s traditions on doctrine, law and piety. In contrast to this typical medieval plurality of norms, however, the Reformation effected a normative reduction and centering, and it placed its sola scriptura against the claim to authority of the church’s “human words,” “human fabrication,” “human customs,” and “human laws.”

10.  The Medieval Church as the Mother Church of the Protestants: The “Purified” Heritage These examples suffice to summarize and describe the Reformation’s spirit of change, its new formation of religious meaning,14 in opposition to late medieval religiosity. In a way, the Reformation was the heir of the Middle Ages; and if this is true, the medieval church is the mother church not only of the Roman Catholic church, but also of the Protestants. They inherit only a selective part of medieval religiosity, in that they give up the abundance of pre-existing tensions and polarities in favor of a new centering on the Bible and the gospel. The vineyard of the church should be cleaned from rampant thornbushes, as they 14   Cf. Kulturelle Reformation. Sinnformationen im Umbruch 1400–1600, ed. Bernhard Jussen and Craig Koslofsky, Veröffentlichungen des Max-Planck-Instituts für Geschichte 145 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1999).

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said, and the Christendom that had fallen into idolatry will be re-Christianized.15 Many theological teachings, elements of worship, regulations, and types of traditional piety from the past live on in the Reformation, but in every example of this partial continuity, it is directly surrounded by and suffused with aspects of change and qualitative leaps. In this way, an altogether new understanding of the biblical Word in the life of the church emerges, one without the pope and cardinals; without monks and nuns; without purgatory, the sacrifice of the mass, indulgences, cultic images, and provisions for the afterlife through endowments; without calling on Mary and the saints; without cults of relics, hosts, tabernacles, and Corpus Christi; without processions and pilgrimages; without consecrated sacred people and sacred objects such as holy water and incense. It is a historically unparalleled demolition and demonization of holiness. At the same time, a new understanding of holiness through faith is extended to all spheres of life so that the traditional boundary that was created between holy and profane was invalidated.

11.  The Contingent Emergence of the Reformation from the Late Middle Ages Concerning this fundamentally altered character of the church of the Protestants, one can say that many aspects are not new, but the whole thing is new in its mixture of old and new. The decades before the Reformation were filled with the call for reformatio, but that this kind of Reformation would ensue was absolutely unforeseeable. Insofar as the Reformation inherited and continued the late Middle Ages, it is explainable by certain tendencies of the Middle Ages. Inasmuch as the Reformation developed completely new conceptions of the desacralization and sanctification of Christendom, of worship and “good works,” it led to a break with the ecclesial system. More precisely, it led to a fracture of the religious understanding of that time, and this fracture is not altogether explainable by the conditions of the late Middle Ages. This proved to be the moment of contingency and “emergence” (Emergenz): 16 a sudden, rising, undivertable appearance, a surprising dynamic of impulses, reactions, and remarkable interactions. The first emergence of the Reformation was Luther’s, his coming to the surface (Auftauchen), which he himself toward the end of his life described as an emergere ex erroribus: “See in my case how difficult it is to wrestle free of errors and come to the surface. The errors are strengthened by the example of 15   Cf. Scott H. Hendrix, Recultivating the Vineyard: The Reformation Agendas of Christianization (Louisville; London: Westminster John Knox Press, 2004). 16   Cf. Berndt Hamm, “Die Emergenz der Reformation,” in Die Reformation: Potentiale der Freiheit, ed. Berndt Hamm and Michael Welker (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008), 1–27.

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the entire world and, through prolonged habit, become one’s nature, as it were.”17

12.  The Variety of the Reformation as an Effect of Late Medieval Plurality Up to this point, I have only discussed the general formation of the Reformation and its unity in the renunciation of the traditional hierarchy of the church. It was clear from the beginning, however, and openly discernible since the Wittenberg unrest in the winter of 1521–22, that the collective call to the norm of Scripture would not cause unity. Instead, the Reformation drifted apart into a number of different, antagonistic directions, which sometimes demonized each other. An important reason for this is that, in the manner of a tectonic shift of the earth’s strata, certain late medieval motifs and tensions continued on a new level, for example, the tendency mentioned earlier toward an external orientation of the church and a mystic and spiritualistic internalization of Christ. While Luther and his followers attached great importance to the salutary medium of the sermon, the external word of forgiveness, and the sacraments, Andreas Bodenstein von Karlstadt and Thomas Müntzer arrived at different conceptions of a Reformation spiritualism via the reception of mystical traditions. Karlstadt’s pointed and prominent praise of simple, uneducated laity and his attacks on the culture of theological scholarship were strongly rooted in the late Middle Ages, as was Müntzer’s fundamental motif of sharp social critiques and the apocalyptic convictions that impelled him to violence. Certainly there were positions in the spectrum of reforming varieties that had no origins in the Middle Ages, but rather were a direct result of the consistent application of sola scriptura, such as the rejection of infant baptism by the Anabaptists.

13.  The Catholic Church before the Council of Trent (1545–1563): The Wealth of Tensions in Continuity with the Diversity of Late Medieval Reform Instead of pursuing this pluralistic dimension of the Reformation further, we shall have a look at the remarkable plurality in the traditional nature of the church before the Council of Trent. Despite internal differences and hostilities, all the Protestant reformers were united in their deep fracture with the late 17   Martin Luther, Vorrede zum ersten Band seiner Opera Latina vom 5. März 1545 (WA 54:183.21–23; Martin Luther: Lateinisch-Deutsche Studienausgabe 2:500.17–19 and 501.22–25): “Atque hic vide vel in meo casu, quam difficile sit eluctari et emergere ex erroribus totius orbis exemplo firmatis et longa consuetudine velut in naturam mutatis.”

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medieval church. Initially, Catholicism continued the late medieval variety of tensions and reforms, yet on the other hand reactions to the challenge of the Reformation varied between polemical-apologetic defense and self-critical openness to dialogue. Primarily based on the common tradition of humanism and Augustinianism, the search for understanding with the other side was apparent. The uncontested validity of canon law, however, marked a definite limit to plurality within the Catholic Church, and the conflict with the supporters of the Reformation furthered the dominance of an anti-Protestant identity, for example, in the field of “representational piety.”18 The tendency to receive and tolerate late medieval strands of tradition only selectively emerged on the Catholic side before Trent. At the same time, what one might identify as general characteristics of Catholic religion in the late Middle Ages remain characteristic of the anti-Protestant form of the Catholic Church of the sixteenth century. I will refer just one more time to the two broadsides: What is recognizably exemplary as the two-sided structure of the overall religiosity of the late Middle Ages – namely, that those who possess a certain spiritual quality and activity will receive grace and salvation – also characterized the Catholic profile in the sixteenth century in opposition to the Protestant doctrine of the unconditional gift of salvation. Even in the view of the Catholic theologians who wanted reform and tended toward the Protestant view of sola gratia, the final prize of salvation for the justified always remained a result of cooperation between God and the individual.

14.  The Second Phase of Standardization and Centralization in the Reformation: The Formation of Protestant Confessions We turn now to the last of the three terms in the triad “Reform, Reformation, Confession.” The fundamental religious crisis of the sixteenth century, the conflict between Reformation and Catholic Reform, took on a new normative quality in the creation of confessions in the years between the Peasants’ War in 1525 and the Diet of Augsburg in 1530. The age of confessions, then, begins in the middle of the Reformation. In the years prior to that, the first normative change and centralization had come in the call to the sole and exclusive legitimacy of Scripture. Now follows a second phase of standardization and centralization of the Reformation. The deeply irritating and discouraging experience that the common, normative basis of the Bible did not provide reformatory unity over and against the church of the papacy, but instead that the devil himself, biblically literate as he is, knew how to use the authority of biblical words 18

  Cf. n8 above.

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with the utmost efficiency as an instrument of his machinations, led now to the formation of norms via Protestant confessions. For this reason, in contrast to the first stage of normative centering, this second stage was directed not only at the frontlines of the traditional church but especially at the “enemies of Christ” that were observed in one’s own anti-papal camp. The broader, standardizing consolidation of Protestants via confessions arose only when the conflicts among the Protestant reformers peaked from 1524 to 1526 and concentrated on the critical topics of the Lord’s Supper, baptism, and the relationship to authority. That is why the supporters of the Reformation formed the confessions to be divergent and mutually exclusive from the beginning: Wittenberg/Lutheran, Swiss/Zwinglian, Strasbourg/South German, and Anabaptist, and later also Calvinist/Reformed and Anglican. Related to the transition to this second, strongly doctrinal level of standardization was the fact that women disappeared from the public endeavors of the Reformation, with a few prominent exceptions. This was also generally true for those who had been active forces in the Reformation from the ranks of the farmers and artisans who had based their vocation on the sacred norm of the biblical text. As the following example of Lazarus Spengler shows, when the Reformation entered the phase of confessional formation it also meant a change from the broad Reformation of municipalities to the Reformation of authorities and the educated elite, the princes, magistrates, learned theologians, and lawyers. They drove forward the process of confessional formation and the insistence on confession-oriented church orders. A figure like Philip Melanchthon now found his ideal sphere of activity, with his strong impetus toward education, confessions, and order, and his view of the divine mandate for authorities to govern the church.

15.  Lazarus Spengler’s Ratio fidei mee (1527) and the Political Dimension of Confessional Formation: The Uniform Confessional State and Confessional Particularism The Nuremberg municipal secretary Lazarus Spengler was one of the first figures – if not the first figure – who recorded a confession of faith in this new situation of the intra-Protestant attempt to settle disputes via the learned and the authorities. In 1527 he wrote the first version of his hand-written Ratio fidei mee, whose third edition Luther had printed in Wittenberg in 1534 with his own preface.19 Spengler at that time was the leading mind of the political, urban 19   Cf. the synoptic edition of the text of Spengler’s confession of faith and the account of the transmission of the text in Lazarus Spengler: Schriften, vol. 1: Schriften der Jahre September 1525 bis April 1529, ed. Berndt Hamm, Wolfgang Huber, and Gudrun Litz, Quellen und Forschungen zur Reformationsgeschichte 70 (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 1999),

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Reformation in the empire and a lay theologian among Protestant politicians, and the far-reaching consequences embedded in the process of forming Protestant confessions are immediately clear by looking at him. Spengler’s vision was a uniform religious structure of cities and territories under the leadership of the biblical Word and in the spirit of his confession, which directs itself at the “papists,” the followers of the Swiss and South German understanding of the Lord’s Supper, the Anabaptists, the Spiritualists, and the opponents of the authoritative/governmental office of Christ. Already with Spengler we see what the formation of Protestant confessions would tend to produce: a union of confessional and political centering that created a strong magisterial ecclesial rule, a homogenization of the faith of all subjects, and a clear exclusion of all divergent forms of faith.20 The emergence of the confessions was guided by the aim of closing the large lacunae of earlier confessions (especially in the area of soteriology), as well as clearly articulating the profile of Protestantism, thereby specifying their own foundational teachings and legitimacy so that the splintering plurality of the Reformation in the 1520s could be overcome. Because a centrifugal dynamic of opposites prevailed in the formation of the Protestant confessions themselves, however, it led to the exact result that they did not intend: the variety of the early Reformation was transformed into rival antagonisms of Protestant confessional churches, confessional states, and excluded deviant groups. The flip side of the internal standardization was religious-political particularism and a confessional rag rug in the German empire.

16.  The Unintentional Effect of the Reformation: The Shattering of the Universal Western Church into Particular Confessional Churches The Protestants’ confessional standardization also had an effect on the Catholic side, and it was likewise the exact opposite of their intentions. While the origi115–142 (No.  48). See also Berndt Hamm, Lazarus Spengler (1479–1534). Der Nürnberger Ratsschreiber im Spannungsfeld von Humanismus und Reformation, Politik und Glaube, Spätmittelalter und Reformation. Neue Reihe 25 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2004), 9, especially 281–312 (“Spenglers Glaubensbekenntnis und die Anfänge der evangelischen Bekenntnisbildung”). 20   On this type of intolerance, see, for example, Spengler’s reaction to a Nuremberg memorandum from Spring 1530 (written by his subordinate in the municipal administration, Georg Frölich), arguing for the toleration of all forms of religion in the city – whether Catholic, Lutheran, Zwinglian, Anabaptist, Jewish or Muslim – as long as the religious parties remain peaceful. On this memorandum and Spengler’s horrified reaction, see the edition of the texts, along with introductions, in Lazarus Spengler: Schriften, vol. 3: Schriften der Jahre Mai 1529 bis März 1530, ed. Berndt Hamm, Felix Breitling, Gudrun Litz, and Andreas Zecherle, Quellen und Forschungen zur Reformationsgeschichte 84 (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 2010), 365–412 (Nos. 143–151).

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nal intention of the Reformation was to reform the universal Latin church of the West, the Protestants now stood in the ruins of this church. After the early and medieval schisms with the “non-Calcedonian” or Oriental Orthodox Church and the Byzantine, Eastern Orthodox Church, there was in the sixteenth century another thrust in the schism of the church. The unintentional result of the Reformation’s radicalization of specific late medieval strands of tradition and the polyphonic formation of Protestant confessions was that, from the 1540s, the Roman church implemented a forced centering and a homogenizing constriction of its previous spectrum of reform and tolerance. With a powerful new impetus to carry out reforms, the Catholic church now suppressed all movements critical of the pope, promoting pointed theologies of grace, or propagating a Catholic evangelicalism, and many Catholic reformers from the previous years were targeted by the church’s supervisory authorities and found their names on the Roman Index of Prohibited Books. Only now, above all in the aftermath of the Council of Trent, did the early modern Roman, papal church come into being as a confessional and particular church of the Counter-Reformation. Inasmuch as it reformed doctrine, liturgy, the clergy, and pastoral care with a clear ecclesiological profile, strictly and efficiently, it surrendered a large part of the church’s variety of tensions from the late Middle Ages. A medieval pope could have only dreamed of the authority and centralizing control mechanism that the papacy had within the church at the end of the sixteenth century. Of course, the papal church had to give up broad areas of northern Europe to the Lutheran, Reformed, and Anglican churches of the Reformation. For that, however, an internally stable Catholicism gained new territories overseas, to which it devoted an impressive missionary drive and an innovative vision of a global universality.21 In the middle of the sixteenth century, this vision came under pressure to conform to the narrower vision of Trent. The interpretive categories used to describe the relationship between the movements of the Protestant Reformation and the overall structure of the late medieval church – selection, reduction and forced transformation, normative centering, exclusionary homogenization and the demand for a cleansing Christianization, continuity, change and emergence – are also quite applicable to the formation of the early modern Catholicism that formed in its counter-current. Catholicism’s relationship to the medieval church was more evolutionary and its overall structure gradualist, whereas the Protestant Reformation’s relationship was, by contrast, more revolutionary.

21

  Cf. Klaus Koschorke, “Konfessionelle Spaltung und weltweite Ausbreitung des Christentums im Zeitalter der Reformation,” Zeitschrift für Theologie und Kirche 91 (1994): 10–24.

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17.  The Countervailing Forces against the Goal of a Confessional Structure for All Realms of Life A final glimpse will be given to the remarkable plurality and paradoxical tensions of late medieval religious culture, including its humanistic varieties. From these roots the great confessional churches of the sixteenth century grew in completely different ways, as did the independent church communities that they marginalized. At the same time, this was also the root of manifold forces that opposed the rigid goals of standardizing the religious parties and all attempts at religious-political homogenization: tendencies toward a decentralized distribution of power and polycentric understandings; predecessors of individualization, secularization, and privatization of life; the emergence of a new religious subjectivism and demands for tolerance,22 freedom of conscience, and nonstandardized latitude of faith and reason, the economy, research, artistic representations, love, and enjoyment. These forces, which created a counter-climate against the dynamic of full-scale religious confrontation from the beginning of the Reformation, also inherited the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries in their own way, especially many impulses of the European Renaissance and humanism. This so-called “late” Middle Ages, then, was not only a late phase, but also an early phase of the great early modern confessional embitterment to come, as well as a countervailing de-escalation of religious hostility.

22

  See, for example, the remarkable memorandum on toleration (Spring 1530) by the Nuremberg town secretary, Georg Frölich, which was mentioned in n20.

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Recultivation of the Vineyard in Sixteenth-Century Lutheran Exegesis and Preaching Robert Kolb

When Wittenberg professor Paul Eber died in 1569, at age fifty-eight, four of his thirteen children commissioned the painter Lucas Cranach the Younger to prepare an epitaph for their father. This epitaph, in the right corner behind the altar of the town church in Wittenberg, adorns the cover of Scott Hendrix’s Recultivating the Vineyard and inspired his use of this metaphor of the vineyard as the overarching description of the task undertaken by the four reformations of the sixteenth century that his book describes. The epitaph depicts a vineyard divided into two parts, one of which, ill-tended by the pope and his bishops and priests, is in disarray, deteriorated, devastated. The other half, carefully cultivated and flourishing, is in the care of figures of the Wittenberg Reformation: Luther, Melanchthon, Johannes Bugenhagen, Justus Jonas, Georg Spalatin, Johann Forster, Georg Major, Paul Crell, Caspar Cruciger, and Sebastian Fröschel, along with, of course, Paul Eber. Eber had devoted his life to tending God’s vineyard, as had, in his quite different calling, Lucas Cranach the Younger. Four years Eber’s junior, he had shared the adventure of the Wittenberg reformers since his infancy. Both had learned to criticize the papacy, each in his own medium, and both shared the goal of cultivating the vineyard of Christ through the proper use and proclamation of God’s Word. It has been suggested that Eber’s name, meaning “boar” in German, was associated with the image of the vineyard because of Psalm 80:14, which speaks of wild pigs breaking into God’s vineyard. If correct, this is a rather inverted use of the metaphor. An application of the imagery of the church as God’s vineyard more closely adhering to this text had claimed its place in the bull of 15    Albrecht Steinwachs, Der Weinberg des Herrn. Epitaph für Paul Eber von Lucas Cranach d. J., 1569. Stadt-und Pfarrkirche St. Marien Lutherstadt Wittenberg (Spröda: Acanthus, 2001), 5.    The identification of the figure representing Fröschel with Matthias Flacius Illyricus (see Steinwachs, Weinberg, 44) seems highly unlikely, on the basis of the appearance of this figure in the epitaph and because of Flacius’s hostility toward the faculty of which Eber was a leader.    On the work see Steinwachs, Weinberg, passim.    Ibid., 6.

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June 1520 in which Pope Leo X had handed down his ultimatum to Luther to return to submission to the papacy. The bull had labeled Luther a wild boar from the forest, which had broken into the Lord’s vineyard and wrought havoc in it. Cranach’s artistic depiction suggests that the use of the vineyard metaphor found a place in Wittenberg usage. This essay seeks to determine whether theologians from the Wittenberg circle used this image or metaphor either in counter-polemic to the papal attribution of the destroyer of the vineyard to Luther or, in a manner similar to that of Cranach’s panel on its right half, as a portrayal of proper care and conduct in the church. Exegetical and homiletical sources are not the only possible field in which this metaphor might appear, but this essay focuses on sermons published in postils or homiletical commentaries and on the printed lectures of professors who treated the biblical books in which the image appears. Several Bible passages present the vineyard as a metaphor of God’s people, including Jesus’ parables in Matthew 20:1–16 and 21:33–41, as well as several Old Testament passages, most prominently Psalm 80 and Isaiah 5:1–10. Although Eber’s own published treatment of the parable in Matthew 21 did not speak of a recultivation of the vineyard of Christ’s church, the preface to Eber’s postil, composed by its editor, Eber’s student, Johannes Cellarius, referred to him as “a faithful worker in the vineyard of the Lord,” probably a reference to his epitaph. Hendrix notes that “recultivation” could be applied, on the basis of Luther’s thinking, both to the reform of the whole church and to the need for daily renewal through repentance and the forgiveness of sins in the lives of individual Christians. Thus, some variety in the application of the vineyard image might be expected in treatments of the biblical passages mentioned. This survey of sermons and exegetical lectures of Luther, Melanchthon, Bugenhagen, and twenty of their students or followers examines extant treatments of these passages in their writings. 

  Ibid., 8–10.   Postilla/ Das ist/ Außlegung der Sonnntags vnd fu[e]rnembsten Fest Euangelien durch das gantze Jar. Deß Ehrwirdigen vnd Hochgelehrten Herrn Pauli Eberi/ der H. Schrifft Doctorn/ Weilandt Superintendenten zu Wittenberg. .  .  . zusammen gefast. .  .  . Durch Johannem Cellarvm Bvdissinvm. Das Erste Theil (Frankfurt am Main: [Franz Bassaeus, in Verlegung Georg Fischers], 1578), 96b104b. This publication appears to be part of the electoral Saxon campaign in the aftermath of the “Crypto-Philippist” crisis of 1574 to assert the unity of the Wittenberg theologians. That campaign concentrated on showing agreement between Luther and Melanchthon. See Ernst Koch, “Auseinandersetzungen um die Autorität von Philipp Melanchthon und Martin Luther in Kursachsen im Vorfeld der Konkordienformel von 1577,” Lutherjahrbuch 59 (1992): 128–59. But it was also important to place Eber, as the successor to Melanchthon in theological leadership in Saxony, within the fold.    Postilla, ):(iiijb.    Scott H. Hendrix, Recultivating the Vineyard: The Reformation Agendas of Christianization (Louisville; London: Westminster John Knox, 2004), 45–53. 

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In Luther’s preaching the image of the recultivation of the vineyard had occurred. In fact, the reformer once described his own role as a worker in the vineyard, from his own point of view. In composing his preface to Justus Jonas’s German translation of Melanchthon’s comments on Colossians, in 1529, Luther wrote, “I was born to fight with the scalawags and devils. They are my assignment. Because of this my books are so vehement and feisty. I am assigned to root out the roots and chop down the trunks of the trees, to chop away at the thorns and thickets, to fill the holes. I am the one who has to cut down the big trees, clear the path, and bring things in order. But Master Philip comes in, cool, calm, and collected. He cultivates the ground and plants; he sows and waters with enthusiasm, according to the gifts which God has so richly bestowed upon him.” Luther went on to speak of his as an age in which pearls had to be cast before dogs and holy things before swine (cf. Mt 7:6). The pericopes on which the Wittenberg theologians regularly preached offered only the Gospel lesson for Septuagesima Sunday, Matthew 20:1–16, as a basis for using the vineyard metaphor. Both in his church postil of 1525 and his house postil of 1544, Luther did not exploit this metaphor extensively to speak of his task of reformation of the whole church. The former sermon insisted that every detail of a parable need not be interpreted theologically, and that the message of this parable concerned God’s immeasurable goodness and the groundlessness of any human being’s presumption regarding his or her own performance.10 Nonetheless, the reformer did observe toward the end of the sermon that the pope, who was supposed to be God’s caretaker, had become caretaker for the devil, presumably of the vineyard.11 The sermon of 1534, which was incorporated into the house postil, contained no reference of this type and concentrated on the unconditional grace of God, who elects without consideration of any human merit, and who calls people to himself through the Word in oral and sacramental forms, an exposition of Matthew 20:16.12 However, in his sermon series on Matthew, conducted 1537–1540 in Wittenberg’s town church, preaching on the parable of the renters of the vineyard who slew the son of the owner (Mt 21:33–46), Luther did employ the image of the vineyard as a portrayal of the church’s life. He read the parable first of all as a condemnation of the scribes and Pharisees, which recalled the judgment pronounced upon those who lay waste God’s vineyard in Psalm 80 and Isaiah 5. Jesus was comparing the religious leaders of his time to those who were sup

  WA 20/II:68–69.   WA 17/II:137.4–35. The sermon as originally printed in the Lenten postil of 1525 is found WA 17/II:135–41. The sermon was reprinted in the Winter Postil of 1528 with very few and very minor changes; see WA 21:87–88. Three sets of notes on his sermon of 24 January 1529 reveal the same emphasis, WA 29:37–45. 11   WA 17/II:140.20–29. Cf. the 1529 sermon, WA 29:40.19–41.14. 12   WA 52:136–42. 10

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posed to defend God’s people against the wild sows that break into God’s vineyard, according to Isaiah 5. “For God not only laid out his vineyard but also set up a wine press in it: that is, he gave his Word and the activity and work of the Holy Spirit, that [God’s people] might learn to discipline the flesh, oppose sin, and live in a new spiritual life, that they remain a pure wine and a good, fresh juice, and the chaff, the hulls, the stems and the skins be thrown away, that they might become a high-grade, tasty wine, a people that pleases God.” So is the church that lives with the sacraments and the preaching of God’s Word. This church believes in Christ, disciplines the flesh, so that sin does not gain the upper hand, crucifying the old person, killing false belief, greed, and anger. “Where that does not take place, there is no Christian church, no vineyard [of God].” Furthermore, God placed watchmen to guard the vineyard so that no thief or sow might break in to damage it. These watchmen include the holy angels, the tribe of Levi in the Old Testament, and the faithful preachers of the New Testament church.13 Luther then reminded his hearers and readers of the tradition of persecution of the church that has again and again devastated the vineyard, also under the papacy. Its care of the vineyard had resulted in wild stock, growing on its own, simply sour grapes and wild grapevines, which produced nothing. In the Old Testament the failure of the leadership of God’s people finally led him to root them up, chopping out the wild growth, as the Gentiles were given Christ’s vineyard, which Christ now tends as his church through his Word in oral and sacramental forms.14 Hendrix notes that Luther strove to transform the individual into a “real Christian,” whose life centered in trusting Christ and serving him through loving service to the neighbor. The Wittenberg professor also sought to transform his society into a Christianized community rather than leaving it with the remnants of pagan perceptions and practices that had marked the world in which he grew up. His was, according to Hendrix, a missionary effort, in the sense that it sought the turning, the conversion, of the baptized away from their idols to God and the human life he had created for them. The Wittenberg reformer viewed human history, however, as an eschatological battle, on-going until the Last Day, in which God’s truth combats Satan’s lies in all their various forms.15 Hints of these foundational presuppositions for Luther’s Reformation certainly lie in Luther’s brief treatment of this text. Melanchthon lectured on Matthew in the winter semester of 1519–1520; notes from his hearers, published without his consent, reveal only that he focused on the summarizing comment of Matthew 20:16, that the first become 13

  WA 47:413.16–414.25.   WA 47:414.42–416.40. 15   Hendrix, Recultivating the Vineyard, 37–67, 170–74. 14

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last, the last first, and that many are called but few chosen. He passed over the second vineyard parable in Matthew 21 completely.16 Forty years later, not long before his death, Melanchthon prepared notes on the first Gospel for delivery by Sebastian Fröschel. The brief comments on Matthew 20 emphasize that “we dare not become arrogant and negligent, placing our confidence in our own sanctity.” The Jews had done that, turning away from a life of true faith, repentance, and true invocation of God, and they were cast out of the vineyard; the church was given to the Gentiles. The same had happened, Melanchthon noted, to the medieval bishops and monks. But he elaborated no specific parallels to the vineyard metaphor of the text.17 His comments on Matthew 21:33–41, however, provided an allegorical interpretation of this pericope. The paterfamilias planted the vineyard, that is, God chose the people of Israel. He surrounded it with a fence, the law. He dug a winepress, the ministry of proper teaching. He built a tower, the kingdom of Israel and the temple. He engaged workers, the seed of Jacob. He went away and sent servants, the prophets, whom the people killed, as they later killed his Son. Melanchthon concluded that his own age shared their wish to be ruled by no one. “This blasphemy is the cause of all evils.” Just as Nebuchadnezzar and Antiochus Epiphanes had oppressed God’s faithful people of old, so the pope and kings still try to resist God’s rule and oppress the church, Melanchthon concluded.18 The same eschatological thrust that permeated Luther’s writings set the framework for Melanchthon’s understanding of human history.19 Luther’s and Melanchthon’s students drew on the exegetical works of their mentors with a great deal of freedom, always trying to remain faithful to the theology which they had absorbed in Wittenberg, for the most part adhering to the methods of exposition and proclamation they had acquired there, but able to borrow from the exegesis of their mentors when they found it useful in their situations and to ignore what they did not. Their treatments of the several biblical passages which offered the image of the vineyard reflect this practice. Two fields of application presented themselves to the Wittenberg students who approached these texts, that of the church as the vineyard and that of the individual Christian life as the worker in the vineyard or as the branches or grapevines planted by the Lord in his vineyard. To be sure, the latter emphasis could embrace the life of the individual within the context of the entire church. The 16   Melanchthons Werke in Auswahl, VI. Band, ed. Robert Stupperich (Gütersloh: Bertelsmann, 1955), 195–99. 17   Conciones explicantes integrum Evangelium Matthaei .  .  . (Wittenberg, 1558); Corpus Reformatorum. Philippi Melanthonis Opera quae supersunt omnia, ed. C. G. Bretschneider and H. E. Bindseil (Halle and Braunschweig: Schwetschke, 1834–1860; [henceforth CR]), 14:934–35. 18   CR 14:947–48. 19   Peter Fraenkel, Testimonia patrum: The Function of the Patristic Argument in the Theology of Philip Melanchthon (Geneva: Droz, 1961), 52–109.

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treatments of the Old Testament passage that developed the metaphor claimed the former approach to application of this image; particularly Matthew 20 provided the basis for using it in the recultivation of the daily life of the church, with the chief focus on the individual believers.

The Church as Vineyard Psalm 80:8–13 depicted Israel as a vine brought out of Egypt, for which the Lord had cleared the ground, so that it might take deep root and send out its branches. The psalmist reproaches God for permitting the walls of this vineyard to be broken down so that the wild boar might ravage it. Relating this text to the life of the church was not difficult. Some Psalm commentators did little or nothing to draw the parallel to sixteenth-century apostasy and reform,20 but several did. Luther’s and Melanchthon’s Wittenberg colleague Johannes Bugenhagen used the metaphor to identify the vineyard loved by God as Christ as well as the church, but he did not go into detail beyond historical reference to the suffering of Israel under its foes.21 In this regard his younger contemporary, the Swabian church leader Johannes Brenz, produced similar comments with little reference to the sixteenth-century church, but he did make very brief reference to the parallel between ancient Israel and the contemporary church under threat from the Turk.22 Christoph Corner, professor at the University of Frankfurt/ Oder and member of the committee that drafted the Formula of Concord, followed this approach in concentrating on the vineyard and its devastation as a description of Israel, but he also developed this analogy in more detail, drawing the parallel to what the Saracens and Turks had done to the churches of Asia, Africa, and large parts of Europe. Only God can save his church, Corner concluded.23 Two of Corner’s contemporaries treated the analogy somewhat more extensively, employing the vineyard image to comment on the struggles of the church in their own time. Corner’s colleague in the effort to compose the Formula of Concord, Nikolaus Selnecker, schoolteacher in Dresden at the time he wrote the 20   E.g., Johann Spangenberg, Psalterium Carmine Elegiaco redditum (Magdeburg: Michael Lotther, 1544), 52–53; on his poetic rendering of the psalm his son Cyriakus expanded with prose commentary, which also failed to develop the metaphor: Der gantze Psalter Dauids/ Darneben alle andere Psalmen vnd Geistliche Lieder/ im alten vnd nuwen Testament/ sampt vielen Danckspru[e]chen der lieben heyligen/Gesangeweise gefasset (Frankfurt/Main: Christoph Raben/ Bernhard Jobin, 1572), 252–53. 21   Johannes Bugenhagen, In librvm Psalmorvm Interpretatio (Basel: Adam Petri, 1524), 461. 22   Johannes Brenz, Breuis & perspicua explicatio Psalmorum Dauidis. .  .  . Decas octava (Tübingen: widow of Ulrich Morhard, 1568), 268–73. 23   Christoph Corner, Psalterivm Latinvm Davidis prophetae et regis .  .  . (Leipzig: Andreas Schnei­der/Ernst Vögelin, 1571), 491–94.

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commentary, found Psalm 80 to be a prayer of comfort in the face of the hostility of the church’s foes, from tyrants foreign and domestic to heretics, unfaithful associates, and false brethren. He went into detail regarding the cultivation of individual Christians through the workers in the vineyard or church, but made only brief mention of the oppression suffered at the hands of earthly tyrants such as the Chaldeans and Antiochus Epiphanes for ancient Israel and the Turks for the church in Greece.24 Christoph Vischer, superintendent of the churches in the duchy of Braunschweig-Lüneburg, focused his exposition of the psalm on the church’s conflict with its enemies, under the devil’s leadership, mentioning both Turk and pope. God had tended Israel, his vineyard, faithfully, applying his hoe to the weeds, calling Israel to repentance, warding off foxes, wild pigs, and other animals, so that the vineyard could bear good fruit, not sour grapes. Jesus provided the same kind of care to his church, laying the ax to roots when they did not produce good fruit, cultivating them carefully through his Word. The text repudiated the “Rottenkönig” (a term Luther fashioned for the papacy, literally a king who seizes power through the use of a mob) and “Hellrüden” (hound of hell): the pope, who, like the Turk, wishes to disrupt and devastate the vineyard. God is the church’s protective fence, a fiery wall surrounding it, and he sends a circle of angelic wagons to protect his vineyard. But Vischer reminded readers that God can withdraw his protection when the church falls into disobedience, as he did when Israel was threatened by its enemies from the Assyrians to Antiochus and Vespasian.25 The emphasis in these treatments fell on the eschatological struggle against those who deceive and debilitate the church, but the preaching of repentance and forgiveness for the transformation of individual Christians also received some attention from Vischer. Lutherans ventured but seldom into commenting on the prophets in print, and those who did made only the most general references to the description of the people of God as a vineyard in Isaiah 5:1–10 and Jeremiah 2:21.26 When those in the Wittenberg circle turned to comment on Matthew 20, the parable of the workers employed at various times during the day, some passed over the vineyard imagery and simply treated the unconditional mercy of God in assembling his church and preserving it.27 Several others mentioned that the 24   Nikolaus Selnecker, Das Ander Buch Des Psalters Dauids/ .  .  . ordenlich nach einander/ dem gemeinen Mann/ vnd frommen einfeltigen Christen zu gut/ vnd in dieser gar elenden zeit zu trost vnd vnterrichtung außgelegt (Nuremberg: Christoph Heußler, 1563), CCXVIIIa–CCXXXIIa. 25   Christoph Vischer, Christliche/ Einfeltige Außlegung des Gu[e]ldenen kleinods/ des Psalters Dauids/ was man daraus in diesen letzten/ Elenden/ betru[e]bten leufften fu[e]r Lehr/ Trost vnd ermahnung nehmen solle. Der vierdte Theil (Dresden, 1586), 89a-102b. 26   E.g., Veit Dietrich, Der gantz Prophet Esaias Außgelegt (Nuremberg: Johann vom Berg and Ulrich Neuber, “MD VLXIII” = 1548), G1a-G2b; Johann Brenz, Esaias propheta, commentariis explicatvs (Frankfurt/Main: Heirs of Peter Brubach, 1570), 78–94; Johannes Wi­ gand, In Esaiam prophetam explicationes breves (Erfurt: Esaias Mechler, 1581), 48a-49b, 55a. 27   These include Bugenhagen, Postillatio .  .  . In euangelia, vsui temporum & sanctorum totius

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vineyard stands for the church, but they concentrated on what they regarded as the intended significance of the text, that God chooses his own people solely on the basis of his mercy and love, not because of the length or quality of their work in his vineyard. Heretics and tyrants won only brief mention as the oppressors of the church in some instances, without extensive development, and more often than not without anti-papal polemic.28 That defense of the right of the Evangelical church to exist and its critique of what the reformers saw as the deceptive teaching of the Roman Catholic church had certainly not disappeared by Corner’s and Vischer’s time. It did find expression in other genre. These commentators certainly did not ignore the threat of the papacy and other external enemies of their faith, but they did not feel obliged to use the image of the vineyard at peril from wild pigs to treat this menace in their sermons.

The Individual Christian as Vineyard Nikolaus Selnecker’s homiletical treatment of Isaiah 5 did put the image of the vineyard to use as a description of the church. In doing so, however, he addressed the sins and the deliverance from sin and evil that was to take place in each Christian hearer’s or reader’s life. God had gathered a church through his Word and cultivated it as a fine vineyard, with a tower to protect it (pious rulers, faithful teachers, temporal peace, along with other gifts), which must elicit good anni seruientia .  .  . (s.l., s.d.) Djb); Anton Corvinus, Loci in Evangelia cvm Dominicalia tum de Sanctis .  .  . (Marburg: Eucharius Agrippeninatus, 1536), Cja-Cijb; Johann Spangenberg, Postilla Deudsch. Fur die jungen Christen/ Knaben vnd Meidlein/ jnn Fragstu[e]cke verfasset/ Vom Aduent bis auff Ostern (Wittenberg: Georg Rhau, 1543), 127a-135b; Hieronymus Weller, In epistolas et Evangelia Dominicalia, explicationes piae, breves, ervditae (Nuremberg: Johann vom Berg and Ulrich Neuber, 1558), LVIIb–LXb; Georg Major, Secvnda Pars Homeliarvm in Evangelia a Dominicalia et Dies Festos praecipuos, à prima dominica post Epiphaniam Domini, usque ad Dominicam Palmarum (Wittenberg, 1564), 322–70; Johannes Brenz, Euangelien der fu[e]rnembsten Fest vnd Feyertagen im Jar. Außgelegt .  .  . (Frankfurt/Main: Peter Brubach, 1565), 171–77; Hie­ ronymus Menzel, Postilla. Das ist/ Außlegung Der Euangelien/ so auff die Sontage / Heubt/ vnd andere Fest/ durchs gantze Jahr in der Christlichen kirchen gelesen warden .  .  . (Eisleben: Urban Gaubisch, 1584), 115a-116; Tilemann Heshusius, Postilla Das ist/Außlegung Der Sontaglichen Euangelien/ Durchs gantze Jahr (Eisleben: Urban Gaubisch, 1586), N4a-N6b; Joachim Mörlin, Postilla:Oder Summarische Erinnerung bey den Sonteglichen Jahrs Euangelien .  .  . (Erfurt: Esaias Mechler, 1587), 165–72. 28   Examples include Eber himself, Postilla, 97b-101b; Johannes Mathesius, Postilla/ Oder außlegung Der Sontags Euangelien Vber das gantze jar .  .  . (Nuremberg: Ulrich Neuber and Johann vom Berg’s heirs, 1565), LXXIa-LXXIIb; Niels Hemmingsen, Postilla oder Auslegung der Euangelien/ welche man auff die Sontage vnd andere Feste/In der Kirchen Gottes pfleget zu verlesen (German translation from Latin, Wittenberg, 1566), 226–39; Johannes Wigand, Postilla/ Außlegung Der Euangelien, so Man durch das gantze Jar Auff einen jeden Sontag vnd fu[e]rnemsten Fest/ in der Kirchen pfleget fu[e]rgetragen (Ursel: Nicolaus Heinrich, 1569), 193–201; Siegfried Sack, Erklerung Vber die Sontags Euangelia vnd Der fu[e]nembsten Fest durchs gantze Jahr .  .  . (Magdeburg, 1589), 139b-145a.

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fruit in order to praise God. Selnecker then turned his comments on the chapter into the sermon of repentance he had promised at its beginning. Throughout his career he had not hesitated to criticize the lifestyle of princes and patricians as well as peasants.29 He criticized the sour, wild grapes, a series of sins that beset the German populace. Greed came first, along with the exploitation of the poor that accompanied it in the rich and mighty. Abuse of justice, Selnecker commented, is a sin against God’s honor, his holy name, his Word, and our calling as Christians. Second, Selnecker condemned gluttony, intoxication, and conspicuous consumption; then pride and the use of violence, intrigue and deception, striving after honor and higher office, corruption of justice, and the root of all these evils: contempt for God’s Word and the office of public ministry.30 Selnecker took up this theme when he commented on the vineyard of Jeremiah 2:21. Instead of the fruits of faith, the Lord’s vineyard was producing sour grapes, contempt for God’s law and for his saints, a preference for deceit, sensuous delights, drunkenness, display of wealth, and other such sins. Others are idle; they go for a walk in the vineyard of the Lord, living as the wild pigs who devour the grapes. They include both temporal and ecclesiastical officials, who are “epicureans, belly-servers, fat dogs unable to bark, medieval priests who could do nothing but say the mass.” They bring confusion and unrest to the Lord’s vineyard and falsify public teaching.31 The use of vineyard imagery in two parables in Matthew’s Gospel gave Lutheran professors and preachers opportunity to speak of the vineyard and its cultivation, but apart from the passing comments mentioned above, they found its illustration helpful only seldom. Commentaries on the two pericopes in which parables set in the vineyard are found, in Matthew 20 and 21, produced little in terms of specific application to either the church or the individual believer.32 The exposition of the former text, the appointed reading for Septuagesima Sunday, offered the more than thirty Lutheran authors of postils in the second half of the sixteenth century the opportunity to make use of the imagery of the vineyard, but only three added an application of the vineyard imagery to the life of the church or the individual Christian to the central discussion of God’s unconditional grace and mercy that the parable presents. Simon 29   Wolfgang Sommer, Die lutherishen Hofprediger in Dresden, Grundzüge ihrer Geschichte und Verkündigung im Kurfürstentum Sachsen (Stuttgart: Steiner, 2006), 47–61; idem, Gottesfurcht und Fürstenherrschaft. Studien zum Obrigkeitsverständnis Johann Arndts und lutherischer Hofprediger zur Zeit der altprotestantischen Orthodoxie (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1988), 74–104. 30   Nikolaus Selnecker, Die Propheten/Allen frommen vnd einfeltigen Christen vnd Haussua[e]tern zum vnterricht vnd trost in diesen sorglichen letzten zeiten (Leipzig, 1577), 6b-7a. 31   Ibid., 191a. 32   See, e.g., Johannes Brenz, Inscriptvm apostoli et evangelistae Matthaei de rebvs gestis Domini nostri Jesu Christ Commentarius. (Tübingen: widow of Ulrich Morhardt, 1567), 636–41, 670– 72; David Chytraeus, Commentarivs in Matthaevm Evangelistam .  .  . (Strassburg: Rihel, 1566), 132b-134b.

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Musaeus, an often-exiled Gnesio-Lutheran pastor, one-time colleague of Matthias Flacius at the University of Jena, published one of the most popular postils of the period. Christoph Vischer, ecclesiastical superintendent in the county of Henneberg at the time, and Martin Chemnitz, chief author of the Formula of Concord and superintendent of the church in the city of Braunschweig, like Musaeus spoke of the continuing recultivation of the Christian’s life of faith and service as they elucidated the text for their hearers and readers. Musaeus regarded every sermon as a catechetical sermon. He consistently informed the congregation which part of the catechism aided their understanding of the individual pericopes. In the case of Matthew 20 the text treated the third article of the Creed, the life of the church. Musaeus depicted his hearers as both the workers in the vineyard and as the branches of its vines. Sinners find themselves outside Christ’s vineyard. They are like day laborers who are standing idle in the devil’s marketplace or in his tangled forest. They need Christ, who is the vine that the branches require ( Jn 15:1–8) if their lives are to be fruitful, if they are not to stand outside the vineyard like the Turks, Jews, and heathen, as the ancient Israelites did in their apostasy. Ezekiel (16:1–14) described them as those whom God took as they lay fresh after birth, abandoned, navel cord uncut, unwashed, naked, flailing about in their own blood. God chose them, washed them, made a place for them with himself. So it is with those whom he has gathered into his vineyard, the church, as Paul described those dead in trespasses and sins whom God brought into his own people (Eph 2:1– 22). The means by which he creates and cultivates his vineyard are the proclamation of law and gospel, Musaeus continued. The law points to the misery in which the Adamic nature suffers, standing idle in the devil’s marketplace. The gospel brings the comfort of being made heirs and children of God and of receiving his protection against the devil as they serve him with true faith in God and with Christian love for the neighbor. His covenant, promised in Jeremiah 31:31–34, which calls them into the vineyard to be part of his family, is their “ forma conductionis,” their contract of employment. The parable’s central point, that God is merciful to those who have borne the heat of the day and to those who have worked but an hour, Musaeus reinforced by telling the congregation that the most holy John the Baptist is not dearer to Christ than the most unworthy thief on the cross or the greatest of sinners, Mary Magdalene. Because the text could lead hearers into the “bottomless sea of eternal election,” Musaeus warned them against searching for understanding the secret will and plan of God, which can only lead to despair. Instead, they should look alone to the mercy seat of Christ and the seal and pledge he has given in his promise as it is proclaimed and bestowed in the sacraments.33

33

  Simon Musaeus, Postilla. Das ist/ Außlegung der Euangelien/ so vber alle Sontage/ Vom

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In Luther’s style Musaeus emphasized that the members of the church, the pious workers in the vineyard, owe their place in the vineyard only to God’s bringing them there through the proclamation of repentance and the forgiveness of sins. The living faith generated by this promise of the gospel generates in turn the good works and virtues that give God honor and improve the life of the neighbor, as all believers are called to do in their respective walks of life and callings. They stand in contrast to the wicked workers in the vineyard, whom Musaeus created out of those who complained about working long and not getting a better reward. The animal imagery in the Old Testament passages which used the vineyard metaphor provided Musaeus the basis for distinguishing several kinds of wicked workers. There are the unrepentant, who appear in the church with the label “Christian” but who tear up the vineyard, like the dogs, bears, or wild pigs described so often in Holy Scripture: the tyrants who protect corruption in the church and schools or who seize church property or neglect it totally, as the psalmist lamented in Psalm 80. These wild beasts that are out to lay waste the vineyard include hypocritical and deceptive teachers and false brethren, who bore holes in the Bible and twist their words so cleverly that they easily deceive God’s people, as Ezekiel lamented (13:1–16). Musaeus next criticized the “obscene, nasty sows, who chomp down the grapes and then just spit them out again,” the antinomians, who enjoy the father’s hospitality but have contempt for his law in their libertinism. They should not have the pearl of the holy sacrament cast before them (Mt 7:6), Musaeus observed with an eye toward the practical side of exercising the office of pastor. Finally, the vineyard is also disrupted by the “arrogant, proud peacocks,” that is, those who boast of the righteousness of their own works: papists and Pharisees, who undercut the gospel and press for the performance of the law.34 Musaeus could preach the law with a sharp rebuke of sin and show his hearers how they were offending God. His address of his hearers’ and readers’ sins was consistently clear and pointed. It served as the call to repentance that prefaced his proclamation of God’s unconditional mercy, using the focal point of the parable to convey the gospel through the portrayal of God in Christ as the master of the vineyard who alone is responsible for gathering workers into the vineyard through their trust in Christ and his word of forgiveness. Thus, Musaeus used the imagery of the vineyard in the service of his preaching of law and gospel. He focused on his individual hearers without reference to papal oppression of the church and the disruption of the vineyard. Like Musaeus, Christoph Vischer reproduced the same theological accents which he and Musaeus had learned in Wittenberg in his development of the Aduent bis auff Ostern/ in der Kirchen gebreuchlich sind (Eisleben: Urban Gaubisch, 1566), 71b72b. 34   Ibid., 73a-74a.

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vineyard metaphor in the parable, but with his own approach. It did include references to the larger struggles of the church against the corruption of faithful teaching and to the cultivation of believers for faithful service to the neighbor in all aspects of life. Vischer began by sketching the never-ending battle against God’s Word that the devil is always waging, seeking to root out the seedlings planted by God. Vischer reflected the struggles of the 1560s by singling out the “Enthusiasts,” namely the Anabaptists and Caspar von Schwenkfeld. At the same time the natural tendency to trust in one’s own good works came under his criticism. As the father who owns the vineyard, God gathers his church. If it were left to human beings, it would be the devil’s vineyard, filled with thorn bushes. God in his mercy called his people without any contribution of their own, Vischer said, rejecting any attribution of the slightest power of the free will to turn to God, the subject of lively discussion within the Wittenberg circle in these years.35 In a second sermon Vischer developed the relationship between Christ and the people in his church, who are living members, despite being a small, mocked, seemingly withered, insignificant remnant. They are, in fact, high-grade stock when they receive the power of the sap from the vine, Jesus. Indeed, hypocrites remain within the church, though the godless will be pruned and thrown into the fires of hell. Those who are faithful in the vineyard are not to be sour, spoiled grapes but rather to bring forth fruit. The spoiled grapes are bitter berries, the wine they produce monstrous poison, virulent venom; only Christ can be the source of the life of vine ( Jn 15:1–6). The care of the vineyard involves a number of tasks: spading the ground, hoeing, fertilizing, pruning, so that the vines produce tasty, sweet fruit, according to Vischer. More explicitly than the others considered here, Vischer explicated Luther’s concern for what Hendrix calls the “Christianization of society.”36 He discussed the discipleship of people in medieval society’s schema of three walks of life, those who teach (the realm of the church), those who keep public order (the realm of political and social life), and those who provide sustenance for all (the realm of family and economic activities). He insisted that all are vital parts of God’s vineyard: preachers and hearers of the Word, rulers and subjects, parents, children, servants. Vischer outlined the callings of those in each of these walks of life and tied them into his description of the church, using the vineyard imagery in detail. Christ has commended the vineyard which he bought and fertilizes into the care of faithful preachers. They are to dig out the old, unproductive, wild plants and plant new, fruit-bearing seedlings, and tend them faithfully, cutting off the shoots that are not going to bear fruit that they sprout, 35   Christoph Vischer, Außlegung Der Euangelien/ so man auff die Sontage in der Christlichen Kirchen zu handeln Pfleget/ Vom Aduent bis auff Ostern Darinnen Ein jedes Euangelium in drey/ bisweilen in vier Predigten verfassen ist (Smalcald: Michael Schmuck, 1570), Qq3b-Qq6b. 36   Hendrix, Recultivating the Vineyard, 17–24, 155–60.

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supporting the branches, chopping out the thorns, thistles, and every other kind of weed. That means they are to call the coarse, secure sinners in their congregation to repentance, jolting their consciences. Furthermore, they are to comfort and lift up troubled consciences with the gospel. They are to maintain Christian discipline in the congregation, ridding the hearers of false teaching and godless behavior, through preaching God’s saving Word without corruption and falsification. They are to be examples to their flocks, visit the sick and comfort them, and carry out the other duties of their office. The members of the congregation are to hear God’s Word with diligence and keep it in their hearts, bear fruit with patience, be rich in good works, and use the sacraments in worthy fashion.37 Vischer employed the same framework of the distinction of law and gospel which Musaeus had; he used the parable of the vineyard to call his people to repentance and to give them the forgiveness of sins. His sermons explicitly addressed the larger struggle of the church and at the same time applied consolation and instruction to the individual lives of his hearers and readers. Martin Chemnitz also pursued the potential of the metaphor of the vineyard or, as he drew the parallel, a Lustgarten – the park on a noble estate designed for relaxation and entertainment 38 – , which God has created by calling together his church. Chemnitz made certain that the congregation understood that their salvation depends totally on God’s gracious plan and work of salvation in Jesus Christ, but then he went on to develop the figure of the vineyard to describe the life of the church and its members. They had been nothing but wild weeds, thorns and thistles, brushwood, vines which produce only sour, bitter grapes until they were gathered into the vineyard. Chemnitz warned against returning to a sinful way of life lest they produce no fruit or only bad fruit. Then they could expect to be pruned like deadwood or cut down like a tree that has ceased to bear, and be thrown into eternal fire. For God had planted his prize vine, Jesus Christ ( Jn 15:1–6), in the vineyard to give the power of his sap to all the branches of the vine.39

37

  Ibid., Rr3a–Rr6b.   This metaphor for the church occurred toward the end of the sixteenth century from time to time in Lutheran literature. A pastor in Eisleben, Heinrich Decimator, prefaced his sermons on Luther’s catechism by comparing the catechism to a Lustgarten, in which the devil had used his implement, the pope, to lay waste what God had planted, but God had used his implement and gardener, Martin Luther, to restore the garden and cultivate it in a salutary, Christian fashion with lovely, beneficial flowers, Predigten/ No[e]tige vnd Nützliche Erklerung deß heiligen Catechismi/ D. Martini Lutheri, .  .  . (Mühlhausen: Henning Gross, 1594), (:)2a. I am grateful to Professor Austra Reinis for this reference. 39   Martin Chemnitz, Postilla Oder Außlegung der Euangelien/ welche auff die Sontage/ Vnd fu[e]rnembste Feste/ durchs gantze Jahr in der gemeine Gottes erkleret werden, ed. Melchior Neukirchen (Magdeburg: Johann Franck, 1594), 346–49. 38

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Chemnitz then sketched the vineyard with reference both to the Old Testament descriptions of Israel as vineyard and to the appearance and activities of a German vineyard. God built a fence around the vineyard to protect it from wild animals and thieves who would break into the vineyard to root out the vines or to steal the grapes. He built a tower in which he sits and watches carefully over his vineyard. He plants new vines through baptism, and he expects, as Paul wrote in Romans 6, that they will bring forth good fruit. With a sharp blade he prunes his people through the cross and various afflictions, through the Word that calls to repentance and returns people to faith in Christ. He protects them from the devil and false teachers, who would lead them astray and prevent them from bearing good fruit. God’s protection of his vines, his vineyard, should be of great comfort to his people, Chemnitz maintained.40 The distinction of law and gospel, the call for repentance and the delivery of consolation for the repentant, guided Chemnitz’s treatment of this parable as well. He focused, as had Musaeus, on the individual Christian life, apparently believing that individual trust in Christ and service to the neighbor would improve the life of both the church and the society in which it was embedded. Neither the rich depiction of the vineyard nor the pointed polemic against the papacy took extensive hold in exegetical employment of the metaphor of the vineyard in Paul Eber’s time. Nonetheless, this image did serve some Lutheran preachers and exegetes as a means of placing their own time into the eschatological context of God’s battle against Satan within the church. Furthermore, it served as a foundation for discussing the recultivation of individual Christian lives as believers repented and lived out their new life in Christ. This peek through a narrow knothole at one stage on which the process labeled “confessionalization” in recent decades was being acted out in sixteenthcentury Germany, that of homiletical and exegetical treatments of the most prominent Scripture passages employing the image of the vineyard, confirms Hendrix’s judgment that those educated in Wittenberg by Luther and Melanchthon aimed at more than merely social discipline and control. Their energies were devoted to “the continuation of efforts to Christianize European cities and territories,” to instilling their new version of Christianity and thus to curbing “whatever improper notions and practices still existed. Before creating obedient subjects, the process of confessionalization” – and these preachers and professors within it – “strove to create wholehearted supporters of the new creed” within their congregations and ministeria.41 Luther’s and Melanchthon’s convictions that the eschatological struggle between God and Satan continues promoted a perception of the pastor’s task as that of continual recultivation of Christ’s vine40 41

  Ibid., 349–52.   Hendrix, Recultivating the Vineyard, 157.

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yard, the church, and the branches which constituted it, the individual hearers of God’s Word in their congregations. This recultivation involved the uprooting of withered vines, of sinful practices, and the planting anew of faith in the lives of the members of the congregation. From this faith, these preachers were certain, would flow new obedience, the fruit of faith. This underlying mandate which Luther and Melanchthon placed upon their students found expression in sermons and lectures on the relevant passages just as it found expression in Cranach’s painting.

Christianization Through Consolation Urbanus Rhegius’s Soul-Medicine for the Healthy and the Sick in These Dangerous Times (1529) Ronald K. Rittgers Over the past couple of decades Scott Hendrix has significantly enriched the field of Reformation Studies through his many stimulating and original scholarly works. Two of the more notable topics in his oeuvre have been the theology and ministry of Urbanus Rhegius (1489–1541) and the concept of Reformation as Christianization. Hendrix is a leading Rhegius scholar, having provided a number of introductions to the life and thought of this leading sixteenth-century evangelical reformer, along with treatments of his views of the Augsburg Confession, the Fathers, the Jews, Scripture, angels, and preaching. Hendrix articulated and defended the idea of the Reformation as an effort at deeper Christianization especially in his 2004 book, Recultivating the Vineyard:    “Rhegius, Urbanus,” The Oxford Encyclopedia of the Reformation [hereafter OER] (New York: Oxford University Press, 1996), 3:429–30; “Die Bedeutung des Urbanus Rhegius für die Ausbreitung der Wittenberger Reformation,” in Humanismus und Wittenberger Reformation: Festgabe anlässlich des 500. Geburtstages des Praeceptor Germaniae Philipp Melanchthon am 16. Februar 1997, Helmar Junghans gewidmet, ed. Michael Beyer and Günther Wartenberg (Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 1996), 53–72; “Rhegius, Urbanus (1489–1541),” Theologische Realenzyklopädie [hereafter TRE] (Berlin & New York: Walter de Gruyter, 1998), 29:155–57; “Urbanus Rhegius,” in The Reformation Theologians: An Introduction to Theology in the Early Modern Period, ed. Carter Lindberg (Oxford: Blackwell, 2002), 109–23; “Urbanus Rhegius, Frontline Reformer,” Lutheran Quarterly 18 (2004): 76–87.    “Urbanus Rhegius and the Augsburg Confession,” Sixteenth Century Journal 11 (1980): 63–74; “Validating the Reformation: The Use of the Church Fathers by Urbanus Rhegius,” in Ecclesia Militans: Studien zur Konzilien- und Reformationsgeschichte, ed. Walter Brandmüller, Herbert Immenkötter, and Erwin Iserloh (Paderborn: Schöningh, 1988), 2:281–305; “The Use of Scripture in Establishing Protestantism: The Case of Urbanus Rhegius,” in The Bible in the Sixteenth Century, ed. David C. Steinmetz (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 1990), 37–49; “Toleration of the Jews in the German Reformation: Urbanus Rhegius and Braunschweig 1535–1540,” Archive for Reformation History 81 (1990): 189–215; Editor and Translator, Preaching the Reformation: The Homiletical Handbook of Urbanus Rhegius (Milwaukee: Marquette University Press, 2003); “Angelic Piety in the Reformation: The Good and Bad Angels of Urbanus Rhegius,” in Frömmigkeit, Theologie, Frömmigkeitstheologie. Festschrift für Berndt Hamm zum 60. Geburtstag, ed. Gudrun Litz, Heidrun Munzert, and Roland Liebenberg (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2005), 385–94.

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The Reformation Agendas of Christianization. He maintained that the sixteenthcentury reformers – Protestant, Catholic, and Radical – were united by a common goal of “Christianizing Christendom.” The Reformation was “a missionary campaign that envisioned a renewed Christian society in Europe.” This campaign was of course already underway in the Middle Ages, therefore Hendrix argues, “The Reformation was not a new drama, but the second act of the same drama, the act in which the plot thickened and took an unexpected and unprecedented twist.” The concept of Christianization thus allows Hendrix to stress important lines of continuity between late medieval and early modern Christian renewal efforts, although he is careful to acknowledge important discontinuities as well, both between Catholics and non-Catholics, as well as between and amongst Protestants and Radicals: Hendrix maintains that there was great agreement on the necessity of deeper Christianization but also much disagreement on its specific content and course. My task in this chapter is to draw a connection between the theology and ministry of Urbanus Rhegius and the concept of Christianization. The analysis of this connection relies heavily on the work of Hendrix, although the connection itself does not appear in his works. Rhegius was one of the sixteenth century’s most important spiritual guides for the sick, the suffering, and the dying, as well as for those who attended to them. This ministry of instruction and consolation, especially through the written word, may be seen as a deliberate attempt at Christianization on the part of Rhegius; he was a missionary who sought to make Christendom more authentically Christian through the development and promotion of an evangelical ministry of consolation – he sought to Christianize through consolation. Rhegius was certainly not alone in this effort. Armed with the conviction that justification by faith had profound implications for how one faced suffering and death, evangelical reformers engaged in a massive effort to reform attitudes

   Recultivating the Vineyard: The Reformation Agendas of Christianization (Louisville and London: Westminster John Knox Press, 2004). See also two related earlier works by Hendrix: “Rerooting the Faith: The Reformation as Re-Christianization,” Church History 69 (2000): 558–77; “Rerooting the Faith: The Coherence and Significance of the Reformation,” The Princeton Seminary Bulletin N.S. 21 (2000): 63–80.    Hendrix, Recultivating the Vineyard, vii.    Ibid., 174. The term Reformation comprises Protestant, Catholic, and Radical reform movements for Hendrix. Earlier in the same work he explains, “I prefer to speak of Protestant, Radical, and Catholic reform movements and to reserve the term Reformation for the period as a whole in order not to lose sight of its religious purpose, overall vision, and unprecedented results.” A few lines later he adds, “Assigning Catholic reform to one Reformation avoids casting Protestants and dissenters in the role of schismatics from the one true church that made a smooth transition from late-medieval Christianity to early modern Roman Catholicism.” See p.  123.    Ibid., xx.

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toward misfortune and mortality among their lay and clerical contemporaries. For many of the evangelical reformers, the battle to Christianize – or perhaps better, re-Christianize  – Christendom took place especially in the trenches of pastoral care. The ability to persuade the sick and the dying to understand and to cope with their suffering more Christianly – at least according to evangelical lights – became for these reformers the single most important indicator of their movement’s success (or failure). This is why they expended such tremendous effort in developing a new evangelical ministry of consolation, something that is well attested in the scholarly literature. After all, Protestant reformers such as Rhegius were asking their contemporaries to reject important aspects of the traditional ministry of consolation, including the invocation of saints and recourse to various sacramentals, along with the belief that suffering could function as a penance for sin. The reformers needed to provide their contemporaries with a satisfying ersatz for these allegedly pagan practices and beliefs if the evangelical movement was to have any hope of survival. Arguably Rhegius’s most significant contribution to this larger effort to Christianize through consolation was his enormously popular treatise, SoulMedicine for the Healthy and the Sick in these Dangerous Times, which first appeared in 1529 in Augsburg.10 The Soul-Medicine went through an astounding 121 editions in the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries and was translated from 

  See the discussion of this point in chs. 6 and 7 of my forthcoming book, The Reformation of Suffering: A Study of Pastoral Theology and Lay Piety in Late Medieval and Early Modern Germany (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2012).    I argue in a book review of Recultivating the Vineyard that “re-Christianization” rather than “Christianization” is a more appropriate term for the Protestant and Radical efforts to make Europe more Christian. See Church History 80, no.4 (Dec 2011): 863–75.    Several decades ago Paul Althaus argued, “Es ist für die evangelische Kirche charakteristisch, daß sie keinem Zweige der praktisch-erbaulichen Literatur eine so intensive und liebevolle Pflege hat angedeihen lassen wie den Trostschriften für Kranke und Sterbende. Bei keinem Anlasse machte sich das Bedürfnis nach religiöser Belehrung und geistlicher Zusprache dringender geltend, als in der Leidenslage der Krankheit und Todesnot mit ihren schweren Anfechtungen. Nirgends war zugleich der Kirche so sehr Gelegenheit gegeben, ihres evangelischen Trostamts zu warten und den ganzen Reichtum des ihr anvertrauten Heilschatzes in Bewegung zu setzen, als an Kranken- und Sterbebetten.” Althaus identifies Rhegius as a key figure in this effort. Forschungen zur Evangelischen Gebetsliteratur (Hildesheim: Georg Olms Verlagsbuchhandlung, 1966) [originally published in 1927 by the Verlag G. Mohn in Gütersloh], 37. Luise Klein has also emphasized the centrality of Trost in evangelical theology, something she says is especially evident in the early evangelical Sterbebücher, which sought to provide peace to troubled consciences as they were assailed by various Anfechtungen brought on by death; the source of this peace was justification by faith. See “Die Bereitung zum Sterben. Studien zu den Frühen Reformatorischen Sterbebüchern” (PhD diss., University of Göttingen, 1958), 1–3. 10   The printer, Alexander Weissenhorn, was best known for publishing Catholic works against the evangelical movement, although he also published a few works by Luther. See Gunther Franz, Huberinus-Rhegius-Holbein: Bibliographische und druckgeschichtliche Untersuchung der verbreitesten Trost- und Erbauungschriften des 16. Jahrhunderts (Nieuwkoop: B. De Graaf, 1973), 28.

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the original High German into nine different languages. There are sixty-four extant editions of the work either on its own or with other works by Rhegius; twenty-six editions with Consolation from Divine Scripture (1529), which was produced by Rhegius’s fellow Augsburg reformer, Caspar Huberinus; 11 and thirtyone editions with both Huberinus’s work and the images from Holbein’s Dance of Death.12 Devotional works comprised the largest portion of printed works in the sixteenth century, and treatments of death and dying were among the most popular subgenres within the Erbauungsliteratur.13 Few works in this subgenre were as well-known as the Soul-Medicine, not even Luther’s A Sermon on Preparing to Die (1519), which went through twenty-six editions.14 Gunther Franz asserts that Rhegius’s Soul-Medicine and Huberinus’s Consolation from Divine Scripture “were the most frequently published books of their kind in the sixteenth century, the publication of which was probably exceeded only by that of Bibles and catechisms alone.”15 Owing to the popularity of the Soul-Medicine, this chapter will focus especially on its contents and what they reveal about the mission of Urbanus Rhegius to reform contemporary attitudes toward suffering and death.16 Rhegius wrote the Soul-Medicine while he was serving as the preacher in the Carmelite Church of St. Anna in Augsburg, a post he had held since 1524.17 11

  The two works were first published together in 1536. Huberinus did not hold an official church office in Augsburg at this point. For biographical information see Franz, HuberinusRhegius-Holbein, 3–4; Allgemeine Deutsche Biographie (1881), 13:258–259; and Neue Deutsche Biographie (1972), 9:701 – both articles and relevant bibliographical information can be accessed at http://www.deutsche-biographie.de/sfz72939.html. Huberinus produced two other works that followed his Tröstung aus Göttlicher Schrift very closely: Wie man den sterbenden trösten und im zusprechen solle (1529) and Wie man die kranken trösten soll (1542). 12   Franz, Huberinus-Rhegius-Holbein, 214. 13   Ibid., 215. See also Klein, “Die Bereitung zum Sterben,” 2. 14   Franz, Huberinus-Rhegius-Holbein, 215. 15   Ibid., 266. 16   The analysis to follow relies on the edition of the Seelenärtzney für die gesunden und kranken zu disen gefärlichen zeyten provided by Franz in Huberinus-Rhegius-Holbein, 241–60 (=VD 16: R 1889). (Franz also provides excerpts from a somewhat expanded version that appeared just twice – 1530 and 1531 in Augsburg – under the title Geystlich ärtzney für gesund und kranken zu[o] disen gefärlichen zeyten, gemert und gebessert [=VD 16: R 1891]. These excerpts appear in the notes to the Seelenärtzney.) The only other sustained treatment of the Seelenärzney with which I am familiar appears in Hellmut Zschoch, Reformatorische Existenz und konfessionelle Identität. Urbanus Rhegius als evangelischer Theologe in den Jahren 1520 bis 1530 (Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr [Paul Siebeck], 1995), 340–47. Zschoch does not examine the Seelenärtzney from the perspective of Christianization, nor does he make some of the important comparisons to the late medieval ars moriendi tradition that I offer below. 17   Unless otherwise specified, the biographical information in this section is drawn from the literature in n. 1 above, and from Hellmut Zschoch, “Rhegius (Rieger), Urbanus (1489– 1541),” Biographisch-Bibliographisches Kirchenlexikon Band  V III (1994), Spalten 122–34, available online at http://www.bautz.de/bbkl/r/rhegius_u.shtml. The Seelenärtzney was Rhegius’s final publication during his tenure in Augsburg.

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This was Rhegius’s second appointment in Augsburg; from late 1520 to early 1522 he had been the preacher in the imperial city’s cathedral. Owing to his public assaults on traditional church teaching and practice, he had been replaced as cathedral preacher, and had then returned to the Lake Constance region for a time before taking up a preaching position in the St. Nikolaus Church in Hall (Tirol). (Rhegius was originally from Langenargen, a town located on Lake Constance between Switzerland and Germany.) Prior to coming to Augsburg in 1520, Rhegius had been pursuing his education at a number of universities. After attending the Latin school in Lindau, Rhegius studied at the universities of Freiburg (1508–1512), Ingolstadt (1512–1518), Tübingen (1519), and Basel (1520). He earned the baccalaureate degree in Freiburg, the masters in Ingolstadt, and the doctorate in theology (or its equivalent) in Basel.18 Early on he became acquainted with humanism and was soon an ardent devotee of this movement of intellectual and spiritual renewal; 19 he became proficient in Greek and Hebrew (in addition to Latin), corresponded with Erasmus, participated in a sodalitas with the famous humanist Aventius,20 and in 1517 received the title of poet laureate from Emperor Maximilian I. He also became familiar with scholasticism, especially through his contact with Johann Eck, whom he met at the University of Freiburg and whom he followed to the University of Ingolstadt. So enamored of Eck was Rhegius that he wrote humanistic poems in praise of his teacher.21 Under the influence of Johann Fabri, whom he had also met at the University of Freiburg and with whom he had lived for a time in Constance, Rhegius was ordained to the priesthood in 1519. (Fabri later became the bishop of Vienna and a staunch opponent of the evangelical movement.) Late in 1520 Rhegius accepted the call to become the cathedral preacher in Augsburg. One of the new cathedral preacher’s first official tasks was to read aloud from his pulpit the bull that threatened Luther with excommunication; this occurred on 30 December 1520.22 However, a few months later Rhegius wrote a pamphlet arguing that Exsurge Domine rather than Luther posed the real threat to Christian souls. It seems that Rhegius was sympathetic to Luther’s cause already 18   There has been some disagreement among Rhegius scholars about whether he earned the doctorate or some lesser degree at Basel. See Maximilian Liebmann, Urbanus Rhegius und die Anfänge der Reformation (Münster Westfalen: Aschendorffsche Verlagsbuchhandlung, 1980), 108–11. Hendrix argues that Rhegius at least attained the degree of Sententiarius. See “Rhegius, Urbanus (1489–1541),” TRE, 29:155. 19   On Rhegius’s relationship with humanism see Rainer Vinke, “Urbanus Rhegius,” in Peter G. Bietenholz, ed., Contemporaries of Erasmus: A Biographical Register of the Renaissance and Reformation (Buffalo and Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1987), 3:151–53. 20   On Aventius see Gerald Strauss, Historian in an Age of Crisis: The Life and Work of Johannes Aventius, 1477–1534 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1963). 21   See Hendrix, “Validating the Reformation,” 285. 22   On Rhegius’s term as cathedral preacher, including his reading out of Exsurge Domine and its aftermath, see Liebmann, Urbanus Rhegius und die Anfänge der Reformation, 134–47.

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in the spring of 1520,23 which suggests that he read out Exsurge Domine under some duress. Because of his opposition to the papal bull, his decision to attack the practice of indulgences, and his treatment of other evangelical themes in sermons, poems, and pamphlets, the authorities in Augsburg sought a replacement for him in 1522; Rome had also been pressuring them in this direction.24 The city fathers and members of the cathedral chapter had certain sympathies with the evangelical movement, as did many Augsburgers, but the leaders also wished to keep the peace, something Rhegius’s public assaults on the alleged abuses of the church threatened. Rhegius’s commitment to the evangelical cause only grew stronger during his time in Austria, and when the council invited him back in 1523, he returned as a fully-fledged evangelical preacher. The council, which had a more pro-evangelical composition at this point, had allowed the evangelical movement to grow in the interim, although it still sought to temporize for fear of imperial aggression and financial loss – the Augsburgbased Fuggers were adamantly opposed to the Reformation.25 Over the next couple of years, Rhegius wrote and preached on nearly every conceivable topic of interest to an evangelical reformer. He also engaged in public acts of defiance against the old order of things. In June of 1525 he married the Augsburg citizen Anna Weissbrucker, just three days after Luther married Katherine von Bora. On Christmas Day of the same year he presided at the first evangelical celebration of the Lord’s Supper in Augsburg. Although Rhegius would later support both the Augsburg Confession and the Smalcald Articles, it is not entirely clear where he stood on the divisive issue of eucharistic theology in the 1520s. His theology of the Lord’s Supper in this period has been variously described as Lutheran, Zwinglian, Erasmian, or, more recently, as beyond simple either-or categorization,26 something that could also be said of the religious scene in Augsburg itself, which from the early 1520s on was never mono-confessional. Rhegius adopted the same mediating or eclectically evangelical policy on private confession.27 The Augsburg preacher was deeply concerned about evangelical unity and did all he could to support the efforts of Philip of Hesse and others to effect and preserve it. (Rhegius was prevented by illness from attending the Marburg Colloquy.) He may be seen as a representative of a group of clergymen who were decidedly evangelical in their basic 23   See Douglas Brian Hampton, “Urbanus Rhegius and the Spread of the German Reformation” (PhD diss., Ohio State University, 1973), 21. 24   For a discussion of the somewhat unclear and complicated circumstances under which Rhegius lost his position as cathedral preacher, see ibid., 60–61. 25   Ibid., 98–105. 26   See Zschoch, Reformatorische Existenz, 165–217 (especially 168), and 304–33. On the great variety of eucharistic theologies in Augsburg during the 1520s, something Zschoch also stresses, see Lee Palmer Wandel, The Eucharist in the Reformation: Incarnation and Liturgy (Cambridge, UK; New York: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 46–93. 27   See Liebmann, Urbanus Rhegius und die Anfänge der Reformation, 174–88.

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theological convictions regarding justification and the primacy of Scripture, but who believed in the possibility of different views – or at least different emphases – on contested issues such as the Lord’s Supper and private confession. However, Rhegius’s irenicism knew limits: he flatly rejected the Anabaptist doctrine of believer’s baptism and the Spiritualist emphasis on direct inspiration and visions from the Holy Spirit.28 Although Rhegius admired Zwingli and had been in correspondence with him since 1519,29 he was finally more devoted to Luther. After the close of the 1530 Diet of Augsburg – Rhegius belonged to the party of theologians who produced the Augsburg Confession 30 – he met the Wittenberg reformer at the Coburg. He had high praise for Luther, asserting that words could not convey how great he was. Luther was “a theologian for the entire world” who had no equal, therefore no scholar could judge him.31 Still, Rhegius does not appear to have reduced the Reformation to Luther’s person and theology, and he therefore resisted the growing tendency in the Wittenberg reformer of seeking to claim sole possession and authority over the movement for himself, something that has elicited sharp criticism from Hendrix.32 Rhegius’s guiding concerns were pastoral. Although he was highly educated, his cast of mind was practical. He never held a university chair and always saw himself first and foremost as a pastor. As Hendrix explains, “Seen through the eyes of Rhegius, the Reformation seemed much more practical than academic and more similar to the day-to-day work of clergy than to the ruminations of scholars.”33 Even before he warmed to the evangelical movement Rhegius demonstrated concern for the quality of pastoral care in his day. Prior to assuming the cathedral preachership in Augsburg Rhegius had already written one treatise on the dignity of the priesthood and another one for use in the training and testing of candidates for ordained ministry.34 One sees Rhegius’s concern for the 28   See Hampton, “Urbanus Rhegius and the Spread of the German Reformation,” 178– 203; and Zschoch, Reformatorische Existenz, 218–95. 29   See Liebmann, Urbanus Rhegius und die Anfänge der Reformation, 127–31. 30   See Hendrix, “Urbanus Rhegius and the Augsburg Confession.” 31   See Hendrix, “Die Bedeutung des Urbanus Rhegius für die Ausbreitung der Wittenberger Reformation,” 54; and Hendrix, “Urbanus Rhegius, Frontline Reformer,” 77. 32   Hendrix has argued that by late 1521 Luther had begun to see the Reformation as his own movement, viewing himself as a kind of new St. Paul who was divinely called to replant apostolic Christianity in Germany. Hendrix is highly critical of this development: “Luther’s claims to exclusive authority over the movement was audacious, and it prevented in part the coalescence of evangelical growth into a unified movement. .  .  . As early as 1522, those claims were making him insufferable to opponents and difficult even for colleagues.” Recultivating the Vineyard, 54. 33   Preaching the Reformation, 5. Hendrix made this statement in reference to Rhegius’s Formula quaedam caute et citra scandalum loquendi de praecipuis Christianae doctrinae locis (1535), but it also holds for the entirety of his career. 34   The titles of the two works: Opusculum de dignitate sacerdotum incomparabili (1519) and Cura pastoralis (1520).

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quality of the clergy especially in a letter that he sent to a fellow humanist about the state of affairs in the diocese of Constance. Writing in 1519, Rhegius lamented, There are so many uneducated people in the priesthood that I can perhaps be regarded as distinguished in comparison to many. You are right in your complaint that many incompetent people are continually being consecrated to God’s service, among whom one finds neither morality [n]or learning. I am for this reason quite angry with those who are responsible for giving the examinations because they are admitting the ignorant and uneducated into our ranks. They excuse themselves by saying that if they do not make allowance for the deficient education of the candidates there will soon not be any more priests. I have only recently convinced myself of this again when I took part in an examination and found among thirty candidates scarcely one who was moderately well educated.35

Hendrix has suggested that Rhegius’s concern to reform the clergy may have been motivated in part by his own dishonorable origins: he was the product of a union between a priest and his concubine.36 Whatever its roots, this desire to improve the quality of the clergy and their pastoral care persisted throughout his career. It clearly informed the Soul-Medicine and also shaped Rhegius’s later works. In 1530 he accepted an invitation from Duke Ernest of Lüneburg, a signatory of the Augsburg Confession, to help him consolidate evangelical reforms in his territories. Assuming the office of superintendent, Rhegius worked tirelessly to realize the duke’s goal. He produced a homiletical handbook for young preachers in the duchy of Lüneburg that went through numerous editions, and also prepared church ordinances for the cities of Lüneburg and Hannover, along with an ordination exam for pastoral candidates.37 Luther was so impressed with these efforts that he eulogized Rhegius as the bishop of Lower Saxony. Before his death in 1541 Rhegius attended the meeting of Protestants in Schmalkalden, signing Luther’s Smalcald Articles and Melanchthon’s Treatise on the Power and Primacy of the Pope. He was also present at the 1540 colloquy in Hagenau, which sought to mend the rift between Protestants and Catholics in the empire, something Rhegius thought was unlikely at that point. For his part, Rhegius believed the evangelical faith was compatible with the best of Patristic theology,38 although he knew only too well that his Catholic opponents saw things differ35

18.

  Cited in Hampton, “Urbanus Rhegius and the Spread of the German Reformation,”

36

  OER, s.v. “Rhegius, Urbanus.”   Hendrix has provided an English translation of the Formulae quaedam .  .  . in Preaching the Reformation. The church orders for Lüneburg and Hannover may be found in Emil Sehling, ed., Die evangelischen Kirchenordnungen des XVI Jahrhunderts (Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr [Paul Siebeck], 1955 and 1957), VI/I, Pt. 1: 633–49, and VI/I, Pt. 2:940–1017, respectively. The title of the ordination exam is Examen episcopi in ducatu Luneburgensi (1538). 38   See Hendrix, “Validating the Reformation.” 37

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ently. Justification by faith lay at the heart of Rhegius’s evangelical Christianity, but he was eager to stress the importance of repentance and good works, both of which he felt had been either downplayed or ignored by too many in the evangelical movement.39 These two concerns informed his life’s work of seeking to reform pastoral care and may be clearly seen in his most popular writing, the Soul-Medicine. Rhegius’s Soul-Medicine was an attempt to reform the ars moriendi tradition along evangelical lines. He joined other evangelical reformers such as Luther, Johannes Oecolampadius, Thomas Venatorius, Johannes Bugenhagen, Wenzeslaus Link, Johannes Odenbach, Jakob Otter, and, of course, Caspar Huberinus in an effort to apply the insights of justification by faith to the medieval art of dying tradition. This tradition stretched back to Anselm of Canterbury (1034–1109) and received its defining shape from Jean Gerson (1363–1429).40 The works produced by Gerson and his German-speaking supporters like Johannes Geiler von Kaysersberg (1445–1510) and Gabriel Biel (ca. 1412–1495) were extremely popular in the later Middle Ages,41 a fact that is at least partly attributable to the ravages of the Black Death and the presence of other lethal challenges to human life at this time. The popularity of the ars moriendi literature only continued in the Reformation period, with the works of Rhegius and Huberinus leading the way in the Protestant world. The new evangelical literature served a vital function in the pastoral care and devotion of the entire early modern period, but it took on a special importance in the 1520s when works like the Soul-Medicine were first published. Because the evangelical church ordinances were not yet on the scene, these works were the only source of instruction available to pastors and laypeople who wished to minister to the sick and dying in an evangelical 39   Hendrix has stressed the importance of Melanchthon’s 1528 Unterricht der Visitatoren for Rhegius’s theology. This work emphasizes the importance of repentance and good works in the Christian life as it seeks to prevent abuse of the Christian freedom provided in the evangelical gospel. See “Urbanus Rhegius and the Augsburg Confession,” 69; “The Use of Scripture in Establishing Protestantism,” 48; and Preaching the Reformation, 11. 40   See the treatments of the ars moriendi tradition and the early evangelical effort to reform it in Claudia Resch, Trost im Angesicht des Todes: Frühe reformatorische Anleitungen zur Seelsorge an Kranken und Sterbenden (Tübingen and Basel: A. Francke Verlag, 2006); and Austra Reinis, Reforming the Art of Dying: The ars moriendi in the German Reformation (1519–1528) (Aldershot, UK and Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2007). See also Rainer Rudolf, “Ars moriendi I,” TRE 4:143–49. The name of the work attributed (perhaps falsely) to Anselm is the Admonitio Anselmi, while Gerson’s defining work is the Opus tripartitum (manuscript, ca. 1404; incunabulum, 1467), part three of which is entitled De arte moriendi. Part three first appeared as a separate work (in French) and continued to be published on its own after Gerson included it in the Opus tripartitum. 41   Resch, Trost im Angesicht des Todes, 17. The title of Geiler’s work, which was based on the Opus tripartitum, is the Tötenbüchlein (Wie man sich halten sol by eym sterbenden menschen), which appeared in 1480/81. Geiler later translated the Opus tripartitum into German (Der dreieckecht Spiegel – 1510), something Gabriel Biel had already done in 1475.

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manner. The majority of the evangelical church ordinances, which started appearing in large numbers in the 1530s and 40s, contained a section on the pastoral care of the sick and dying. These ordinances borrowed from the early evangelical consolation literature and also referred pastors to works such as Rhegius’s Soul-Medicine.42 However, the church ordinances removed neither the need nor the demand for such literature, as the continued publication of the Soul-Medicine and works like it attests. The overwhelming amount of human suffering in the early modern period ensured that authors of consolation literature always had a ready market. Before turning to assess the content of Rhegius’s work, a word about its extraordinary popularity is in order. The success of the Soul-Medicine may be attributed to a number of factors. It is clear, uncomplicated, relatively brief – just twenty-four octavo pages in the original edition – and very practical: it contains numerous suggestions for how consolers may minister to the sick and the dying, providing actual wording that can be used.43 It is also flexible, never requiring the consoler to follow its instructions slavishly, but encouraging him (or her) to draw upon its content as best suits the immediate situation. While Rhegius was seeking to evangelize in the Soul-Medicine, the work is not polemical. Readers are encouraged to console in an evangelical manner, but this is done without decrying alleged Catholic infidelities to the gospel – there is no mention of the traditional ars moriendi literature and its supposed abuses. There is also little mention of other theologians, even the Fathers: just one reference to Augustine, which is somewhat unexpected given Rhegius’s great affection for Patristic theology.44 Clearly, Rhegius was trying to produce a work that would be accessible to a large readership, and he assumed that this readership would be unnecessarily distracted from the task at hand by references to ancient theologians. Scripture is the main source in the Soul-Medicine, in fact, aside from the Augustine reference, it is the only source quoted in the work; Rhegius writes in the SoulMedicine that he has created it from Christ’s “pharmacy of the Holy Scripture” (apotek der heiligen schrift).45 Finally, while Rhegius’s work has a lot to say about 42   See Resch, Trost im Angesicht des Todes, 132–36. See also my forthcoming article, “Pastoral Care as Protestant Mission: Ministry to the Sick and Suffering in the Evangelical Church Ordinances,” Archive for Reformation History. 43   On the practical nature of the Seelenärtzney see Resch, Trost im Angesicht des Todes, 94. 44   See Hendrix, “Validating the Reformation.” See also Rhegius’s preface to the Hannover Church Ordinance, which contains a very detailed treatment of the relationship between the evangelical creed and Patristic theology: Sehling, Die evangelischen Kirchenordnungen, VI/I, Pt. 2:944–1000. For the single mention of Augustine see Seelenärtzney, in Franz, Huberinus-Rhegius-Holbein, 259, note o. Editions of the Seelenärtzney that appeared with images from the Totentanz could include works of consolation by Cyprian and Chrysostom. See Franz, Huberinus-Rhegius-Holbein, 130–44. (Hereafter, Seelenärtzney refers to the edition of Rhegius’s treatise provided in Franz, Huberinus-Rhegius-Holbein; Franz, Huberinus-RhegiusHolbein refers to other portions of Franz’s book.) 45   Seelenärtzney, 260.

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divine judgment and the need for repentance, it also contains a great deal of pastoral warmth and compassion, which surely commended it to consolers in the early modern period. The Soul-Medicine emerged out of a context of both personal and corporate suffering, as well as eschatological urgency: Rhegius was quite ill when he wrote it and Augsburg was experiencing an outbreak of the “English Sweating Disease” when it first appeared. Rhegius writes as a co-sufferer who wishes to share with others how to find peace in the midst of “these dangerous times,” by which he meant both the immediate threat of the sweating sickness and the imminent threat of the Second Coming.46 It was precisely the aforementioned qualities that made so many early devotional works of Luther into bestsellers; 47 the Soul-Medicine appealed to a similar audience and for the same reasons. Rhegius’s desire to Christianize through consolation is readily evident in the Soul-Medicine. The second edition, which appeared in 1530 in Augsburg, contains a lengthy introduction that addresses the hopelessness of pagan approaches to death.48 Rhegius observes that pagans have good reason to fear death and to avoid thinking and talking about it because they have no sure hope of a better post-mortem existence: “they are without every consolation” (on allen trost seind sie). They may long for an afterlife and perhaps even affirm the immortality of the soul, but they have no certain knowledge of what will become of the body and human existence itself after death. The great advantage of Christianity is that it provides precisely this knowledge and assurance through Scripture and

46   At the end of the Seelenärtzney Rhegius writes that he has prepared the work “in eyl und grosser schwachayt.” Seelenärtzney, 259. However, he was not suffering from the English Sweating Sickness. In September of 1529 Rhegius revealed in a letter to Philip of Hesse that he had been ill for over a year and therefore could not attend the planned colloquy in Marburg: “denn ich bin nun mehr denn ein ganz Jahr im Haupt flüssig gewesen, daß ich oft die Luft nicht leiden kann.” Cited in Gerhard Uhlhorn, Urbanus Rhegius: Leben und Ausgewählte Schriften (Elberfeld: R. L. Friderichs, 1861 [second edition: Nieuwkoop: De Graaf, 1968]), 145. On the outbreak of the English Sweating disease in Augsburg at the time of the Seelenärtzney’s first printing see Claudia Resch, “‘Englischer Schweiss’ 1529 in Augsburg: ‘Suchet man leybsärtzney, warumb sucht man nit artzney der seelen?’” Medizin, Gesellschaft, und Geschichte: Jahrbuch des Instituts für Geschichte der Medizin der Robert Bosch Stiftung 28 (2009): 97–119; and Zschoch, Reformatorische Existenz, 341. Rhegius makes specific reference to “dise gegenwertige straff ” in the Seelenärtzney (p.  244), by which he meant the English Sweating Sickness. Hendrix notes that Rhegius thought he was living in the end times and that this belief governed his entire mission of instruction and consolation. See “Urbanus Rhegius,” in Lindberg, The Reformation Theologians, 114; and Recultivating the Vineyard, 173. 47   See Hendrix, Recultivating the Vineyard, 48; and Mark U. Edwards, Jr., Printing, Propaganda, and Martin Luther (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1994), 163–64. 48   Jews are also mentioned in the opening lines of the introduction, but the primary concern is with pagans, who are the sole topic of conversation in the remainder of the introduction.

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the mysteries of Christ.49 Shortly after this introduction Rhegius asserts that pagans seek after this-worldly things only, believing that they can find consolation in them; the Augsburg preacher says that this way of thinking is “sheer blindness” (ayn lautre blinthait).50 Then Rhegius shows his real concern: he claims that Christians do the same thing and thus behave like pagans. He laments, “It is dreadful to hear that we Christians, who have been called to true life, attend to and yearn so thirstily after temporal things, and are so negligent and lethargic in seizing and receiving the eternal.”51 In the Soul-Medicine Rhegius is trying to persuade Christians to act like Christians when they face death, the truest test of their faith. Pre-Reformation consolers attempted the same thing,52 but their method of Christianization included a number of beliefs and practices that could not be accommodated within evangelical pastoral care, even though much continuity still existed between the pre-and post-Reformation cura animarum. The Augsburg preacher proceeds by employing the traditional argument that people should attend to diseases of the soul – namely, sin – and not just of the body, because the former have far more dire consequences than the latter. Therefore, people should seek out soul-doctors who can provide them with spiritual medicine. Rhegius observes that the time of death is uncertain, and while he concedes that it is always possible to repent in this life, he says that it is much wiser to prepare for the end during times of health – the ars moriendi tradition counseled the same. But the Augsburg preacher knew that there were not enough soul-doctors available to provide the necessary treatment to all who desired it. This was always the case during outbreaks of disease, but the dearth in 1529 was also owing to the reduction in the number of clergy in the Reformation, as well as to the fledgling status of the evangelical movement; formal steps had yet to be taken to educate a new cohort of clergy in the Protestant faith and its distinctive pastoral care. Therefore Rhegius says that he has written the Soul-Medicine for “the simple [people], so that each one who is able to read can speak to sick people from the Word of God and give them consolation in the time of need.”53 As was true of much of the late medieval ars moriendi literature, and also of the early evangelical works of consolation, the primary intended 49   Seelenärtzney, 242, note b. Portions of what Rhegius added to the second edition were eventually included in subsequent printings of the first edition, but not this introduction. 50   Ibid., 243, note e. 51   “Das ist aber grausam zu[o] hören, das wir Christen, die zum rechten leben berufft seind, so durstigklich nach dem zeytlichen stellen und trachten und so liederlich und schläfferig seind, zu[o] ergreyfen und erlangen das ewig.” Ibid., 243, note e. This statement also occurs in the second edition. Franz does not indicate if these lines were added to subsequent printings of the first edition. 52   For example, see Jean Gerson’s comments on the importance of avoiding pagan remedies in the midst of suffering and death. Opus tripartitum (Köln um 1470), Herzog August Bibliothek, Li Sammelband 63 (1), fol. V v. 53   “Dieweyl nun des volks vil ist und dye dyener des evangeliums nit an allen enden sein künden, habe ich dise klaine underricht geschriben für die ainfeltigen, damit ayn yeder, so

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audience of the Soul-Medicine was laypeople, literate laypeople; in this context at least, Rhegius wished to restrict the lay ministry of consolation assumed in the priesthood of all believers to those who could read.54 The Soul-Medicine addresses these literate lay consolers directly throughout, sometimes providing suggestions for what they might say to the sick and the suffering, but more typically seeking to provide them with a primer on the evangelical approach to suffering, death, and consolation that could benefit them as well. Rhegius moves immediately to the main theme of his treatise, the alleviation of Anfechtungen. Here one sees the influence of Luther’s A Sermon on Preparing to Die (1519) on the Soul-Medicine: both works focus on Anfechtungen, specifically on the three great temptations to despair – sin, death, and hell – something that is not true of other early evangelical works of consolation.55 Before dealing with each Anfechtung in turn, Rhegius explains that the reason they can engender such despair as death approaches is that so many people have weak faith: the above mentioned things become horrifying because of our weak faith, which has been too little strengthened through practice, and which has not grasped strongly enough through God’s Word the riches and the goods that belong to the children of God, such as certain forgiveness of sin through Christ, the true and certain resurrection of the body, the joyful society of all the elect, and eternal life – all of this in and through Christ.56

Rhegius says that Christians should exercise themselves in these basic elements of the faith every day and also participate in the Lord’s Supper on a regular basis, although always with proper understanding and preparation; he blames the current suffering in Augsburg on unworthy participation in the Lord’s Supper, which he thinks has elicited divine punishment.57 lesen kan, den krancken auß dem wort Gotes zu[o]sprechen kan und inen trost geben in der nodt.” Seelenärtzney, 243. 54   See Resch, Trost im Angesicht des Todes, 114. See also August Hardeland, Geschichte der Speciellen Seelsorge in der Vorreformatorischen Kirchen und der Kirchen der Reformation (Berlin: Verlag von Reuther & Reichard, 1897–98), 302. 55   On this influence see Franz, Huberinus-Rhegius-Holbein, 10; Resch, Trost im Angesicht des Todes, 94; and Zschoch, Reformatorische Existenz, 343. For recent treatments of Luther’s Ein Sermon von der Bereitung zum Sterben, see Berndt Hamm, “Luthers Anleitung zum seligen Sterben vor dem Hintergrund der spätmittelalterlichen Ars moriendi,” Jahrbuch für Biblische Theologie 19 (2004): 311–62; Resch, Trost im Angesicht des Todes, 54–55; Reinis, Reforming the Art of Dying, 47–82; and Neil R. Leroux, Martin Luther as Comforter: Writings on Death (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2007), 45–80. For an older treatment see Klein, “Die Bereitung zum Sterben,” 27–49. Klein argues that Luther’s sermon served as a model for the early evangelical ars moriendi literature, something that Reinis denies. See Reforming the Art of Dying, 142. 56   “dann dise obgesagte ding werden grausam umb unsers schwachen glaubens willen, der noch wenig geübt ist, und hat nit stärk genu[o]g durchs wort Gotes ergriffen die reichtum und güter der kinder Gotes, als gewißen ablas der sünd durch Christum, ware, gewiße aufersteung des flayschs, die wu[o]nsamen geselschaft aller ausserwölten und das ewig leben, alles in und durch Christum.” Seelenärtzney, 243. 57   “In disen stucken unsers glaubens solten wir uns täglich üben und oft zu[o] Gottes tisch

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The Augsburg preacher observes that sickness is frequently (oft) a punishment for sin, but this is not the only cause he identifies. Here Rhegius employs the traditional technique of offering alternative causae for suffering: punishment for sin was always just one among several possible explanations in the Christian consolation literature.58 In keeping with an evangelical trend that began with Luther, Rhegius emphasizes that suffering can also test faith,59 revealing much about its health and character: “for here [i.e., in sickness and adversity] one experiences how dear God is to us and how much we trust him.”60 The appropriate response to such punishment and proving is to turn oneself fully to God and to confess one’s sins to him with a penitent heart. Rhegius observes that according to John 20:22–23 – “Receive the Holy Spirit; the sins of those you forgive shall be forgiven and the sins of those you retain shall be retained” – the Christian church (der christlichen versamblung) possesses authority to forgive sins, and he maintains that this treasure is unlocked for the Christian believer every day (diser schatz würt dir täglich aufgeschlossen). Interestingly, Rhegius does not make specific mention of private confession here, but rather emphasizes the confession of sin to God.61 Rhegius had written two pamphlets on private confession, one in 1521, the other in 1523.62 Especially in the latter pamphlet he had attacked the sacrament of penance as an unbiblical rite that the clergy used to oppress lay consciences with man-made laws and requirements. However, he still thought private confession to a priest was a salutary practice and did not want it to be abolished, because it applied the gospel directly to troubled consciences; the important thing was that no one was to be forced to confess. Rhegius writes, “On account of the considerable good that it offers, the person who can use it properly should geen mit vorgender underweysung, welche nodt wer, und ernstlicher beraytung, als man dann hie wol fu[o]g hat. Des Herren nachtmal ist etlich jar her gar unerlich und unfleyssig gehalten worden, ja auch von vilen veracht. Das ist ain schwere sünd, wye dise gegenwertige straff wol bezeuget und S. Pauls 1 Cor. 11 [29] vorgesagt hat.” Ibid., 243–44. Rhegius had published a number of pamphlets on the Lord’s Supper, but perhaps the one that is most relevant in this context is his Prob zu des herrn nachtmal für die eynfeltigen (Augsburg, 1528). 58   See Rittgers, Reformation of Suffering, ch. 2. 59   On the importance of suffering as a tentatio probationis of faith in Luther’s theology see Ute Mennecke-Haustein, Luthers Trostbriefe (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus Gerd Mohn, 1989), 84–85. Mennecke-Haustein demonstrates that the proving of faith took logical precedence over the production of virtue in Luther’s understanding of suffering. Medieval consolation literature could also treat suffering as a test of faith, but Protestants stressed this causa more strongly, owing to the centrality of faith in their conception of authentic Christianity. 60   “Dann hie erfert man, wie lieb uns Got ist und wie wol wir im vertrawen.” Seelenärtzney, 244. 61   Immediately after citing the John 20 passage Rhegius writes, “Darnach wann wir Got unserm vater die sünd haben abgebetten .  .  .” Ibid., 244. 62   Underricht. Wie ain Christenmensch got seinem herren teglich beichten soll (Augsburg, 1521); and Von Rew, Beicht, Bu[o]sz. Kurtzer beschluß auß gegrünter schrift, nit auß menschen leer (Augsburg, 1523).

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not want for it, because it is very beneficial; however, it must remain voluntary.”63 Similarly to Luther,64 Rhegius urges evangelical Christians to make use of private confession and refers to priestly absolution as a “divine verdict” that the confessant must accept by faith because of the divine promises contained in passages like John 20:22–23.65 In view of what Rhegius says in his 1523 pamphlet about private confession, it is likely that he also had the private encounter between priest and penitent in mind when he invoked John 20 in the Soul-Medicine; at the very least he did not wish to exclude it. Still, the clear emphasis is on confession to God. Rhegius’s apparent reluctance to refer specifically to private confession may reflect a mediating element in his theology of the contested practice, or it may simply have been a response to the confessionally pluralistic situation in Augsburg – or both possibilities could be true. It seems that Rhegius wished to leave room for private confession without making it an essential feature of his evangelical pastoral care. In this sense, the Soul-Medicine was out of step with the Wittenberg-inspired consolation literature, which always stressed the importance of private confession, eventually making a new version of the rite a defining mark of Lutheran pastoral care, something that was not true of most Reformed pastoral care. (Among other things, evangelical private confession excluded works of satisfaction and the need to confess all mortal sins.66 ) Rhegius may have had 63

  “Aber wer sy recht brauchen kann/ der soltt jr nytt mangel/ vmb vil gu[o]ts/ dann sy ist fast nützlych/ doch sy soll vngezwunggen bleyben .  .  .” Rhegius, Von Rew, Beicht, Bu[o]sz, in Flugschriften des frühen 16. Jahrhunderts, 1501–1530, ed. Hans-Joachim Köhler, Hildegard Hebenstreit-Wilfert, and Christoph Weismann, microfiche collection (Zug, Switzerland: Inter Documentation Co., 1978–1987), no. 1796, fol. B v. 64   For a discussion of Luther’s view of private confession see my The Reformation of the Keys: Confession, Conscience, and Authority in Sixteenth-Century Germany (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2004), 52–58; and “Luther’s Reformation of Private Confession,” Lutheran Quarterly 19, no. 3 (Autumn 2005): 312–31. This article has also appeared in Timothy J. Wengert, ed., The Pastoral Luther: Essays on Luther’s Practical Theology (Grand Rapids, MI: W. B. Eerdmans Pub. Co., 2009), 211–30. Luther refers to private confession explicitly in his Ein Sermon von der Bereitung zum Sterben, asserting that God himself absolves through the words of the priest. WA 2:694.12–13; LW 42:110. 65   “Es mu[o]ß ain herter/ verstockter sünder sein/ den solche trostliche gottes zu[o]sagung nit bewegt/ das er zu[o]m priester lauff/ sich anklag/ vnd da ho[e]re ain go[e]ttlichen sententz vnd vrtail oder absolution/ dann est ist nyt aynn menschen vrtail/ wann man dich absolviert/ sonder gottes sententz/ doch glaub der absolucion.” Rhegius, Von Rew, Beicht, Bu[o]sz, fol. Bii v. Rhegius mentions Jn 20:22–23 just a few lines before he urges readers to go to private confession. 66   See my Reformation of Suffering, ch. 7; and “Private Confession and the ‘Lutheranization’ of Sixteenth-Century Nördlingen,” Sixteenth Century Journal 36, no. 4 (Winter 2005): 1063– 85. It should be noted that Rhegius was much more Lutheran sounding in his brief treatment of private confession in the 1536 Hannover Church Ordinance: “Das hochwürdige sacrament, den waren leib und ware blut Jhesu Christi, unsers einigen Gottes, lassen wir niemands mitteilen, er habe denn zuvor gebeichtet und sey durch den schlüsselgewalt absolviert, examiniert und verhört, ob er sich selbs auch zuvor probiren möge nach der lere Pauli, das er wisse, was er bey dem sacrament gleuben und thun solle.” Sehling, Evangelischen Kirchenord-

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another reason for not explicitly mentioning clerical absolution: his primary audience was lay and he was seeking to equip them for an important ministry that would include speaking absolution to the sick and the dying. As Claudia Resch has emphasized, consolation was closely associated with absolution in this literature, and therefore if laypeople were to bring solace to their suffering neighbors, they needed to be able to speak the word of forgiveness to them.67 Restricting the reception of absolution to the private encounter between pastor and penitent would have made little sense, and in any case it did not correspond to the evangelical understanding of the power of the keys, which saw them as belonging to the whole church, not just to the clergy. Rhegius goes on in the Soul-Medicine to state that confession of sin will lead to the removal of divine punishment and sickness or that God will ensure that the affliction contributes to the sufferer’s salvation. According to the Augsburg preacher, the important thing is to view one’s suffering as a “fatherly rod” (ain vätterliche ru[o]dt) that God uses to protect his children from sin. In keeping with Hebrews 12:6, Rhegius observes that God disciplines those whom he loves. God may appear wrathful to the suffering Christian, but God only seeks his improvement, well-being, and salvation through the affliction he sends; “That is certain, if only we can believe it” (Das ist gewiß, wann wirs nun künden gelauben).68 For the Augsburg preacher patient acceptance of one’s maladies does not mean that one cannot ask for God to remove them. But one must always seek forgiveness of sin first – i.e., one must first remove this potential (and likely) cause of one’s affliction – and also submit oneself to God’s will, entrusting oneself to his fatherly care, come what may. All of this was thoroughly traditional. Rhegius turns to address the first of the three great Anfechtungen, sin, or more accurately, fear of divine condemnation owing to sin. In order to allay such fear, he discusses the work of Christ to take sin upon himself and to atone for it through his cross. Rhegius’s stresses the pro me aspect of Christ’s work and also the close union that exists between the believer and the Savior through faith: “the same highly revered death of Jesus Christ and the pouring out of his blood is certainly your own, as long as you believe that Christ has died for you, just as much as for Peter and Paul.”69 Later in his treatment of this Anfechtung Rhegius asserts, “My brother, if you are a Christian, then Christ certainly bears your sin also.”70 Or again, “You are in Christ and Christ is in you ( John 6 [:56]), therenungen, VI/I, pt. 2:1005. On the diminishment of the “penitential element” in Lutheran private confession, especially with reference to consolation literature, see Reinis, Reforming the Art of Dying, 190. 67   Resch, Trost im Angesicht des Todes, 115–16. 68   Seelenärtzney, 244. 69   “Derselbig hochwirdig tod und das blu[o]dtvergiessen Jesu Christi ist gewißlich dein aygen, so du nun glaubst, Christus sei für dich auch gestorben, gleych so wol als für Petrum und Paulum.” Ibid., 245. 70   “Mein bru[o]der, du bist ein christ, so tregt je Christus auch deine sünd.” Ibid., 246.

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fore you cannot be condemned.”71 The afflicted person should not doubt such statements, because he has been baptized into the death of Christ. As Austra Reinis has emphasized, baptism played a new role in evangelical consolation that stemmed from Luther’s redefinition of its meaning and importance in the Christian life.72 Rhegius reflects this important change when he stresses to readers that through the covenant (bund) of baptism a person is united with Christ and provided with an inexhaustible supply of forgiveness, with the result that he has peace with God eternally because of the Savior’s atonement for sin. The same divine assurance comes to the believer through the Lord’s Supper, in which Christ speaks to the Christian, telling him that his blood has been poured out for the forgiveness of sin. Rhegius’s mediating eucharistic theology did not prevent him from following Luther and other evangelical consolers in stressing the importance of the objective offer of grace in the sacraments. Consolers were to help the afflicted return to the promises of forgiveness that they received in baptism as part of a larger effort to turn the person’s gaze from his sin to Christ; lay pastors were also to urge the afflicted to participate in the Lord’s Supper. (There is no provision for lay celebration of the Eucharist in the Soul-Medicine.) Following Luther,73 a good portion of what Rhegius counsels in the SoulMedicine is intended to effect a reorientation of focus from self and sin to Christ. The traditional ars moriendi sought to effect the same reorientation, especially through the use of a crucifix, which provided a concrete christological focal point for the afflicted person’s eyes.74 Rhegius seeks to achieve this goal through verbal means and images. He urges the lay consoler, “Remind him [i.e., the sick person] how his sin no longer lies upon himself but upon Christ; he has taken them from the Christ-believer and has atoned for and forgiven them .  .  .”75 Later in his treatment of the Anfechtung of sin Rhegius similarly advises, Therefore, do not let the sick person think only on his sin. However you can, turn him away [from his sin] so that he places before his eyes the crucified Christ alone and fills his heart completely with Christ. In this way he will be able to withstand the gates of hell, even if they still appear frightening.76 Rhegius makes this assertion in the context of urging his readers to apply to the suffering Christian the promises of Jn 1:29 and 1 Pt 1:18–19 about Christ being the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world. 71   “Dann du bist yn Christo und Christus in dir ( Joan. 6 [:56]); darumb kanst du nit verdambt werden.” Ibid., 248. 72   Reinis, Reforming the Art of Dying, 142. 73   WA 2:689.3–10: LW 42:104. 74   See Johann Ulrich Surgant, Manuale curatorum predicandi .  .  . (Basel, 1506) Center for Research Libraries, Microfilm 7726 r. 395, German Books Before 1601, reel 352, item 3, fol. CVIII r-v. 75   “Erinner in, wie sein sünd nit mer auf im ligend, sonder auf Christo; der hat sie von den christglaubigen genommen und sie selbs gebüsset und verzyhn .  .  .” Seelenärtzney, 246. 76   “Darum laß den kranken nit allain an sein sünd gedenken; weiß und wend in ab, wie du kanst, das er im allain den creuzigten Christum für seine augen stell und das hertz gantz

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Rhegius provides numerous passages from Scripture that the consoler could use to effect this reorientation in the sick person; such passages were the medicine that consolers were to offer to the afflicted. The Augsburg preacher stresses that the sick person must be distracted not only from focusing on his sin but also from fixing his gaze on human merit. He must see Christ as “the only one who makes pious” (aynigen frommacher).77 In the second edition of the Soul-Medicine Rhegius writes, Here one must prevent the dying person from relying in any way upon his own merit, rather he should only be his own accuser and hold fast to the pure grace of God, help himself with this grace alone, and rely on Christ’s merit. For in the time of trial and death there is no righteousness other than the righteousness of faith in Christ, which will not be put to shame, Romans 9 [:33].78

While the late medieval ars moriendi literature similarly directed the sick and the dying to the merit of Christ, and had much to say about divine mercy, this literature also allowed for human merit, typically in the form of the patient bearing of suffering and the obedient acceptance of death, which could help atone for the penalty of sin.79 In his famous Work in Three Parts (manuscript, ca. 1404; incunabulum, 1467), Jean Gerson presents sickness and suffering as an opportunity to atone for the penalty of sin that the dying Christian should seize by bearing his affliction patiently.80 Johannes Geiler does the same thing in his Booklet for the Dying (1480/81),81 as does Johann Ulrich Surgant in his wellund gar mit Christo füll, so kan er besteen wider die porten der hellen, und das sie noch so grausamb weren.” Ibid., 249. 77   Ibid., 246. 78   “Allhie soll man verhütten, das der sterbend mensch nichts bawe auf seine verdienst, sonder allain sein selbs anklager sey, an der lautern Gotes gnad hange, sich allain derselbigen behelfe und auf den verdienst Christi bawe. Dann es besteet in der anfechtung und todsnot kain gerechtigkait dann die gerechtigkait des gelaubens in Christum, die wirt nit zu[o] schanden, Ro. 9 [:33].” Ibid., 247. 79   See Hardeland, Geschichte der Speciellen Seelsorge in der Vorreformatorischen Kirchen und der Kirchen der Reformation, 201. 80   “Sollicite cogita te in via tua plurima delicta perpetrasse quibus penam ferre meruisti. vnde et huius infirmitatis et mortis penas pacienter tollerare debes. rogas deum vt praesentis doloris acerbitas remissionem operetur peccatorum. et purgatorii horribilis cruciatus in hanc afflictionem tuam per suam misericordiam commutet. Tollerabilius est namque hic praesentialiter quam in futuro puniri. quod si sic corde contrito paciens penam necessarium tanquam voluntariam feres et omnem penam et culpam remittet deus. certusque paradisum introibis. Alioquin per impatientiam eternam penam et dampnacionem incurres.” Gerson, Opus tripartitum, fol. XXVII r-v. 81   “Gedenck das du in dinem leben vil sundenn verbrocht hast . dorumb du stroffwurdig bist . hierumb solt du gedultigliche lyden den schmertzen diser kranckheyt und todes . Bitt gott das bitterkeyt dises schmerczens dir werde ein abloß und gnugtun fur dyn sund. Und das er die grusenliche pin des fegfures durch sin barmhertzikeit dur verwandel in disen dinen schmertzen . wann vil lidenlicher ist es hie in diser zyt weder dort gestrofft werden . Ist es das du also mit geruwtem hertzen lydest und treist williglich die pen die du von not wegen sust tragen must . so losset dir got ab pen und schuld . und gewiß wurst du in gon in das

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known Curates’ Manual for Preaching (1506).82 While Rhegius does not reject this late medieval tradition explicitly, he does so implicitly through his emphasis on the complete sufficiency of the Atonement and the utter spiritual impotence of the afflicted Christian. The Augsburg preacher had already stressed both of these in his 1523 pamphlet on confession: the Christian had to bear the cross, but he dared not view his suffering as a satisfaction for sin; it was simply a way of putting to death the old Adam and enduring temporal punishment for sin.83 This emphasis on the non-penitential nature of sickness and death marks one of the most important differences between late medieval and evangelical ars moriendi literature; it was a key marker of evangelical Christianization. Other important differences include the role of the saints, last rites, and indulgences for those who minister to the sick and dying,84 each of which has no place in evangelical works on the art of dying.85 Here the important exception is Luther’s A Sermon on Preparing to Die, which does counsel recourse to extreme unction and the saints,86 although the Wittenberg reformer rejected both not long after this work appeared in 1519.87 A final important difference between late medieval and evangelical ars moriendi literature has to do with the issue of paradis [.] Ander durch ungedult fielest du in ewige verdamniß.” See Tötenbüchlein (Wie man sich halten sol by eym sterbenden menschen) (1480/81), in Gerhard Bauer, ed., Johannes Geiler von Kaysersberg Sämtliche Werke. Erster Teil: Die Deutschen Schriften. Erste Abteilung: Die zu Geiler’s Lebzeiten erschienenen Schriften (Berlin and New York: Walter de Gruyter, 1989), 1:6.24–7.11. 82   “Deinde sacerdos infirmu[-] blande leniterque alloquator: benigne monens vt omnem spem suam in deum ponat: et vt infirmitatem seu flagellum dei patienter ferat. Et vt hec ad purgationem suam prouenire credat .  .  .” Surgant, Manuale curatorum predicandi, fol. CVIII r. 83   “Got will wol haben/ die Euangelischen pein/ das ist unser creütz das mir [wir?] tragen sollen/ allerley widerwertigkait vnd leiden/ zu[o] erto[e]dtung des alten flaischlichen menschen/ vnd su[o]cht zu[o]weylen vns haim mitt der va[e]terlichen ru[o]t seiner straff/ als kryeg/ kranckhaytt/ sterbent/ vnd der geleych/ aber man soll sollich peynn oder straff gotts/ nit gnu[o]gthu[o]n nennen/ das da in der kirchen gewalt sey abzu[o]legen.” Von Reuw, Beicht, Buß, fol. Biii r. 84   Surgant maintains that for their help in consoling a dying person, which included saying together the Lord’s Prayer and the Ave Maria, and their presence at last rites, laypeople receive forty days indulgence for mortal sins. See Manuale curatorum predicandi, fol. CIX. 85   Rhegius specifically rejected the invocation of the saints in his 1531 Trostbrieff an alle Christen zu Hildesheym/ die vmbs Euangeliums willen itzt schmach vnd vorfolgung leiden. Herzog August Bibliothek A: 919.97 Theol. (6), fol. Aiii r. 86   On extreme unction see WA 2:686.13 and 692.25; LW 42:100 and 108. On the saints, of whom Luther says, “ynn yhrem leyden und sterben auch auff yhn tragen deyne sund und [Gal. 6: 2] fur dich leyden und erbeyten,” see WA 2:689.34–35 and 696.24–26; LW 42:105 and 113. 87   For discussions of Luther’s view of the saints, including his eventual rejection of them, see Robert Kolb, For All The Saints: Changing Perceptions of Martyrdom and Sainthood in the Lutheran Reformation (Macon, Georgia: Mercer University Press, 1987), 11–19; and Carol Piper Heming, Protestants and the Cult of the Saints in German-Speaking Europe, 1517–1531 (Kirksville, MO: Truman State University Press, 2003), 53–65. On Luther’s rejection of extreme unction as a sacrament see LW 42:100, n. 2 and 113, n. 14; and De captivitate Babylonica ecclesiae WA 6:567.32–571.23 (LW 36:117–23).

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certainty of forgiveness. Austra Reinis has argued that evangelical works of consolation placed a premium on the sure knowledge of forgiveness provided by justification by faith, while traditional sources left the sick and dying mired in doubt, telling them that, short of special divine revelation, such certainty was impossible.88 Reinis maintains that the cause of this uncertainty was the traditional conviction that human beings – even those on their death-bed – had to make some contribution to their salvation.89 The late medieval ars moriendi tradition clearly did not seek to provide the kind of assurance of salvation that one finds in the evangelical consolation literature, but it is important neither to miss nor to underemphasize the stress on divine grace and faith in the merit of Christ that is present in the pre-Reformation works. For example, Gerson urges the sick person to pray the following prayer to Christ in his Work in Three Parts: Most sweet Jesus, because of the honor and strength of your most blessed Passion, grant that I may be received into the number of your elect. My Savior and my Redeemer, I give myself totally to you; may you not reject me. To you I come; may you not repel me. Lord, I ask for your paradise not on account of the worth of my merits but in the strength and efficacy of your most blessed Passion, through which you willed to redeem wretched me, and vouchsafed to purchase paradise for me with the price of your blood.90

Geiler has a very similar prayer in his Booklet for the Dying.91 Claudia Resch has noted this emphasis on divine mercy in the traditional ars moriendi literature, even though she agrees with Reinis’s basic point about the lack of evangelical88   Reinis writes of the emphasis on certainty of salvation in the evangelical ars moriendi: “This constituted a radical break with traditional doctrine, according to which no one could presume to be certain of his or her eternal destiny.” Reforming the Art of Dying, 1. 89   “The late medieval doctrine of the uncertainty of salvation, along with the teaching that human beings of their own free will are to do what is in them to merit salvation, is the basis of the consolation offered to the dying persons in [the late medieval ars moriendi tradition].” Ibid., 45. Reinis concedes that this assertion is not based on an exhaustive examination of all the relevant literature but she still maintains that the available evidence supports her argument. Zschoch provides a helpful comparison between the Seelenärtzney and a traditionalist work of consolation that also appeared in Augsburg in 1529, showing how the latter stressed the importance of human merit. See Reformatorische Existenz, 345–46. 90   “dulcissime ihesu ob honorem et virtutem tue benedictissime passionis iube me recipi intra numerem electorum tuorum. Saluator meus et redemptor meus, reddo me totum tibi non me renuas, ad te venio non me repellas. Domine paradisum tuum postulo non ob valorem meorum meritorum sed in virtute et efficacia tue benedictissime passionis per quam me miserum redimere voluisti et michi paradisum precio tui sanguinis emere dignatus es .  .  .” Opus tripartitum, fol. XXVIII v. 91   “In dich ist min einige hoffenung . wenn zucktest du dich mir so must ich eines ewigen falles fallen . Herr dyn paradiß heysch ich . nit uß wert myner verdienst sunder in krafft dines seligsten lidens . durch welhes du mich armentseligen hast wollenn erlosen . und mir das paradiß mit dem kosten dines kostlichen blutes koufen [.] Ile mir das zegeben . do durch weder din barmhertzikeyt noch mach wurt gemindert . noch das paradiß dester enger oder cleiner wurt funden.” Tötenbüchlein, 9.18–26.

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style certainty.92 Berndt Hamm has similarly called attention to the increasing emphasis on divine mercy in the theology and devotional literature of the fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries,93 although he, too, agrees that this emphasis did not obviate the need for human merit, no matter how minimal, including in the ars moriendi literature.94 The stress on divine mercy in the evangelical art of dying literature may therefore be seen as a continuation of a late medieval trend, although it moved well beyond anything that was envisioned in the traditional literature. Rhegius is definitely within the evangelical camp with his strong emphasis on the certainty of salvation, something that is central to his efforts to Christianize through consolation. He encourages his reader: My brother .  .  . if you had committed the sin of the whole world, there is still enough grace, in fact, more than enough available. God has promised you blessing and grace in Christ, and this same grace is made certain and effective in Christ, your Lord. The matter of your salvation is certain, because the same Christ is God’s natural Son in terms of [his] divine nature; [he is thus] the Truth itself. In terms of [his] human nature, he is our flesh and blood. Who could you count on more to give and fulfill the promise of grace than he who is himself the truth of the promise and who loves us so deeply that he would rather die than let us find something lacking in any promise.95

Clearly, Rhegius wanted there to be no doubt in the minds of the sick and dying as they pondered their eternal destiny; he wanted them to be certain that their sins had been fully forgiven by God in Christ, who loved them deeply. As we have seen, he also wanted them to be certain that their suffering was not finally a sign of divine wrath, but of divine testing, something that could only be seen through faith. Rhegius concludes his discussion of the Anfechtung of sin by urging his readers again to place Christ and his grace before the eyes of the sick and dying, although he advises them to do so in a way that takes stock of the condition of the sick person.96 Rhegius also briefly treats the importance of forgiving others and making amends for offenses committed against others as death approaches. 92

  Resch, Trost im Angesicht des Todes, 40 and 51.   See Robert J. Bast, ed., The Reformation of Faith in the Context of Late Medieval Theology and Piety: Essays by Berndt Hamm (Leiden: Brill, 2004), 41. 94   See Hamm, “Luthers Anleitung zum seligen Sterben,” 333. 95   “Mein bru[o]der, und wann du schon aller welt sünd hettest geton, noch ist gnad genu[o]g und mer dann gnu[o]g verhanden. Got hat dir in Christo gebenedeiung und gnad zu[o]gesagt, und die selb gnad ist in Christo, deinem herren, gewiß gemacht und volstreckt. Dye sach deines hayls ist gewiß, dann der selbs Christus ist Gottes natürlicher son, ym gött­ lichen wesen, die warhayt selbs. In menschlichen wesen ist er unser blu[o]t und flaysch. Wer kan dir gewiser sein, die zu[o]sagung der genad zu[o] geben und bezalen, als der die warhayt der versprechung selbs ist und der uns so innigklich lyebt, das er ehe hat wöllen sterben, dann uns in ainicherlay zu[o]sagung mangel finden lassen.” Seelenärtzney, 248–49. 96   “Auf dise form, lenger oder kürtzer nach gelegenhayt des kranken, magst du mit im 93

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Rhegius now moves on to discuss the Anfechtungen of death and hell. Several of the themes found in the treatment of sin also appear in this discussion: because of the evangelical believer’s union with Christ’s death and resurrection he can face these temptations to despair with great confidence, for Christ has conquered both and the baptized and believing Christian shares in this victory. Rhegius’s Christianizing design is again quite clear. He argues that unlike pagans, who believe that there is no life after death and that the body simply rots in the ground, Christians maintain that there is an afterlife and that the body has a glorious future: “the world errs; the body is not so despicable before God, for its honor and salvation are already prepared. Precisely this body in which you now lie and suffer sickness must live eternally together with the soul.”97 For those who are made one flesh and united (eingeleibt und verainigt) with Christ through faith,98 death is simply a rest or sleep from which they will be awakened at the Last Judgment and then enter into eternal joy; there is no mention of purgatory in the Soul-Medicine and thus no need for penance. Rhegius again wishes to divert the sick person’s gaze from his Anfechtungen to Christ, and in the treatment of death he employs a striking analogy: just as a bronze serpent became the source of salvation for snake-bitten Israelites (Nm 21:4–9), so death loses its sting for the Christian and becomes the path to true life.99 Luther used the same image in A Sermon on Preparing to Die.100 Similarly to Luther, Rhegius advises those struggling with the Anfechtung of hell and damnation not to dispute with the devil when the Adversary calls into question their divine election.101 A person faced with this temptation should simply recall that God has given him the gospel and baptism, which provide ample evidence of God’s desire to save him. If the person has faith in Christ, this is evidence that he is predestined to salvation: “Therefore be consoled and do not doubt: all people who believe in Christ properly have been ordained to eternal life.”102 Once again, Rhegius stresses the necessity of fixing one’s gaze upon the crucified Christ in the midst of Anfechtungen, for in Christ, that is, in the One who has purchased the believer from the devil and damnation at a most reden und in abweisen von dem greulichen anblück der sünd und des tods, das er gantz und gar mit vollem hertzen allayn Christum gedenk.” Ibid., 249. 97   “Hör mein bru[o]der, die welt maint, wir sterben dahin und fallen ins erdreych, der leib werde zergeen, es sey nun auß. Aber nain, dye welt irrt; der leyb ist nit so verächtlich vor Got, dann im ist sein eer und seligkayt schon auch zu[o]berayt. Eben diser leyb, darinnen du hie ligst und krankhayt leydst, der mu[o]ß auch sampt der seel ewigklich leben.” Ibid., 250. 98   Ibid., 254. 99   Ibid., 253–54. 100   WA 2:689.16–23; LW 42:104. 101   See Theodore G. Tappert, ed., Luther: Letters of Spiritual Counsel (Vancouver, BC: Regent College Publishing, 2003; originally published by Westminster Press: Philadelphia, 1960), 115–17. 102   “Darumb biß getröst und zweifel nit: Alle menschen, die recht in Christum glauben, die seind zu[o]m ewigen leben versehen.” Seelenärtzney, 255.

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precious price, the Christian has superabundant innocence, life, and blessedness; therefore he need not fear hell.103 Each of the remedies against Anfechtungen that Rhegius advises in the SoulMedicine requires faith, a crucial ingredient in evangelical consolation. But the Augsburg preacher realizes that faith does not always come easily to the suffering Christian, and therefore he seeks to provide encouragement to those who struggle to believe the good news when all hope seems lost. (As we have seen, those who show no concern about their weak faith receive sterner treatment from the Augsburg preacher.) Rhegius observes that Christ himself suffered from weak faith, something the Augsburg preacher finds in the Savior’s cry of dereliction from the cross (Mk 15:34). Christ was no stranger to the temptation to doubt the Father’s grace and love, just as he was no stranger to the Anfechtungen of sin, death, and hell.104 For Rhegius, it is precisely this deep understanding of the Christian’s temptations and trials, coupled with the Savior’s overcoming of them, that makes Christ such a fitting object of devotion in the midst of suffering. The Augsburg preacher advises those with weak faith to cry out to God, who will surely provide help and strength. He asserts that weak faith is still faith – the important thing is the desire to have faith, not the possession of perfect faith. The Christian will always be able to exclaim with the father of the epileptic boy in Mark 9:24, “I believe; come to help my unbelief ” (Ich gelaub, Herr, komb zu[o] hilf meinem ungelauben). Rhegius writes, “These two things are not so far from each other, believing in Christ and earnestly desiring to believe. .  .  . Therefore believe firmly in Christ, or at least desire to believe in him. Do not bemoan your lack of faith and your doubt before him; you are a pious and blessed child of God, who not in vain placed our weakness on his beloved Son Christ.”105 Even regret at not having faith is taken as a sign that some glimmer of faith remains. Rhegius interprets this regret and desire for stronger faith as the poverty of spirit that Jesus commended in the Beatitudes (Mt 5:3).106 103

  “Sich allain Christum an, der ist dein und hat dich vom Teufel und verdamnus teur erkauft. Du hast in Christo Jesu unschuld gnu[o]g und mer dann gnu[o]g. Du hast in Christo leben gnu[o]g und mer dann gnu[o]g. Du hast in Christo alle seligkait gnu[o]g und mer dann gnu[o]g. Laß dein hertz von Christo dem creutzigten in kainer anfechtung abwenden, so steest du auf aynem unüberwintlichen felsen wider alle port der hellen und sprichst mit Christo, Psal. 16 [8 ff. 11]: Ich hab den Herren allzeit vor augen; dann er ist mir zu[o]r rechten, darum würd ich wol bleiben.” Ibid., 256. 104   In Ein Sermon von der Bereitung zum Sterben Luther similarly stressed how Christ experienced the Anfechtungen of sin, death, and hell on the cross. See WA 2:691.22–26; LW 42:107. 105   “Dann die zway ding seind nicht weyt vonainander, gelauben in Christum und hitzlich begeren zu[o] glauben. .  .  . Derhalb glaub vest in Christum, oder aber beger aufs wenigst in in zu[o] glauben; klag im deinen unglauben und zweyfel nit, du bist vor im fromb und ain gesegnets kind Gots, der nit vergeblich unser schwachayt auf seynen lieben son Christum gelegt hat.” Seelenärtzney, 258–59. 106   Ibid., 258–59. See also 258, note j, which provides a quotation on doubt and weak faith from the second version of this work: “Und wann du schon mainst, du seyest in verzwey-

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Here one can see important continuity with late medieval pastoral care, or better, a continuity within a discontinuity. Although Rhegius and his fellow evangelical pastors rejected late medieval penitential theology, the treatment of faith in the Soul-Medicine bears a certain similarity to traditional discussions of sorrow for sin. Late medieval theologians had held that perfect sorrow for sin (contrition) was unattainable for most Christians in this life; the important thing was to desire to be contrite and to regret that one was not – this is what it meant to be poor in spirit. Most late medieval theologians were content with imperfect sorrow for sin (attrition), and they believed that God was too: he would look with mercy on those who did their best, and even doing one’s best required grace, at least according to most theologians.107 Evangelical theologians were not interested in assessing degrees of faith and then assigning merit to them. This is an important difference with the late medieval treatment of sorrow for sin, which was so central to pre-Reformation Christianity. For the reformers, faith merits nothing, for it is a gift. But at the level of the care of souls, Catholic and evangelical consolers could make use of similar pastoral language and strategies to encourage the faint-hearted. Even as he sought to supplant much of the traditional approach to the care of the sick and dying, Rhegius unwittingly borrowed from the late medieval cura animarum in his efforts to Christianize through consolation. As in the larger evangelical Christianization campaign, Urbanus Rhegius’s efforts to plant a more authentic version of Christianity in the soil of his contemporaries’ hearts and minds drew upon the preceding medieval campaign, sometimes knowingly and sometimes not. Both the medieval and the evangelical campaigns sought to deliver Christendom from pagan beliefs and practices; the crucial difference is that evangelical reformers thought that much of late medieval Christianity was also pagan and therefore needed to be re-Christianized. Rhegius does not make this argument explicitly in the Soul-Medicine, but his omissions of defining features of late medieval consolation clearly indicate his desire to uproot much in the traditional cura animarum. A care of souls based on justification by faith was the alternative that he proposed to his contemporaries; this is how he sought to evangelize – or re-evangelize – his contemporaries, by offering a (from his point of view) superior form of consolation. Although it falls beyond the scope of this chapter to render a verdict on the success of this endeavor, the astounding popularity of the Soul-Medicine provides at least prima facie evidence for concluding that many in early modern Germany and beyond were converted to his cause. At the very least, his work influenced the pastoral flung, so verzweyfel dannocht nit; dann es ist noch kain verzweyflung, so du nit wilt verzweyflen und ist dir layd, das du zweyfel hat.” 107   See Rittgers, Reformation of the Keys, 39–40.

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care – both lay and clerical – of the new evangelical churches that Hendrix sees as the real loci of (gradual) Protestant Christianization in early modern Europe.108

108

  Hendrix, Recultivating the Vineyard, 154.

Theological Controversies and Christianization

Polarities in Conflict The Late Medieval Roots of the Disputes between the Reformers and their Opponents Volker Leppin Translated by Anna Marie Johnson With the image of the different workers in the vineyard of the Lord, Scott Hendrix made the commonalities and differences of the early modern confessions clear in a memorable way. They all make an effort to cultivate the vineyard of the Lord; indeed, here their effort to find new ways to carry out reform is what is common to them all, and yet precisely those various efforts lead to division. The epitaph of Paul Eber in Wittenberg portrayed this pointedly and polemically. Only the work of the reformers was fruitful, or so it appears in the image, while on the Roman Catholic terrain all tending of the ground led only to decline. Even a confessionally-bound historiography would no longer share this unequivocal assessment. The image’s fruitfulness lies not in the devaluation of other groups, but rather in the discovery of commonality. This commonality has its deepest roots in New Testament message of Jesus Christ, but also in the traditions of the late Middle Ages, from which the early modern confessions    Scott H. Hendrix, Recultivating the Vineyard: The Reformation Agendas of Christianization (Louisville; London: Westminster John Knox Press, 2004).    On the debate over post-confessional Reformation research (which is still underdeveloped in Europe), see the contributions of Susan C. Karant-Nunn, Anne Jacobsen Schutte, Philip Benedict, Scott Hendrix, Lyndal Roper, and Ethan H. Shogan in Archive for Reformation History 97 (2006): 276–306. In the German-language discussion, an effort to define a new theoretical position for church history has flared up in the last several years. On this, see especially Albrecht Beutel, “Vom Nutzen und Nachteil der Kirchengeschichte: Begriff und Funktion einer theologischen Kerndisziplin,” in idem, Protestantische Konkretionen: Studien zur Kirchengeschichte (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1998), 1–27 (here 20–22); Wolfram Kinzig, Volker Leppin, and Günther Wartenberg, eds., Historiographie und Theologie: Kirchen- und Theologiegeschichte im Spannungsfeld von geschichtswissenschaftlicher Methode und theologischem An­ spruch, Arbeiten zur Kirchen- und Theologiegeschichte 15 (Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 2004); Christoph Markschies, “Kirchengeschichte theologisch – einige vorläufige Bemerkungen,” in Eine Wissenschaft oder viele? Die Einheit evangelischer Theologie in der Sicht ihrer Disziplinen, ed. Ingolf U. Dalferth, Forum Theologische Literaturzeitung 17 (Leipzig: Evang. Verl.-Anst., 2006), 47–75.    On the concept of tradition see Volker Leppin, “Tradition und Traditionskritik bei

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developed. They all go beyond the Middle Ages, but they also have their roots in this period. The question of continuity or discontinuity cannot be grasped by invoking the “break” (Bruch) by the churches of the Reformation. Equally insufficient is the obvious assumption that there is an unbroken continuity in the Roman Catholic Church, which differs from the church of the late Middle Ages only in that it has purged the contaminations that occurred from true Catholicism and has found the way back to the true Catholic church. The late Middle Ages are too diverse to be understood with such simple schemata. Likewise, the growth of the confessions from the Middle Ages cannot be described in linear terms, as if the Protestant confessions were modern phenomena as opposed to “medieval” Catholicism.

1.  The Late Middle Ages between Centrality and Decentrality, between Immediacy and Mediation of Salvation The religiosity of the Middle Ages was marked by a high degree of heterogeneity: One who looks at the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries will find the deepest internal piety of the Theologia deutsch as much as an increasingly varied supply of quantifiable piety. Committed laity dominate the picture in some sense, but at the same time, an unbroken and even increased demand on the clerics to manage salvation remained. While someone like Torquemada could develop an image of the church that orbited completely around the position of the pope, even occasionally inciting a debate about papal infallibility, it was also possible Luther,” in Gebundene Freiheit? Bekenntnistradition und theologische Lehre im Luthertum, ed. Peter Gemeinhardt and Bernd Oberdorfer, Die Lutherische Kirche-Geschichte und Gestalten 25 (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 2008), 15–30.    See the claim of Thomas Kaufmann, “Die Konfessionalisierung von Kirche und Ge­ sellschaft: Sammelbericht über eine Forschungsdebatte,” Theologische Literaturzeitung 121 (1996): 1008–25, 1112–21, 1118: “Aus kirchenhistorischer Perspektive ist jedenfalls mit Nachdruck auf dem epochalen Umbruchcharakter der Reformation .  .  . zu beharren.” In this matter, Kaufmann has since distanced himself from this slightly militant rhetoric without making it explicit. Cf. Thomas Kaufmann, Geschichte der Reformation (Frankfurt: Verlag der Weltreligionen, 2010), 21.    See Erwin Iserloh, “Martin Luther und der Auf bruch der Reformation (1517–1525),” in Handbuch der Kirchengeschichte. Bd.  4 : Reformation, Katholische Reform und Gegenreformation, ed. Erwin Iserloh, Josef Glazik, and Hubert Jedin (Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 1967), 3–114, esp.  3–10. Iserloh bases his work largly on Lortz’s image of the established modern Roman Catholic Church in Joseph Lortz, Die Reformation in Deutschland (Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 1941).    See Karl Binder, Konzilsgedanken bei Kardinal Juan de Torquemada, O. P. (Wien: Wiener Dom-Verlag, 1976); Heribert Smolinsky, “Successio apostolica im späten Mittelalter und im 16. Jahrhundert,” in Das kirchliche Amt in apostolischer Nachfolge. Bd.  1: Grundlagen und Grundfragen, ed. Gunther Wenz and Theo Schneider, Dialog der Kirchen 12–14 (Freiburg im Breis­ gau: Herder; and Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2004), 357–75, 361–63.    Brian Tierney, Origins of Papal Infallibility, 1150–1350: A Study on the Concepts of Infallibil-

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that local dioceses in Saxony were mostly in the hands of the local prince, and that the French church became an institution that was largely led by the king via the Pragmatic Sanction of Bourges. Tensions like these may be observed even in one single person: even Nicolas of Cusa, whose thought developed in the path of Meister Eckhart and who integrated a deeply internalized concept of the mystical vision,10 was an eager indulgence preacher during his legation trips through Germany.11 This abundance of facets of the late Middle Ages means that it is inappropriate to summarize it with one term. In view of the late Middle Ages, one cannot explain Luther by invoking that he wrestled “a Catholicism within himself .  .  . which was not Catholic,”12 nor is it appropriate to sketch the late Middle Ages simply as the height of piety.13 It is not the amount of piety that is important, but instead one has to pay careful attention to the kind of piety, the different mentalities of piety (Frömmigkeitswelten), whose differences could escalate to almost ity, Sovereignity and Tradition in the Middle Ages, Studies in the History of Christian Thought 6 (Leiden; New York: Brill, 1988 [1972]).    Enno Bünz and Christoph Volkmar, “Das landesherrliche Kirchenregiment in Sachsen vor der Reformation,” in Glaube und Macht: Theologie, Politik und Kunst im Jahrhundert der Reformation, ed. Enno Bünz, Stefan Rhein, and Günther Wartenberg, Schriften der Stiftung Luthergedenkstätten in Sachsen-Anhalt 5 (Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 2005), 89– 109, 97–100; cf. Karlheinz Blaschke, “Sächsische Landesgeschichte und Reformation: Ursachen, Ereignisse, Wirkungen,” in Glaube und Macht, 111–32, esp.  125.    Herbert Wackerzapp, Der Einfluß Meister Eckharts auf die ersten philosophischen Schriften des Nikolaus von Kues (1440–1450) (Münster: Aschendorff, 1962); Stefanie Frost, “Die MeisterEckhart-Rezeption des Nikolaus von Kues,” in Nicolaus Cusanus: Perspektiven seiner Geistphilosophie, ed. Harald Schwaetzer (Regensburg: Roderer, 2003), 149–62; idem, Nikolaus von Kues und Meister Eckhart: Rezeption im Spiegel der Marginalien zum Opus tripartitum Meister Eckharts (Münster: Aschendorff, 2006). 10   Nicolaus de Cusa, Opera Omnia I:11.12–18; XI:19.1–4. On Nicolas of Cusa’s mysticism, see Johannes Hoff, Kontingenz, Berührung, Überschreitung: Zur philosophischen Propädeutik christlicher Mystik nach Nikolaus von Kues, (München: Karl Alber, 2007); Alois Maria Haas, “.  .  . das Letzte unserer Sehnsüchte erlangen”: Nikolaus von Kues als Mystiker, Trierer Cusanus lecture 14 (Trier: Paulinus-Verlag, 2008). 11   See the summary of his message as a preacher on indulgences and the ban on usury for the Jews during the Nuremberg Council of 1451 (Acta Cusana I/3a:880 [No.  1293]); it is also summarized in Erich Meuthen, “Die deutsche Legationsreise des Nikolaus von Kues 1451/1452,” in Lebenslehren und Weltentwürfe im Übergang vom Mittelalter zur Neuzeit: Politik – Bildung – Naturkunde – Theologie, ed. Helmut Boockmann, et al., Abhandlungen der Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Göttingen. Phil.-hist. Klasse. Dritte Folge 179 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1989), 421–99, 426. 12   “.  .  . in sich selbst einen Katholizismus .  .  . der nicht katholisch war.” Lortz, Reformation, 176. Lortz focuses mainly on the via moderna, which he qualifies as “uncatholic at its root” (“wurzelhaft unkatholisch”) (p.  173), but in general this view tends to dominate his view of the heterogenous late Middle Ages as a whole, especially in its adaptation by his student, Iserloh. 13   Bernd Moeller, “Frömmigkeit in Deutschland um 1500,” in Die Reformation und das Mittelalter. Kirchenhistorische Aufsätze, ed. Johannes Schilling (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1991), 73–85, 74.

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polarities, which tensely opposed each other in their different orientations.14 A careful look at these polarities will help to grasp the development of the Reformation period in a more nuanced way than the common constructs, which are often oriented towards legitimizing one or the other confession. Two important polarities for this are centrality and decentrality on the one hand, and immediacy (Unmittelbarkeit) and mediation (Vermittlung) on the other. The contrast of centrality and decentrality is tied to the question of papal leadership of the church. The increasing claim of the popes for central leadership of the church can be seen already in early events like the rejection of regional synodal decisions by Nikolaus I; 15 one of the first culminations of this is found in the Dictatus papae of Gregory VII.16 There was, however, a marked increase in papal claims in theory and law around 1300, when Aegidius Romanus developed the theory of the direct leadership of the church by the pope.17 The bull Unam Sanctam did not take up the concept verbatim, but it was so influenced by Aegidius’s theories that it can be seen as an early form of legal language for the bull. Admittedly, this was only a signal for a development that was visible in many events. The period around 1300 is also the phase when the heresy trials were increasingly moved to the papal court and thus were moved from the decentralized competence of the bishops to the central control of the pope.18 The trials against Meister Eckhart and William of Ockham, which were moved to Avignon for different reasons,19 are further circumstantial evidence for this 14   See Berndt Hamm, “Theologie und Frömmigkeit im ausgehenden Mittelalter,” in Handbuch der Geschichte der evangelischen Kirche in Bayern. Bd.  1: Von den Anfängen des Christentums bis zum Ende des 18. Jahrhunderts, ed. Gerhard Müller et al. (St. Ottilien: EOS, 2002), 159–211, esp.  188–90; Volker Leppin, “Von der Polarität zur Vereindeutigung: Zu den Wandlungen in Kirche und Frömmigkeit zwischen spätem Mittelalter und Reformation,” in Frömmigkeit – Theologie – Frömmigkeitstheologie. Contributions to European Church History. Festschrift für Berndt Hamm zum 60. Geburtstag, ed. Gudrun Litz, Heidrun Munzert, and Roland Liebenberg, Studies in the History of Christian Traditions 124 (Leiden; Boston: Brill, 2005), 299–315; and Volker Leppin, Die Wittenberger Reformation und der Prozess der Transformation kultureller zu institutionellen Polaritäten, Sitzungsberichte der Sächsischen Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Leipzig. Philologisch-historische Klasse 140/4 (Stuttgart; Leipzig: Verlag der Sächsischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2008). 15   On his intervention in the marital dispute of Lothar II, see Arnold Angenendt, Das Frühmittelalter: Die Abendländische Christenheit von 400 bis 900 (Stuttgart: W. Kohlhammer, 1990), 387–88. 16   An overview of the rich discussion on Dictatus papae is found in Uta-Renate Blumenthal, Gregor VII: Papst zwischen Canossa und Kirchenreform (Darmstadt: Primus Verlag, 2001), 9–11, in the footnotes. 17   Eckard Homann, Totum posse, quod est in ecclesia, reservatur in summo pontifice: Studien zur politischen Theorie bei Aegidius Romanus, Contradictio 2 (Würzburg: Königshausen & Neumann, 2004); Elmar Krüger, Der Traktat “De ecclesiastica potestate” des Aegidius Romanus: Eine spätmittelalterliche Herrschaftskonzeption des päpstlichen Universalismus, Forschungen zur kirchlichen Rechtsgeschichte und zum Kirchenrecht 30 (Köln: Böhlau, 2007). 18   William J. Courtenay, “Inquiry and Inquisition: Academic Freedom in Medieval Universities,” in Church History 58 (1989): 168–81. 19   On Eckhart’s trial, see Winfried Trusen, Der Prozeß gegen Meister Eckhart: Vorgeschichte,

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increase of central control in matters of belief. Even more strongly notable and more repeatedly adjusted were the proceedings of canon law. The fiscalization of the ecclesiastical economy led to a notable increase in the direct control of the church by the pope. It became necessary due to the special situation of the papacy in Avignon, which was far more than the traditional possessions of the Patrimonium Petri. The often denounced system of Annaten, Servitien, and (most of all) Reservationen,20 was, aside from the notable longing for sources of income for the pope, also an expression of his universal determination of control: each position that was reserved for him increased the influence of the central control of the church and meant less importance for local authorities. The many legal processes which were moved to Rome must be interpreted similarly. If attention is paid to the processes of ecclesiastical centralization, it becomes clear that the Gravamina nationis Germanicae could be read as a description of this centralization: Nearly everything that is listed there is an expression of what the pope and the papal curia gained in possibilities of access to the universal church, and in alarming ways. In fact, in some ways the universal church can be experienced only at this point precisely because of this central control. The statement by Torquemada that I mentioned earlier, which propagated an unexpected increase in papal control, is nothing more than a theoretical expression of this tendency for centralization. It is obvious that these aspects paint a picture of the church that contrasts the Reformation to such an extent that the Reformation must appear to be a “break” (Bruch). But it is only a break of a certain tendency of centralization within the medieval church, not a total break, because within this tendency for centralization there were strong forces that pushed for a decentralization of the church. Perhaps the strongest theoretical impulse in this direction is the concept of a remnant church (Restkirche), which was developed in canonical jurisprudence and brought into the political debate by William of Ockham.21 According to this theory it is possible that not only the pope but also whole councils can err, that even all clerics could err; and thus the possibility appears on the horizon Verlauf und Folgen, Rechts- und Staatswissenschaftliche Veröffentlichungen der Görres-Gessellschaft, N. F. 54 (Paderborn: Schöningh, 1988); On Ockham’s trial, see Josef Koch, “Neue Aktenstücke zu dem gegen Wilhelm Ockham in Avignon geführten Prozeß,” in Recherches de théologie ancienne et médiévale 7 (1935): 353–80; 8 (1936): 79–93, 168–97; and Die Schriften des Oxforder Kanzlers Iohannes Lutterell. Texte zur Theologie des vierzehnten Jahrhunderts, ed. Fritz Hoffmann, Erfurter theologische Studien 6 (Leipzig: St. Benno-Verlag, 1959). 20   See Bernard Guillemain, Les papes d’Avignon 1309–1376 (Paris: Cerf, 1998), 49–59. 21   Brian Tierney, Foundations of the Conciliar Theory: The Contribution of the Medieval Canonists from Gratian to the Great Schism, Cambridge Studies in Medieval Life and Thought, new ser. 4 (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1955), 44–45; Scott H. Hendrix, “In Quest of the vera ecclesia: The Crisis of Late Medieval Ecclesiology,” Viator 7 (1976): 347–78, esp.  359; Volker Leppin, Geglaubte Wahrheit: Das Theologieverständnis Wilhelms von Ockham, Forschungen zur Kirchen- und Dogmengeschichte 63 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Rup­ recht, 1995), 284–92.

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that the church may be present only in lay people, and if necessary, only in women or children. Admittedly these theories were received less commonly in this radical conclusion than in their importance for another central authority: the councils.22 Nonetheless, these theories, together with the real developments of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, undermined the concept of the central authority of the church. The great Western Schism was disastrous in this regard: The fact that the pope’s legal spheres of influence in Europe were divided, and that in the end it was the decision of each prince whom they accepted as the head of the church, brought the rival popes into a dependence on these decentralized authorities. Even the resolution of the schismatic situation at the Council of Constance did not really lead to a protection or tightening of the central control of the church. Another event at Constance that is more often connected to it – the execution of Jan Hus – led to the emergence of an independent church organization in Bohemia, which was recognized by Rome after long battles and which scholars occasionally classify as a confession.23 Even if one does not want to use this term in relation to the late Middle Ages, it is clear that the religious situation was in such a condition that it was possible not only to imagine a nationally oriented church without the central authority of the pope, but also to convert this idea into reality. That this was not a singular event is demonstrated by manifold processes in which ecclesiastical authorities increasingly acquired rights that really belonged to the pope. Even where this did not lead to an official break with the papacy, it meant an increase of decentralized forces. The most notable case is France, where the developing Gallicanism in the Pragmatic Sanction of Bourges used the council’s decisions that mentioned independence from the pope and transferred far-reaching authority to the French king.24 Even the above-mentioned Gravamina nationis Germanicae 25 are expressions of such a mentality of independence in relation to the pope – even if independence never developed on the level of the Holy Roman Empire as it did in France. Nevertheless one can observe remarkable developments within the empire that demonstrate the increasingly decentralized powers in the late Middle 22

  Jürgen Miethke, “Zur Bedeutung von Ockhams politischer Philosophie für Zeitgenossen und Nachwelt,” in Die Gegenwart Ockhams, ed. Wilhelm Vossenkuhl and Rolf Schönberger (Weinheim: VCH-Verlagsgesellschaft, Acta humaniora, 1990), 305–24. 23   Winfried Eberhard, Konfessionsbildung und Stände in Böhmen 1478–1530, Veröffentli­ chungen des Collegium Carolinum 38 (München: Oldenbourg, 1981), 29–30. 24   Heribert Müller, Die Franzosen, Frankreich und das Basler Konzil (1431–1449). Teil  2 (Paderborn: F. Schöningh, 1990), 823–28. 25   On this, see Heinz Scheible, “Die Gravamina, Luther und der Wormser Reichstag 1521,” in idem, Melanchthon und die Reformation. Forschungsbeiträge, ed. Rudolf May und Rolf Decot, Veröffentlichungen des Instituts für Europäische Geschichte Mainz 41 (Mainz: P. von Zabern, 1996), 393–409; Eike Wolgast, “Art. Gravamina nationis germanicae,” in TRE 14:131–34.

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Ages. The most notable case was in Saxony, where the dioceses developed a farreaching adjustment of territorial rule and diocesan organization. Most importantly, the power to select clergy was executed by the adjacent princes. It was the late medieval process of territorial consolidation 26 that influenced church politics and church organization. The church could be locally experienced and locally formed; the pope was far away. A similar tendency towards decentralization could be observed in the imperial cities, which increasingly earned the right to fill municipal ecclesiastical positions.27 Taken together, these various observations and tendencies present good reasons to talk about a polarization between centralization and decentralization concerning the understanding of church in the late Middle Ages. That the church should be led centrally from Rome was a Roman claim, but it was anything but a consensus in theory or practice. This, however, was not the only polarity that shaped the late Middle Ages. Related to it was a different polarity that can be described as the opposition of mediation and immediacy (Mittelbarkeit and Unmittelbarkeit). This tension between polar opposites can be seen in many different contexts. One tendency toward increased immediacy (Immediatisierung) within Scholastic theology, primarily in the concepts of the via moderna, put an unmediated (unmittelbar) acceptatio of the sinner by God in the center of its thought.28 This might have played a role in the development of the doctrine of justification in the Reformation; 29 however, two other aspects of immediacy became more important for the Protestant doctrine of justification. The first was the increasingly internalized (verinnerlichte) piety, which questioned the sacramental mediation of salvation by the clerics. Secondly, as a social counterpart, there was the increasing participation of laity in the life of the church, which in another way questioned the centralized authority in the mediation of salvation within the medieval church via the priest. 26

  Peter Moraw, Von offener Verfassung zu gestalteter Verdichtung: Das Reich im späten Mittel­ alter 1250 bis 1490, Propyläen Geschichte Deutschlands 3 (Frankfurt am Main and Berlin: Propyläen, 1989). 27   Bernd Moeller, Reichsstadt und Reformation, rev. ed. (Berlin: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 1987), 12–13; idem, Deutschland im Zeitalter der Reformation, 3rd rev. ed. (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1988), 43; Peter Blickle, Die Reformation im Reich, 3rd ed. (Stuttgart: Ulmer, 2000), 109–10; Gottfried Seebaß, Geschichte des Christentums. Bd.  3: Spätmittel­ alter – Reformation – Konfessionalisierung (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2006), 126–27. 28   Werner Dettloff, Die Entwicklung der Akzeptations- und Verdienstlehre von Duns Scotus bis Luther, Beiträge zur Geschichte der Philosophie und Theologie des Mittelalters. Texte und Untersuchungen 40/2 (Münster: Aschendorff, 1963); Volker Leppin, Theologie im Mittelalter, Kirchengeschichte in Einzeldarstellungen 1/11 (Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 2007), 128–51. 29   Volker Leppin, “Transformationen spätmittelalterlicher Mystik bei Luther,” in Gottes Nähe unmittelbar erfahren: Mystik im Mittelalter und bei Martin Luther, ed. Berndt Hamm and Volker Leppin, Spätmittelalter und Reformation, Neue Reihe 36 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007), 165–85, esp.  179–83.

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An increased immediacy in the relationship with God is found most often in various forms of piety marked by mysticism, and in examining this piety we can see how highly-charged and dangerous this increased immediacy was perceived to be by the church hierarchy. An apparent indication of this is the condemnation of the Rhineland Beguines at the Council of Vienne in 1312 in the constitution Ad nostrum qui, which contained this accusation, among others: When the body of Christ is lifted up, they are not allowed to stand up nor to show him their reverence: for they claim that would be a sign of imperfection for them if they ever descended so far from the purity and magnitude of their contemplation that they might reflect on the administration of the sacrament of the Eucharist or on the suffering of Christ’s humanity.30

The imagined and feared piety was indeed found in the milieu of the Beguines. This piety was prepared to do without the church’s sacramental means of salvation, based on an immediate encounter with God himself. Marguerite Porete, for example, wrote that the soul that is mystically united with God and therefore free must not search for God in the sacraments.31 The background for this understanding includes different varieties of mystical theology, and thus it is not surprising that there are also comments among the authors of Rheinish mysticism that minimized the importance of sacramental acts based on the idea of direct contact with God. Johannes Tauler, in his sermon about the three-step way to God, explained that the sacraments are a useful aid on the first two steps, but on the third step everything that might help actually stood in the way.32 As an aid the sacraments may be useful, but the direct encounter with God happens without any means, i.e., directly. This devaluation of sacramental events was applied to particular sacraments, most often penance, and more precisely the external acts of penance. While mystical sermons urged listeners to contritio, the internalized repentance, mystical theologians repeatedly qualified the importance of the confessio, the confession, and the satisfactio that followed it. In a sermon for Corpus Christi, Tauler advised that one should not avoid true contrition by “running directly to the confessor.” Instead, he advised, “No, confess 30   DS 898: “Quod in elevatione corporis Iesu Christi non debent assurgere nec eidem reverentiam exhibere: asserentes, quod esset imperfectionis eisdem, si a puritate et altitudine suae contemplationis tantum descenderent, quod circa ministerium seu sacramentum Eucharistiae aut circa passionem humanitatis Christi aliqua cogitarent.” 31   Margaretae Porete Speculum simplicium animarum / cura et studio, ed. Paul Verdeyen. Corpus Christianorum, continuatio medievalis 69 (Turnholti: Brepols, 1986), 242.20–21: “Ceste, qui telle est, ne quiert plus Dieu par penitance ne par sacrement nul de Saincte Eglise.” On the connection between Porete and the Brethren of the Free Spirit, see Raoul Manselli, “Brüder des freien Geistes,” in TRE 7: 218–20, here 219. 32   “in diesem so hindert alles, daz behelffen mag.” Die Predigten Taulers aus der Engelberger und der Freiburger Handschrift sowie aus Schmidts Abschriften der ehemaligen Straßburger Handschriften, ed. Ferdinand Vetter, Deutsche Texte des Mittelalters 11 (Berlin, 1910; Dublin, 1968), 316.2–3.

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first to God.”33 This devaluation of the external in favor of the internal was deeply rooted within the Rheinish mysticism. Almost as polemical was Meister Eckhart: Many people think they must do great works in external things, such as fasting, going barefoot, and so forth of what is called works of contrition. The true and highest contrition, however, with which one becomes strong and makes the most improvement, consists in one turning completely away from everything that is not entirely of God and divine in himself and in all creatures, and turning completely and totally to his dear God.34

For Tauler, this critique could even lead to the interpretation that there were people who went to confession for twenty or thirty years without ever receiving real absolution.35 What is emerging here is the ever stronger idea that there are unmediated means to have contact with God. These means were no less intensive than the sacramental encounter and in some ways could replace it. The condemnation of the Beguines in Vienne or Marguerite Porete showed that the danger to the medieval church that stemmed from these ideas was noted and that there was a reaction to them. It is possible that Eckhart’s conviction also can be seen in this line of developments, particularly since John XXII, who was pope during Eckhart’s trial, showed a great fear of this lack of mediation in the relationship with God in other contexts as well. And yet, as Johannes Tauler demonstrates, there was apparently the possibility to teach this unmediated access to God within the framework of the church, even with Tauler’s obvious attempt to connect his teaching with the cultivation of Meister Eckhart’s legacy in a way that was in conformity with the church. The insidious undermining of clerical status that is shown in these ideas was paralleled by the social-historical development of an increasing participation of laity in the church. Through Bernd Moeller’s research, lay participation in urban reforms was thrust into the focal point in historical theories of the Reformation. Yet a purely social-historical and church-organizational focus would be incomplete, for the participation of laity is also a moment in the history of piety, as seen in the push of the laity for religious literature in the vernacular. Zerbold

33   “das du ze hant us louffest zuo dem bichter”; “Nein, bichte Gotte zem ersten.” Die Predigten Taulers, 294.33–250.1. 34   “Vil liute dünket, daz sie grôziu werk süln tuon von ûzern dingen, als vasten, barvuoz gân und ander dinc des glîche, daz pênitencie heizet. Wâriu und diu aller beste pênitencie ist dâ mite man groezlîche und ûf daz hoehste bezzert, daz ist: daz der mensche habe en grôz und volkomen abekêren von allem dem, daz niht zemâle got und götlich ist an im und an allen crêatûren, und habe ein grôz und ein volkomen und ein ganz zuokêren ze sînem lieben gote.” Meister Eckhart, Die deutschen Werke, vol. 5, ed. Josef Quint (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1963), 244.5–245.2. 35   Die Predigten Taulers, 282.7–9.

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von Zutphen’s treatise De libris teutonicalibus mirrors this clearly; 36 the abundance of late medieval Bible translations evidences this trend in another way.37 This spiritual interest is also expressed in the formation of brotherhoods.38 Even if these connections “were never far from official supervision,”39 as Robert Scribner emphasized, they demonstrated the extent to which the laity wanted to take part in shaping their own religious life. Even more important for the shaping of the late medieval church was the large number of positions for preachers at urban churches, which were meant to meet the increased religious needs.40 These positions were a particularly important point of departure for urban politics because the town council could generally influence the filling of the position. That this was not the only form of lay influence in choosing clergy within the church has been missed for a long time due to the focus of research in the urban Reformation. In reality, of course, the filling of bishops’ seats by princes as mentioned above is not only an expression of tendencies for decentralization, but at the same time also an intervention of laity in the form of the church. As in the question of centrality and decentralization, it is also true with this element of increased immediacy that a simple look at merely this increase of immediacy between God and the believer would oversimplify the religious world of the Middle Ages. This polarity is shown in the smallest arenas, particularly the brotherhoods, which, as places of lay participation, demonstrated a bit more lay independence as well as more immediate access to God. But at the same time, the brotherhoods show (and also express) that a person in the late Middle Ages was generally dependent on the services of a cleric, because the 36   Albert Hyma, ed., “The De libris teutonicalibus by Gerard Zerbolt of Zutphen,” Nederlands archief voor kerkgeschiedenis 17 (1924): 42–70. On newer discussions of this treatise, which was once classified as a one-sided apology, see Volker Honemann, “Zur Interpretation und Überlieferung des Traktats De libris teutonicalibus,“ in Miscellanea Neerlandica, Bd.  3, ed. Elly Cockx-Indestege and Frans Hendrickx (Leuven: Peeters, 1987), 113–24; idem, “Der Laie als Leser,” in Laienfrömmigkeit im späten Mittelalter, ed. Klaus Schreiner, Schriften des Histo­rischen Kollegs. Kolloquien 20 (München: Oldenbourg, 1992), 241–51; Nikolaus Staubach, “Gerhard Zerbolt von Zutphen und die Apologie der Laienlektüre in der Devotio moderna,” in Laienlektüre und Buchmarkt im späten Mittel Alter, ed. Thomas Kock and Rita Schlusemann, Gesellschaft, Kultur und Schrift. Mediävistische Beiträge 5 (Frankfurt: 1997), 221–89; Volker Leppin, “Zerbolt, Gerhard,” in TRE 36:658–60. 37   Rudolf Bentzinger, “Zur spätmittelalterlichen deutschen Bibelübersetzung. Versuch eines Überblicks,” in “Ik lerde kunst dor lust”: Ältere Sprache und Literatur in Forschung und Lehre, ed. Irmtraud Rösler, Rostocker Beiträge zur Sprachwissenschaft 7 (Rostock: Universität Rostock, 1999), 29–41. 38   On this, see the instructive overview by Angelika Dörfler-Dierken, “Bruderschaften. II. Kirchengeschichtlich. 1. Abendland,” in Religion in Geschichte und Gegenwart, vol. 1, ed. Hans Dieter Betz (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1998), 1784–85. 39   “.  .  . nie weit von offizieller Aufsicht entfernt.” Robert W. Scribner, “Elemente des Volksglaubens,” in Religion und Kultur in Deutschland 1400–1800, ed. Lyndal Roper, Veröffentlichungen des Max-Planck-Instituts für Geschichte 175 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2002), 81. 40   Moeller, Reichsstadt und Reformation, 13.

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brotherhoods were particularly involved in the donation of altars and they provided for the altarists. The increase in the number of altars and altarists in the late Middle Ages 41 is thus also an expression of the tendency towards clericalization, which seems to contradict the double tendency – spiritual and social-historical – toward increased immediacy as described above. Thus from both perspectives presented here, we can observe the above-mentioned polarity of the religious world of the late Middle Ages: Centrality and decentrality, mediation of salvation and increased immediacy – both poles are equally part of the religious world of the late Middle Ages. They create variety but also tension. And they help at least partially to understand the conflicts that will burst open.

2.  Centrality versus Immediacy: The Shifting of Polarities With the help of the above concepts, i.e., the polarities of the late Middle Ages, the beginnings of the conflicts of the Reformation era can be described relatively simply as a collision of the insistence on the centrality of the church with a critique of the outward form of the church and its sacramental transactions, which developed out of a tendency toward increased immediacy. In other words, different polarities came into play; more precisely, they came into conflict. Thus, both Luther’s and Zwingli’s beginnings as reformers illustrate different aspects of immediacy. For Luther the internalization of the relationship to God stood in the foreground; for Zwingli the responsibilities of laity in relation to the clergy. These different emphases clarify that these two reformers are not related to each other like student and teacher, but instead show that each had his own path to the Reformation.42 For Luther, recent research has made clear that a majority of his impulses came from mysticism.43 The systematic-theological fixation on the question of justifi41

  Moeller, Spätmittelalter, 39.   The classic work in the interpretation of Zwingli as Luther’s student is Martin Brecht, “Zwingli als Schüler Luthers: Zu seiner theologischen Entwicklung 1518–1522,” Zeitschrift für Kirchengeschichte 96 (1985): 301–19 (Reprinted in idem, Ausgewählte Aufsätze. Bd.  A: Reformation [Stuttgart, 1995], 217–36). A substantial dependence on Luther in Zwingli’s theological development is also reflected in Wilhelm H. Neuser, Die reformatorische Wende bei Zwingli (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1977); for a critique of this, see Volker Leppin, “Zwingli, Ulrich,” in TRE 36:793–809, esp.  794–95. 43   Steven E. Ozment, Homo spiritualis: A Comparative Study of the Anthropology of Johannes Tauler, Jean Gerson and Martin Luther (1509–1516) in the Context of Their Theological Thought, Studies in Medieval and Reformation Thought 6 (Leiden: Brill, 1969); Karl-Heinz Zur Mühlen, Nos Extra Nos: Luthers Theologie zwischen Mystik und Scholastik, Beiträge zur histo­ rischen Theologie 46 (Tübingen: Mohr, 1972); Theo Bell, Divus Bernhardus. Bernhard von Clairvaux in Martin Luthers Schriften, Veröffentlichungen des Instituts für Europäische Ge­ schichte Mainz 148 (Mainz: P. von Zabern, 1993); Ulrich Köpf, “Martin Luther als Mönch,” 42

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cation, which has had a dominating grasp on Luther research since Karl Holl, has long overlooked the fact that Luther himself in an earlier memory did not describe his reformatory development primarily in the terminology of the iustificatio teaching as an exegetical clarification of Romans 1:17. Instead, he initially described it primarily as a new understanding of penance (quite obviously based on the subject of the Ninety-five Theses), and indeed, as the understanding to which his confessor Johannes Staupitz led him.44 A deeper root for this understanding was his occupation with Johannes Tauler45 and Tauler’s understanding of penance. With this, we see in Luther’s beginnings the effects of an internalized school of increased immediacy that can be identified in the late Middle Ages. On various points, Luther’s theology can be described as a transformation of late medieval mysticism,46 most clearly in his association with the doctrine of law and gospel. This doctrine reflects the humiliation of Christians through the realization of their distance from God and their suddenly-regained proximity to God, a process that is also found in late medieval mysticism. The famous image of the soul as the bride of Christ in The Freedom of a Christian of 1520 also speaks strongly for the continuous influence of mysticism,47 since the origin of this image is quite clearly Bernhard of Clairvaux48 and Johannes Staupitz.49 in Luther 55 (1984): 66–84; idem, “Monastische Traditionen bei Martin Luther,” in Luther – zwischen den Zeiten. Eine Jenaer Ringvorlesung, ed. Christoph Markschies and Michael Tro­ witzsch (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1999), 17–35; Volker Leppin, “‘omnem vitam fidelium penitentiam esse voluit.’ Zur Aufnahme mystischer Traditionen in Luthers erster Ablaßthese,” Archive for Reformation History 93 (2002): 7–25; Henrik Otto, Vor- und frühreformatorische Tau­lerRezeption. Annotationen in Drucken des späten 15. und 16. Jahrhunderts, Quellen und For­schungen zur Reformationsgeschichte 75 (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 2003); Markus Wriedt, “Mystik und Protestantismus – ein Widerspruch?” in Mystik, Religion der Zukunft – Zukunft der Religion?, ed. Johannes Schilling (Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 2003), 67–87; Berndt Hamm and Volker Leppin, eds., Gottes Nähe unmittelbar erfahren: Mystik im Mittelalter und bei Martin Luther, Spätmittelalter und Reformation, Neue Reihe 36 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007), especially the contributions by Berndt Hamm, Sven Grosse, and myself ). 44   WA 1:525–27; cf. Leppin, “omnem vitam.” 45   Alphons Victor Müller, Luther und Tauler auf ihren theologischen Zusammenhang neu untersucht (Bern: Ferd. Wyss, 1918); Leppin, “omnem vitam”; Otto, Vor- und frühreformatorische Tauler-Rezeption. 46   See my attempt to do this in Leppin, Transformationen spätmittelalterlicher Mystik. 47   WA 7:25.26–34. 48   The image is so common in Bernhard’s mysticism on the Song of Songs that we can only give an overview of the relevant literature here: Ulrich Köpf, Religiöse Erfahrung in der Theologie Bernhards von Clairvaux, Beiträge zur historischen Theologie 61 (Tübingen: Mohr, 1980); Dagmar Heller, Schriftauslegung und geistliche Erfahrung bei Bernhard von Clairvaux, Studien zur systematischen und spirituellen Theologie 2 (Würzburg: Echter, 1990); Jean Le­ clercq, Bernhard von Clairvaux: Ein Mann prägt seine Zeit (München: Verlag Neue Stadt, 1990); Peter Dinzelbacher, Bernhard von Clairvaux: Leben und Werk des berühmten Zisterziensers (Darmstadt: Primus, 1998); Gillian R. Evans, Bernard of Clairvaux (New York; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000); Pierre Aubé, Saint Bernard de Clairvaux (Paris: Fayard, 2003). 49   See Johann von Staupitz, Sämtliche Schriften, 2. Lateinische Schriften: Libellus de exsecutione aeternae praedestinationis, ed. Lothar Graf zu Dohna and Richard Wetzel, Spätmittelalter und

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Indeed, Luther’s rootedness in mystical piety gave rise to his first protest, namely the Ninety-five Theses, and this protest is also related to a distance to sacramental mediation of salvation. It is no coincidence that Luther’s first, foundational thesis, which offensively propagates an understanding of penance that is influenced by mysticism, is followed by the second thesis, which expressly stresses that this understanding of penance as an interpretation of Matthew 4:17 is not related to sacramental penance. Such a vis-à-vis of an internalized understanding of penance and the ecclesial administration of sacraments is familiar to the late medieval world and can be found in specific ways in that mystical stream that Luther inherited. Thus the protest against indulgences still can be understood within the framework of the polarities of internalization/externalization or immediacy/mediation of salvation, independently of the question whether Luther’s immediacy at this point can or cannot be connected with a developed idea of justification.50

Reformation 14 (Berlin; New York: de Gruyter, 1979), 145–47: “Die verbindung Christi und der kirchen ist volkumen, dergestalt: ‘Ich nim dich zu der meinen, ich nim dich mir, ich nim dich in mich’; und herwiderumb spricht die kirche oder die seel zu Christo: ‘Ich nim dich zu dem meinen, ich nim dich mir, ich nim dich in mich’; domit Christus also sprech: ‘Der christen ist mein, der christen ist mir, der christen ist ich’; und die braut: ‘Christus ist mein, Christus ist mir, Christus ist ich.’” 50   On the almost overflowing debate on the content and timing of Luther’s Reformation discovery, see both volumes of collected essays edited by Bernhard Lohse, Der Durchbruch der reformatorischen Erkenntnis bei Luther, Wege der Forschung 123 (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1968); and idem, ed., Der Durchbruch der reformatorischen Erkenntnis bei Luther. Neuere Untersuchungen, Veröffentlichungen des Instituts für Europäische Geschichte Mainz 25 (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 1988). Recently Berndt Hamm interpreted the Ninety-five Theses as a Reformation text and thereby at least began to appeal for an earlier dating of the Reformation Discovery. Berndt Hamm, “Die 95 Thesen – ein reformatorischer Text im Zusammenhang der frühen Bußtheologie Martin Luthers,” in idem, Der frühe Luther: Etappen reformatorischer Neuorientierung (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010), 90–114. This is unproblematic as long as one “integrates the period from 1505 to 1511 into the biographical arch of a Reformation process of change and development” (“den Zeitraum von 1505 bis 1511 in den Lebensbogen des reformatorischen Wende- und Werdeprozesses Luthers integriert”); idem, “Naher Zorn und nahe Gnade: Luthers frühe Klosterjahre als Beginn seiner reformatorischen Neuorientierung,” in Martin Luther und das monastische Erbe, ed. Christoph Bultmann et al., Spätmittelalter, Humanismus, Reformation 39 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007), 117. With this justified and necessary renunciation of the model of a turning point (Wende-Konstrukt) (113), Luther’s development can indeed be understood complementarily as a late medieval development or continuation, or in the sense of Hamm’s ex post, as “reformatory” (reformatorisch). The latter, however, is an interpretive concept that is an anachronism, at least as long as Luther considers himself part of a medieval fabric of meaning and norms. This may be debatable for 1517, but for 1505, to which Hamm dates the beginning of the reformatory process of change, it is doubtlessly true. Thus, what Hamm refers to as “reformatory” is, for Luther, in no way a binding or consummated initiative in opposition to the church of his origin. Once one has entered into this debate, there remain only shades of a gradual development instead of the rhetoric of a sudden break (Bruch).

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In a different way, Zwingli can be understood along these lines, with a different emphasis. It is likely that he came to his first reformatory convictions independently of Luther. It was not the theological impulses of the Wittenberg reformer that were decisive for him, but rather the inheritance of late medieval Scotism, primarily as it had been conveyed to him by Stephan Brulefer.51 Through Brulefer, Zwingli had learned one thing in particular: there is an infinite difference between God and creation, including humankind. This infinite difference established the foundation for Zwingli’s belief that all worldly (i.e., of creation) intermediary authorities lost value, strength, and power. This perspective was already outlined in his first reformatory sermons, which we know primarily from the written complaint of Canon Hofmann. Some of Hofmann’s accusations raise themes that are similar to the Leipzig Disputation, namely the disregard of central supervisory authorities in the church and of clerical models altogether: Furthermore, it is true that human judgments, verdicts, statutes, and regulations can be lawfully and beneficially changed, limited, or strengthened due to the circumstances and conditions of humans and of particular matters. This may be done by those who have the insight and authority to do so as long as they do not base their impact and validity on the Holy Scriptures or divine statutes and regulations. And, under the current circumstances, it would probably be useful, necessary, and good to change or abolish many of them. Nevertheless, I am of the firm opinion that no one, and least of all the clergy, should be allowed to state this publicly in front of the people or to express opinions through which the verdicts, judgments, statutes, and regulations in parishes could fall into disrepute so that they could be considered useless, foolish, unreliable, or ineffective. As a consequence, then, the holy Christian church, the holy fathers, the pope, the cardinals, the bishops and all respectable Christian authorities from whom these judgments, statutes, and regulations originate and are disseminated would be mocked, despised, and destroyed.52 51   Daniel Bolliger, “Infiniti Contemplatio”: Grundzüge der Scotus- und Scotismusrezeption im Werk Huldrych Zwinglis. Mit ausführlicher Edition bisher unpublizierter Annotationes Zwinglis, Studies in the History of Christian Thought 107 (Leiden; Boston: Brill, 2003). 52   Item wie wol es ist / das menschlich urteil und ußspruch satzung und ordnung / so verr die selben nit influsß und krafft habend / von der heiligen geschrifft oder göttlicher satzung und ordnung nach umbstenden und gelegenheitten der menschen und der sachen zimlich und nutzlich mögent geenderet / geminderet oder gemeret werden / von dänen die des verstand und gewalt habend / und villichtter yetz / nach gelegenheit der menschen und der sachen / vast nütz / not und guot wäre / das vil der selben geenderet oder abgethon wurdent // Nüt destminder bin ich starck in der meinung / das nieman zimme / und sonderlich den geistlichen aller minßt offenlich vor dem volck / sömliche wort ze bruchen / oder us zu lasßen / durch die semlich urteil / ussprüch / satzung und ordnung glouplich in einer gemein möchtend für unnitz / thorlich / gloubloß / unnd krafftloß geachttet werden // dar durch dann ouch nachvölgengklich die heilig Christenlich kilch, die heiligen Altvätter / die COncilia / der Bapst / Cardinel / Bischoff / und alle ordenliche christenliche oberkeit / von denen sömlich ussprüch / satzung und ordnung / endtsprungen und geflosßen sind / verspottet / verachttet du vernüttet wurden. Alfred Schindler, ed., “Die Klagschrift des Chorherrn Hofmann gegen Zwingli,” Zwingliana 19, no.1 (1992): 325–59, 339.14–340.5.

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Based on this, we can draw a picture of an intensively reform-oriented preacher, who increasingly criticized the usual structure and forms of assistance that the church proffered as aids for believers. Given this background, it is more than just a coincidence that Zwingli, like Luther, participated in the protest against indulgences, even though he protested them on a different theological basis. Most of all, though, this opposition explains the form of normative centering (normativer Zentrierung) 53 that Reformation theology took on for him. This normative centering for Zwingli is not in the doctrine of justification, as with Luther. Its real impulse is the new understanding of Scripture, which sets the Bible against tradition. This is externally recognizable above all in the first act of protest that was observed in Zurich: The breaking of the fast by the communal eating of sausages in Froschauer’s workshop, which Zwingli legitimizes through his presence, as is well-known.54 This action becomes sensible against the background of a piety that grants validity only to the divine Word but not to human rules. Where both – Creator and creation, the Word of God and of humanity – come into an infinite opposition, the human regulation cannot be merely less valuable in relation to the biblical but instead loses every claim to value. This in turn meant a radical skepticism of any human authority that established norms – and as a result, the abolition of mediation between the believer and the rules of God. Neither the priest nor the bishop could say what had to be done or not, but instead God commanded it directly through his Word. The intellectual context outlined here makes it clear that, for Zwingli in the horizon of late medieval religiosity, the polarity of mediation and immediacy was decisive. Of course, for Zwingli the socially-pointed interpretation of this polarity as opposition between laity and clerics was more prominent than for Luther, whose version was more focused on spiritual, internal piety. The model suggested here to describe the religious world of the late Middle Ages thus explicates both the commonalities and the differences between the two reformers. From this point of view, one does not need to assent to the generalized conclusion that, in the end, the unity of the Reformation came from Rome,55 for 53   Berndt Hamm, “Reformation als normative Zentrierung von Religion und Gesell­ schaft,” Jahrbuch für Biblische Theologie 7 (1992): 241–79; idem, “Normative Centering in the 15th and 16th Centuries: Observations on Religiosity, Theology, and Iconology,” in idem, The Reformation of Faith in the Context of Late Medieval Theology and Piety, ed. Robert J. Bast, Studies in the History of Christian Thought 110 (Leiden: Boston: Brill, 2004), 1–49. 54   Cf. the report by Emil Egli, ed., Actensammlung zur Gesch. der Zürcher Reformation in den Jahren 1519–1533 (Zürich, 1879; Nieuwkoop: De Graaf, 1973), 72–77 (Nos. 233–236). 55   Dorothea Wendebourg, “Die Einheit der Reformation als historisches Problem,” in Reformationstheorien: Ein kirchenhistorischer Disput über Einheit und Vielfalt der Reformation, ed. Berndt Hamm, Bernd Moeller, and Dorothea Wendebourg (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1995), 31–51, 34. Cf. my treatment of this general theme in Volker Leppin, “Wie reformatorisch war die Reformation?” Zeitschrift für Theologie und Kirche 99 (2002): 162–76, esp.  175.

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there are thoroughly unifying themes within the heterogeneous Reformation movements. One can, however, maintain this interpretation in a modified version, inasmuch as the reaction of the Roman administration was an important contribution to the formation of a unified party out of different impulses. One can be even more precise: The way in which Zwingli continued the tendency of the late Middle Ages toward increased immediacy had an aspect that was critical of clergy, and therefore of the church, and tended to undermine established norms. In Luther’s case, his foes decisively influenced his polemicization of the initial proposals for reform to be more critical of the church – and the reaction of the church in turn created the pattern with which the church reacted to the reform movement in general. It is undeniable that Luther’s Ninetyfive Theses undermined the function of the clergy through its criticism of the sacramental understanding of penance. It is also undeniable that, inasmuch as the theses criticized the pope, a general ecclesiological dimension of the conflict became obvious. Yet the theses against indulgences were not a text that aimed at changing the church.56 Their goal was spiritual correction, not systemic change. In thesis seven, Luther explicitly urged submission to the priest 57 and thus stabilized the late medieval system of sacramental mediation of salvation. There were, however, individual signs of criticism of the pope that alarmed Luther’s opponents: Sylvester Prierias, who was commissioned to give an expert opinion on Luther in Rome, as well as the one who was likely his sharpest opponent in debate, Johannes Eck. Both came from the lineage of increasing centrality in the church in the late Middle Ages as described above, although Prierias more clearly stressed the monarchy of the pope than did Eck.58 How Prierias’s opinion on Luther looked in detail cannot be verified directly anymore, but it can be concluded from his writing in connection with this matter from 1518, De potestate papae dialogus, which contains a radically papalist statement: Whoever does not hold to the teaching of the Roman church and the pope as the infallible rule of faith, from which even the Holy Scriptures draw their power and their authority, is a heretic.59

The belief that the church and the pope were the rule of faith and source of authority even of Holy Scripture was a position that was anything but a consen56   Interestingly, the classification of the theses as “reformatory” (reformatorisch), as Hamm recently proposed (Hamm, “95 Thesen”), is not based on an emphasis of elements that were critical of the church. 57   WA 1:23–24: “Nulli prorsus remittit deus culpam, quin simul eum subiicat humiliatum in omnibus sacerdoti suo vicario.” 58   See Heiko Augustinus Oberman, “Wittenbergs Zweifrontenkrieg gegen Prierias und Eck: Hintergrund und Entscheidungen des Jahres 1518,” in idem, Die Reformation: Von Wittenberg nach Genf (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1986), 113–42, esp.  125–29. 59   Peter Fabisch and Erwin Iserloh, eds., Dokumente zur Causa Lutheri. 1. Teil, Corpus Catholicorum 41 (Münster: Aschendorff, 1988), 55.

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sus in the late Middle Ages. Within late medieval religiosity, this view can be more precisely positioned on the polarity of centralization and decentralization, and there it clearly opts for the absolute priority of centrality in the person of the pope. Already in this beginning phase of the trial there was a decisive event for the development of the Reformation: Martin Luther’s impulse, which could be understood to lie within the polarity of interiority and exteriority (Innerlichkeit und Äußerlichkeit), met a reaction with a completely different model, namely the opposition of central and decentral in the church, interpreted authoritatively. This moved the status quaestionis from Martin Luther’s quest for spiritual reform to a highly relevant question of church law. Johannes Eck, however, was the person who made this shift of discourse appear in Martin Luther’s intellectual biography. In spring of 1517 there seemed to be a friendly alliance between Eck and the people of Wittenberg, but now he reacted very sharply to the Ninety-five Theses, though his reaction was initially unpublished (in what Luther later called the Obelisci).60 Soon Andreas Karlstadt turned against Eck in his theses of May 1518,61 in which the classification of papal and biblical authority was now unmistakably the subject of discussion. The twelfth thesis clearly set the Bible before the authority of the church.62 It was not yet the sola scriptura that would shape the theology of the Reformation,63 but it was a clear and recognizably different position than what Sylvester Prierias formulated against Luther at the same time in Rome. In Germany it was now Eck who pushed the discussion ahead in such a way that the differences became immense – and in the end, irreconcilable. The occasion for this push was afforded by Luther’s explanation to thesis twenty-two in the Resolutiones; in that context he explained: Consider the Roman church as it was at the time of St. Gregory, when it had no jurisdiction over other churches, at least not over the Greek church.64 60

  Ibid., 397.   D. Andree Carolstatini docto-| RIS ET ARCHIDIACONI VVITTEN-| BVRGENSIS:CCCLXX: ET APOLOGE-| ticae Conclusiones pro sacris literis .  .  . Wittenberg: RauGrunenburg 1518; On this, cf. Hermann Barge, Andreas Bodenstein von Karlstadt. Bd.  1: Karlstadt und die Anfänge der Reformation, 2nd ed. (Nieuwkoop: B. de Graaf, 1968), 117–26; JensMartin Kruse, Universitätstheologie und Kirchenreform: Die Anfänge der Reformation in Wittenberg, Veröffentlichungen des Instituts für Europäische Geschichte Mainz 187 (Mainz: Von Za­ bern, 2002), 153–59. 62   Thesis 1: “Textus Bibliae per ecclesiasticum doctorem allegatus / plus valet / ac vehementius vrget / quam dictum allegantis.” Thesis 12: “Textus Biblie non modo vni / pluribusque ecclesiae doctoribus / sed etiam tocius ecclesiae auctoritati / prefertur” (Karlstadt, Apologeticae conclusiones); Kruse, Universitätstheologie, 157. 63   Cf. the comments of Ulrich Bubenheimer on the canonical passages for comparison: idem, Consonantia Theologiae et Iurisprudentiae. Andreas Bodenstein von Karlstadt als Theologe und Jurist zwischen Scholastik und Reformation, Jus ecclesiasticum 24 (Tübingen: Mohr, 1977), 81– 116. 64   LW 31:152; WA 1:571.16–18: “finge ut latius suadeamus, Romanam ecclesiam esse, 61

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The sentence implied the historical theory65 that there was a time when the primacy of Rome did not exist. Against this position, Eck stressed that the public representative of Christ and occupant of the chair of Peter has been in existence from time immemorial.66 This forced Luther to a new statement in the Resolutio super propositione sua decima tertia de potestate papae, which was published just before the Disputation of Leipzig.67 In this writing, he formulated a thesis that was skeptical of the papacy but did not fundamentally contest it: Thus, the pope is not above the bishops according to divine law, nor the bishops above the priests. This conclusion holds because the divine law is constant in life as in death.68

The ecclesiological and criteriological conclusions of the fight over indulgences were thus already considerably more acute within two years after the distribution of the Ninety-five Theses by Martin Luther, but a clear break with the official church and its principles had not yet been executed. Eck, however, was able to sharpen the conflict at the Leipzig Disputation in such a way that the discrepancy between the position of the Wittenberger and what had been obligatory in the church became obvious. Nonetheless, they reached the consensus that the Bible as auctoritas maior had higher weight than the pope, an auctoritas minor,69 and here it seemed that Eck was closer to the Wittenbergers than the Roman prosecutor Prierias. But he made the point of contention clear on a different issue, namely that of conciliar authority. By submitting to Luther the condemned teachings of Hus in Constance, which contained the idea that Peter was not and had never been the head of the Holy Catholic Church,70 Eck brought Luther to acknowledge these articles as Christian and evangelical, notwithstanding their ecclesiastical condemnation.71 The back-and-forth that developed from this culminated in Luther’s clear confession: qualis erat etiam adhuc tempore B. Gregorii, quando non erat super alias ecclesias, saltem Graeciae.” 65   Luther immersed himself intensively in questions of church history in preparation for the Leipzig Disputation; on this, see Ernst Schäfer, Luther als Kirchenhistoriker: Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte der Wissenschaft (Gütersloh: C. Bertelsmann, 1897), 24–69. 66   WA 9:209.42–210.2. 67   WA 2:181. 68   WA 2:240.2–4: “Ergo nec Papa est Episcopis, nec Epicopus est superior presbyteris iure divino: tenet consequentia, quia ius divinum est immutabile tam in vita quam in morte.” 69   WA 59:450.566–568. 70   WA 59:461.883–884: “Petrus non est nec fuit caput ecclesiae sanctae catholicae.” 71   WA 59:466.1049. On the meaning of this incident for Luther, see Scott H. Hendrix, “‘We Are All Hussites’? Hus and Luther Revisited,” Archive for Reformation History 65 (1974): 134–61, esp.  138–39. Thomas Kaufmann has recently tried to play down this interpretation of the Leipzig Disputation with reference to WA 2:159.16–19, saying that Luther professed an “unambiguously positive” (“eindeutig positiv”) opinion of Hus. However, the Latin text that Kaufmann quotes shows no loyalty to Hus but instead a distancing from him, i.e., the opposite of what Kaufmann claims to be able to infer from it. See Thomas Kaufmann, “Jan Hus

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That alone I reserve for myself, and it is that which one must reserve for himself, namely [to say] that a council has erred once and can err, especially in questions that do not concern the faith. And a council does not have the authority to determine new articles of faith.72

What the council taught was not part of the ius divinum.73 Thus Luther was forced by Eck to make common cause with heretics.74 He summed up the process himself to his princes: They put something in our mouth so that we have to say it whether we want to or not: the council has erred.75

With this move Eck reached his goal: Luther’s heresy could not be overlooked anymore – and heresy was measured from then on by agreement with Luther, even where it was only modified as with Zwingli. This was done most of all through the bull threatening excommunication,76 which Eck designed largely himself. In the larger context of my argument, this means that the functional and quite understandable movement of the discourse from the polarity of immediacy and mediation of salvation to the polarity of centrality and decentrality was decisive in turning the Reformation movement into heresy.

3.  The Development of the Reformation as a Decentralized Event Consistent with what has been said, the development of Reformation churches unfolded in a decentralized manner. The breakthrough event of the Zurich Reformation, the First Zurich Disputation, was primarily an act of dissolution und die frühe Reformation,” in Biblische Theologie und historisches Denken: Wissenschaftsge­ schichtliche Studien. Aus Anlass der 50. Wiederkehr des Basler Promotion von Rudolf Smend, ed. Martin Kessler and Martin Wallraff (Basel: Schwabe, 2008), 62–109, esp.  73–74. 72   WA 59:500.2081–2083: “Hoc solum mihi reservo, quod et reservandum est, concilium aliquando errasse et posse errare, praesertim in his quae non sunt fidei. Nec habet concilium auctoritatem novorum articulorum condendorum in fide.” 73   WA 59:508.2309–2311. 74   On this interpretation, see Volker Leppin, Martin Luther, 2nd ed. (Darmstadt: WBG, 2010), 144–51; idem, “Papst, Konzil und Kirchenväter. Die Autoritätenfrage in der Leipziger Disputation,” in Die Leipziger Disputation, 1519, ed. Markus Hein und Armin Kohnle (Leipzig, 2011), 117–24.. 75   WABr 1:471.218–219 (No.  192): “Also gibt man uns ins Maul, daß wir, wir wollen oder wollen nit, sagen müssen: Das Concilium hat geirret.” 76   Peter Fabisch and Erwin Iserloh, eds., Dokumente zur Causa Lutheri. 2. Teil, Corpus catholicorum 42 (Münster: Aschendorff, 1991), 319. On this interest in detail, see Peter Fabisch, “Johannes Eck und die Publikationen der Bullen ‘Exsurge Domine’ und ‘Decet Romanum Pontificem,’” in Johannes Eck (1486–1543) im Streit der Jahrhunderte. Internationales Symposium der Gesellschaft zur Herausgabe des Corpus Catholicorum aus Anlaß des 500. Geburts­ tages des Johannes Eck vom 13. bis 16. November 1986 in Ingolstadt und Eichstätt, ed. Erwin Iserloh, Reformationsgeschichtliche Studien und Texte 127 (Münster: Aschendorff, 1988), 74– 106, esp.  74–84.

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from the hierarchical association of the late medieval church. This event was once thought to be an “invention” of Zwingli, as assumed by Bernd Moeller 77 and repeated by many – including me.78 But the fact that the suggestion for a disputation-type of event to document Zwingli’s assertions and errors came from Canon Hofmann, his greatest enemy, suggests it was not an invention, and it illustrates how close the different approaches were within the complicated situation of the late Middle Ages: In accordance with God’s will and the common good, I want to forstall any dangers and offence to Christian teaching and to avert them. So I will take as much trouble as necessary before my provost and chapter and the whole council, as long as its members are willing to be here, to set out the reasons for the articles and opinions stated herein, as is within my powers. It should take place here in Zurich at a suitable public location on an agreed-upon day and in the presence of a designated notary. And my parish priest Ulrich Zwingli, his followers, and others who are of his opinion should also present reasons for their articles and opinions that are opposed to my articles and opinions. And when this has happened and, in this way, both sides have been heard, my provost, my chapter, the mayor, and the council should take up the matter and bring it before our gracious lord in Constance so that he can handle the matter according to the circumstances, as it is appropriate and fruitful.79

Even if one avoids an overly emphatic stress on the reformatory novelty of the event, the Zurich disputation meant that something happened that had no place within the legitimate late medieval church. This was primarily so because the arrangement, as decided by the city council, was clearly different from what Hofmann intended, for the bishop of Constance was only invited as a participant:

77   Bernd Moeller, “Zwinglis Disputationen: Studien zu den Anfängen der Kirchenbildung und des Synodalwesens im Protestantismus. I. Teil,” Zeitschrift der Savigny-Stiftung für Rechtsgeschichte. Kanonistische Abteilung 87 (1970): 304. 78   Leppin, “Zwingli,” 796. 79   So will ich umb gottes willenn und eines gemeinen nutzens willen / grosße widerwerttigkeit und ergerniss in christenlicher lere zefürkomen oder zewenden / die arbeit uff mich nehmen / das ich nach minem vermögen / will fürgeben und erscheinen ursachen meiner yetzgemeltten articklen und meinungen (so vil not wirt sein /) vor minen heren Bropst und Capitel und vor allen gelertten hie zürich / und vor einem gantzen Rat die dar by wellent sin in einer offenlichen statt, die dar zuo geschickt und tuglich ist / uff einen gestimptten tag / der minem her lütpriester einen Monat dar vor verkünt sye und mir ouch / in gegenwirttigkeit eines offnen Notari / dar zuo verordnet / in sömlichen geding und fuog / das min her lütpriester Meister uorich zwingli und sine anhenger / und ander die siner meinung sind / ouch fürgebent und erscheinent ursachen / iren articklen und meinungen / die wider mine artickel und meinungen syent // unnd wenn dann sömlichs beschächen ist / und also bede teil verhört sind / das dann mine herren Bropst und Capitel / Burgermeister und Rat / die sach trülich ze handen nemendt / und unßerem gnedigen heren von Costents fürbringent / darinn ze handlen wie ziemlich / billich und fruchtbatr sind mag / nach gelegenheit der sach. “Klagschrift des Chorherrn Hofmann,” 352.13–353.1.

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We should also invite our gracious gentleman from Constance so that his grace or his representative, if they desire, might also be present.80

This meant that the position of the bishop according to church law as the office responsible for deciding pending questions was grossly ignored; from a legal understanding, he became a participant in the dispute. It can be rightfully speculated whether the loss of power by the local bishop within the process of decentralization played an especially strong role in questions regarding decisions on doctrine. The attack in this case came from a different direction, from the imperial authorities, which could have strengthened the tendency toward independence that had characterized urban politics of religion in the late Middle Ages. The famous decision of the city council that the reformers could continue their manner of preaching had the consequence of creating a strong impulse toward the communalization of the church,81 which persisted particularly long in Zurich. Broader alliances played out on the level of church politics – including the Consensus Tigurinus – but not within the framework of the church’s jurisdictional structures. In Saxony, the heartland of the central German Reformation, the decentralized approach was also influential, which at times took on the form of an experimental transformation of the medieval church. The dissolution of the medieval hierarchy of bishops became evident early on; Luther effectively took over functions that had traditionally been performed by the bishop.82 This can be dated quite certainly to his successful attempt in 1522 to quiet the Wittenberg unrest; ironically he began his Invocavit sermons on the exact day when the decisive Affair of the Sausages took place in Zurich. The following years were also marked by Luther’s quasi-episcopal activities: In 1524 he conducted what was essentially a visitation tour in the central area of the Saale River to control the alternative models of Reformation of a resistance group that had assembled around Orlamünde and its pastor, Karlstadt.83 All of these were, of course, events that merely covered up the factual lack of a central governing authority in the church. A structurally stable solution was found only with the introduc80   “Wir werdent ouch unserm gnädigen herren von Costentz söllichs anzögen, damit ir gnaden oder dero anwelt, ob sy wöllent, ouch darby sin mögend.” CR 88:467.16–18. 81   Blickle, Reformation im Reich, 217. 82   On this, cf. Volker Leppin, “Zwischen Notfall und theologischem Prinzip: Apostoli­ zität und Amtsfrage in der Wittenberger Reformation,” in Das kirchliche Amt in apostolischer Nachfolge. Bd 1: Grundlagen und Grundfragen, ed. Gunther Wenz and Theo Schneider (Freiburg/Br.; Göttingen: Herder, 2004), 376–400, esp.  387–88. 83   The most comprehensive account of this visitation tour is still in Wolfgang Trappe, “Zwischen Reformation und Revolution – Karlstadt 1523/24,” in Wissenschaftliche Zeitschrift der Friedrich-Schiller-Universität. Gesellschafts- und sprachwissenschaftliche Reihe 32 (1983): 101– 10, esp.  105–110; for the context, cf. Volkmar Joestel, Ostthüringen und Karlstadt: Soziale Bewegung und Reformation im mittleren Saaletal am Vorabend des Bauernkrieges (1522–1524) (Berlin: Schelzky & Jeep, 1996).

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tion of the magisterial visitation after the first Diet of Speyer in 1526, but in reality, the Diet of Speyer was not the only cause behind the introduction of this instrument of ecclesial supervision. Already in the late summer 1525, the Zwickau pastor Nikolaus Hausmann had stressed the necessity of visitations,84 and Luther had picked up this suggestion and brought it to the elector.85 Thus the first visitations had begun before the Diet of Speyer, but the diet gave the Saxon authorities the impression of safety that they thought necessary to legitimize this sort of process.86 A long-term safeguard came later through the creation of the office of superintendent. The Visitation order by John of Saxony from 16 June 1527 already mentioned the “superintendent and guard.”87 In terms of language, this took up medieval Latin forms of the term for bishops,88 but this office was no longer part of a worldwide network of dioceses that, at least ideally, was headed by Rome. Instead, it was dependent on the respective princes. This was not fundamentally changed by attempts to appoint Nicolas von Amsdorf and Georg von Anhalt in Naumburg and Merseburg as Protestant bishops in traditional diocesan posts.89 This was in no way a reestablishment of the central hierarchy, but instead was connected to the tendency toward decentralization by regional bishoprics, and it was done deliberately and explicitly. John Frederick in his writing of 18 January explicitly stated that the election of the bishop of Naumburg, in accordance with tradition, “must occur with the foreknowledge and permission of the Prince of Saxony as the regional and protective ruler,”90 and thus he legitimized the Reformation’s institution of new laws with the late medieval law of precedent. This remained only a short while; in the long run the governing authorities of superintendents and consistories were established. All these forms were, however, expressions of a primarily decentral understanding of the church. The view was not focused on leadership of the pope or the college of cardinals. Instead, it was decisive for the differen84

  This is suggested in Luther’s answer in WABr 3:582.11–12 (No.  926).   WABr 3:595.36–59 (No.  937). 86   See Christian Peters, “Visitation. I. Kirchengeschichtlich,” in TRE 35:151–63, esp.  154. 87   “superintendenten und aufseher(n).” Die Evangelischen Kirchenordnungen des XVI. Jahrhunderts, vol. 1, ed. Emil Sehling (Leipzig: O. R. Riesland, 1902), 146 88   Decretum C. 8 q.1 c. 11: CIC[L] I,594; for Luther cf. WA 50:339.25–340.1. 89   On this see Peter Brunner, Nikolaus von Amsdorf als Bischof von Naumburg, Schriften des Vereins für Reformationsgeschichte 179 (Gütersloh: G. Mohn, 1961); Hans-Ulrich Delius, “Das Naumburger Bischofsexperiment und Martin Luther,” in Martin Luther und das Bischofs­ amt, ed. Martin Brecht (Stuttgart: Calwer Verlag, 1990), 131–40; Peter Gabriel, Fürst Georg III. von Anhalt als evangelischer Bischof von Merseburg und Thüringen 1544–1548/50: Ein Modell evangelischer Episkope in der Reformationszeit (Frankfurt am Main: P. Lang, 1997); Augustin Sander, “Ordinatio Apostolica”: Studien zur Ordinationstheologie im Luthertum des 16. Jahrhunderts. Bd.  1: Georg III. von Anhalt (1507–1553), Innsbrucker theologische Studien 65 (Innsbruck: Tyrolia-Verlag, 2004). 90   “mit Vorwissen und Bewilligung der Fursten zu Sachsen als der Landes- und Schutz­ fürsten hat beschehen müssen.” WABr 9:312. 85

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tiation of the confessions in the early modern period to contrast their opponent, the increasingly centrally-governed Roman Catholic Church, with Protestant churches that had a variety of forms of governance. The polarity that the opponents of the Reformation had noted as a decisive point of difference was, for the early modern period, precisely the thing that formed its institutions. These observations must be understood in a more general sense so that the attempt to explain the Reformation and the formation of confessions from the conditions of late medieval polarities is not carried out too narrowly, as if these polarities of the late Middle Ages were completely divided up among the confessions. The modern Roman Catholic Church did not completely renounce moments of interiority and immediacy in the experience of God (Innerlichkeit und Unmittelbarkeit der Gotteserfahrung), nor did the Protestant churches completely disregard external dimensions – this would have been fanaticism (Schwärmerei) in Luther’s eyes. And yet it was this interplay of different understandings of these polarities that created the confessional diversity of the modern era from the one, tension-filled church of the Middle Ages.

“According to the Oldest Authorities” The Use of the Church Fathers in the Early Eucharistic Controversy Amy Nelson Burnett One important difference between the religious reforms promoted by Erasmian humanists and those associated with the evangelical movement as it spread from Wittenberg after 1517 was the place accorded to the church fathers. Erasmus looked to the teachings and practices of the early church as a guide for the church of his day. He believed that the re-Christianization of society would best be accomplished by returning to the purity and simplicity that had characterized the church in Christian antiquity. Along with his edition of the Greek New Testament, Erasmus devoted himself to publishing the works of the church fathers. In contrast, Luther developed his evangelical theology from intense study of the Bible, especially the Pauline epistles, and the writings of the Fathers, with the exception of Augustine, played a minor role in that process. In his defense of the articles condemned by the papacy in 1521, Luther stated that he revered the church fathers, but as human beings, they had erred on occasion, and he followed them only to the extent that their views were based on Scripture, which never erred.    Research for this paper was supported by a Sabbatical Fellowship from the American Philosophical Society. I would like to thank Anthony N. S.  L ane for reading a draft of this paper. Abbreviations: ANF: Alexander Roberts et al., ed., The Ante-Nicene Fathers: Translations of the Writings of the Fathers Down to A. D. 325 (Buffalo: Christian Literature Co., 1885– 1896); CIC: Emil Friedberg, ed., Corpus Iuris Canonici (Leipzig: Tauchnitz, 1879–81); HZW: Edward J. Furcha and H. Wayne Pipkin, eds., Huldrych Zwingli: Writings (Allison Park, Pa.: Pickwick Publications, 1984); MPG: J.-P. Migne, ed., Patrologiae cursus completus, Series Graeca (Paris, 1857–66); MPL: J.-P. Migne, ed., Patrologiae cursus completus, Series Latina (Paris, 1844–64); NPNF1: Philip Schaff, ed., A Select Library of the Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers. First Series (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1956); Sent.: Peter Lombard, Sententiarum libri quatuor; St.L: Johann Georg Walch, ed., Dr. Martin Luthers Sämmtliche Schriften (St. Louis: Concordia, 1881–1910); Z: Huldreich Zwinglis sämtliche Werke, Corpus Reformatorum 88–101 (Leipzig/Zurich: Heinsius/TVZ, 1905–91).    Grund und Ursach aller Artikel D. Martin Luthers, WA 7:315. The contrasting attitude of the two men towards the church fathers is clear in the two articles in Irena Backus, ed., The Reception of the Church Fathers in the West: From the Carolingians to the Maurists (Leiden: Brill, 1997): Jan den Boeft, “Erasmus and the Church Fathers,” 2:537–72; and Manfred Schulze, “Martin Luther and the Church Fathers,” 2:573–626.

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This differing valuation of the church fathers was not immediately perceived by the reformers of Switzerland and South Germany influenced by both Erasmus and Luther. The divergence between Catholic and Evangelical views of patristic authority became clear at the Leipzig Disputation in 1519, but not until the outbreak of the eucharistic controversy at the end of 1524 did it became apparent that the reformers disagreed among themselves on the interpretation and use of the Fathers. Over the next two years, writers on both sides of the debate published treatises in which they asserted that the church fathers supported their own understanding of the Lord’s Supper. Thus the eucharistic controversy led to the first serious and prolonged discussion within the Evangelical movement about the value and importance of the Fathers, forcing both parties to consider the issue of patristic authority and to emphasize those writers and those statements that were seen to support their own understanding of the Sacrament. The reformers’ reception of the church fathers has attracted considerable scholarly attention over the past two decades. Much of this research looks at the broader use of patristic writings by individual reformers, and it concentrates on the period after 1530, when the Fathers began to assume a more important place in their writings. In contrast, there are few studies that look specifically at the place given to the Fathers in the eucharistic controversy, especially during the opening years of that debate. This essay will shed light on the early Evangelical    Leif Grane, “Some Remarks on the Church Fathers in the First Years of the Reformation (1516–1520),” in Auctoritas Patrum. Zur Rezeption der Kirchenväter im 15. und 16. Jahrhundert, ed. Leif Grane, et al. (Mainz: von Zabern, 1993), 21–32.    Kurt-Victor Selge, “Kirchenväter auf der Leipziger Disputation,” in Grane, Auctoritas Patrum, 197–212.    In addition to the two essay collections cited in nn. 2 and 3, see Leif Grane et al., eds., Auctoritas Patrum II: Neue Beiträge zur Rezeption der Kirchenväter im 15. und 16. Jahrhundert, Veröffentlichungen des Instituts für europäische Geschichte Mainz 44 (Mainz: von Zabern, 1998); David C. Steinmetz, ed., Die Patristik in der Bibelexegese des 16. Jahrhunderts, Wolfenbüttler Forschungen 85 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1999); and Günter Frank et al., eds., Die Patristik in der frühen Neuzeit: die Relektüre der Kirchenväter in den Wissenschaften des 15. bis 18. Jahrhunderts, Melanchthon-Schriften der Stadt Bretten 10 (Stuttgart-Bad Cannstatt: Frommann-Holzboog, 2006). Scott Hendrix has contributed to this research with two articles: “Validating the Reformation: The Use of Church Fathers by Urbanus Rhegius,” in Ecclesia Militans. Studien zur Konzilien- und Reformationsgeschichte: Remigius Bäumer zum 70. Geburtstag gewidmet, ed. Walter Brandmüller et al. (Paderborn: Schoningh, 1988), 281–305; and “Deparentifying the Fathers: the Reformers and Patristic Authority,” in Grane, Auctoritas Patrum, 55–68.    Exceptions include Peter Fraenkel, “Ten Questions Concerning Melanchthon, the Fathers and the Eucharist,” in Luther and Melanchthon in the History and Theology of the Reformation, ed. Vilmos Vajta (Philadelphia: Muhlenberg Press, 1961), 165–77; Markus Wriedt, “Schrift und Tradition. Die Bedeutung des Rückbezugs auf die altkirchlichen Autoritäten in Philipp Melanchthons Schriften zum Verständnis des Abendmahls,” in Frank, Patristik, 145– 68; Kent A. Heimbigner, “The Evolution of Luther’s Reception of the Early Church Fathers in Eucharistic Controversy: A Consideration of Selected Works, 1518–1529,” Logia: A Journal of Lutheran Theology 7, no. 1 (1998): 3–11; Ralph Walter Quere, Melanchthon’s Christum Cog-

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use of the Fathers by analyzing the ways patristic arguments and authority were used in the pamphlet war over the Lord’s Supper up through the publication of Luther’s That These Words of Christ, “This is my Body,” etc., Still Stand Firm against the Fanatics in the spring of 1527. This early debate would prove foundational for all later discussions of patristic teaching about the Eucharist. The church fathers were introduced into the debate over the Lord’s Supper almost from its inception. In November 1524, soon after the publication of Karlstadt’s pamphlets, Huldrych Zwingli wrote a letter to the Reutlingen pastor Matthaeus Alber in which he argued that Christ’s body and blood were not corporeally present in the sacrament. The letter, which circulated in manuscript until its publication in March 1525, had a fairly simple structure. It began with a paraphrase and explanation of John 6, Christ’s discourse on his flesh as the bread of life. This discussion was heavily influenced by Augustine’s homilies on John 6, although the bishop of Hippo was not mentioned by name. Zwingli asserted that Christ taught only the spiritual eating of his flesh; echoing Augustine, he stated that to eat was to believe. No one could eat Christ’s flesh bodily, a point the Lord underscored at the end of his discourse: “It is the spirit that gives life, the flesh is of no avail” ( Jn 6:63). If this were the case, then Christ’s words, “this is my body,” could not be understood literally. Zwingli therefore proposed that this statement be interpreted figuratively as “this signifies my body.” Sensitive to charges that he was introducing a new teaching, the Zurich reformer argued that his understanding of the Lord’s Supper was that taught by the Fathers. Tertullian, for instance, in Book 1 of his work Against Marcion said that the bread represented Christ’s body. noscere: Christ’s Efficacious Presence in the Eucharistic Theology of Melanchthon, Bibliotheca Humanistica et Reformatorica 22 (Nieuwkoop: de Graaf, 1977), 177–89; Alfred Schindler, Zwingli und die Kirchenväter, Neujahrsblatt zum Besten des Waisenhauses Zürich 147 (Zurich: Beer, 1984), 48–50, 65–68; and the 1971 Heidelberg dissertation of Gottfried Hoffmann, “Sententiae Patrum. Das patristische Argument in der Abendmahlskontroverse zwischen Oekolampad, Zwingli, Luther und Melanchthon,” now published as Kirchenväterzitate in der Abendmahlskontroverse zwischen Oekolampad, Zwingli, Luther und Melanchthon: Legitimationsstra­ tegien in der inner-reformatorischen Auseinandersetzung um das Herrenmahl, Oberurseler Hefte Ergänzungsband 7 (Göttingen: Edition Ruprecht, 2011). Nicholas Thompson describes the reformers’ use of patristic writings about the Eucharist against Catholics in Eucharistic Sacrifice and Patristic Tradition in the Theology of Martin Bucer, 1534–1546 (Leiden: Brill, 2005), 73–91. Esther Chung-Kim, Inventing Authority: The Use of the Church Fathers in Reformation Debates over the Eucharist (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2011), 15–32, focuses on the Marburg Colloquy and afterwards. Although she is also chiefly concerned with a later period, Irene Dingel briefly summarizes the views of Zwingli, Luther, and Melanchthon in “Das Streben nach einem ‘consensus orthodoxus’ mit den Vätern in der Abendmahlsdiskussion des späten 16. Jahrhunderts,” in Steinmetz, Patristik, 181–204.    Z 3:336–42, HZW 2:132–36; cf. W. Peter Stephens, “Zwingli on John 6:63: ‘Spiritus est qui vivificat, caro nihil prodest,’” in Biblical Interpretation in the Era of the Reformation: Essays Presented to David C. Steinmetz in Honor of his Sixtieth Birthday, ed. Richard A. Muller and John L. Thompson (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1996), 156–85.    Z 3:342–46; HZW 2:136–39.

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In addition to Augustine’s interpretation of John 6, Zwingli mentioned the preface to Psalm 3, where the bishop of Hippo stated that Christ “commended the figure of his body and blood to the disciples,” and he referred his readers to Origen’s Homily 35 on Matthew. Although Zwingli asserted that one could not base doctrine on the authority of Augustine or anyone else, he stressed that his view was not new but that “most of the Fathers hold the pious view about this sacrament.”10 This rather spare selection of church fathers was hardly enough to support Zwingli’s claim about the patristic roots of his understanding of the Eucharist. Accordingly, in the section on the Lord’s Supper in his Commentary on True and False Religion, also published in March, the Zurich reformer expanded both the number of Fathers mentioned and his references to their works. In addition to lengthy quotations from Augustine’s homilies on John, he again cited the latter’s preface to Psalm 3 as well as his harmony of the Gospels.11 He repeated Tertullian’s statement about the bread representing Christ’s body and now gave three brief extracts from Origen’s homilies on Matthew.12 He also introduced two more Fathers, twice citing Hilary’s commentary on Matthew and once referring to Jerome’s commentary on Zephaniah.13 In the Subsidiary Essay published in July, Zwingli used yet another patristic work, Origen’s homilies on Leviticus, to support his own understanding of the Lord’s Supper.14 The citation of these commentaries reflects the importance of patristic exegesis for the Zurich reformer. It also demonstrates his awareness that he was vulnerable to the charge of heresy, in view of the church’s teachings contained in both canon law and the Sentences of Peter Lombard. He therefore took the offensive in his Commentary by contrasting Christ’s statement that “the flesh is of no avail” to the cry of the theologians who had compelled Berengar of Tours to confess that the corporeal and substantial body of Christ was present in the

   Tertullian: Z 3:346; HZW 2:139 (MPL 2:261–62). Augustine: Tractate 26 on John 6, Z 3:351; HZW 2:143 (MPL 35:1613–15); Commentary on Ps. 3: Z 3:346–47, HZW 2:140 (MPL 36:73). Origen: Z 3:352; HZW 2:143 (MPG 13:1734–35). 10   Z 3:347, 352; HZW 2:140, 143. Hoffmann discusses Zwingli’s use of the Fathers from a systematic rather than a historical perspective, Kirchenväterzitate, 118–52. 11   Tract. 26 on John 6: Z 3:814–15; Ulrich Zwingli, Commentary on True and False Religion (Durham, NC: Labyrinth, 1981), 246 (MPL 35:1613–14); Tract. 27 on John 6: Z 3:810; Commentary, 241 (MPL 35:1616); Tract. 84 on John 15: Z 3:814; Commentary, 246 (MPL 35:1846–47); Commentary on Ps 3: Z 3:809; Commentary, 240–41 (MPL 36:73); de consensu evangelistarum III.1: Z 3:815; Commentary, 247 (MPL 34:1157–59). 12   Tertullian: Z 3:809 and cf. the passing reference, 801; Commentary, 240–41 and 230; Origen: once on Mt 23:23 and twice on Mt 26:26, Z 3:811–12; Commentary, 242–44 (MPG 13:1625–26, 1734–25). 13   Hilary: Z 3:813; Commentary, 244–45 (MPL 9:963, 1065); Jerome: Z 3:813–14; Commentary, 245–46 (MPL 25:1375). 14   Z 4:468; HZW 2:198–99 (MPG 12:475–78).

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Sacrament, touched by the priest’s hands, and torn by the teeth of the faithful.15 In his Clear Instruction on Christ’s Supper, his first work on the Sacrament written in German rather than Latin, Zwingli pointed out that even the glossators interpreted Berengar’s words as applying to the forms of bread and wine and not to Christ’s body.16 Writing for a lay audience, Zwingli provided translations from the writings of three of the Fathers who would be best known to them: Jerome, Ambrose, and Augustine.17 His selections from Augustine were drawn primarily from canon law, but two of them came directly from the homilies on John 6, and one was from Augustine’s letter to Boniface.18 In addition, Zwingli referred to the “pious teachers and evangelists” who, in response to the heretic Marcion, stated that Christ “did not give his material body to eat, but in the wine and bread he appointed a sign or sacrament (bedütnus) of his very flesh and blood which he truly bore and truly offered up to death,” a clear allusion to Tertullian.19 By the time the Clear Instruction was published in February 1526, however, Zwingli had been relieved of the burden of proving that the Fathers taught as he did. As he acknowledged in his book, “It is hardly necessary to give any further extracts from the early Fathers, for Oecolampadius has given a sufficient number of references in his little work.”20 That “little work,” the Genuine Exposition of the Lord’s Words, “This is My Body,” According to the Oldest Authorities, moved the discussion of the Fathers’ understanding of the Eucharist to a different level entirely. Oecolampadius increased exponentially both the range of Fathers mentioned and the number and length of patristic citations used to argue that Christ’s words of institution should be understood figuratively.21 In addition to 15

  Z 3:783–84; Commentary, 209–10; cf. Decretum III (de cons.), Dist. 2, c. 42, CIC 1:1328–29. 16   Z 4:802–6; Geoffrey W. Bromiley, ed., Zwingli and Bullinger: Selected Translations with Introductions and Notes, Library of Christian Classics 24 (Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1953), 193–96. 17   Zwingli translated from Jerome’s commentary on Mt 26:26 (MPL 26:216) and Ambrose’s commentary on 1 Cor 11:26 (MPL 17:242–44), and he pointed out that the latter passage was wrongly attributed to Augustine in canon law, Z 4:852–44; Bromily, Zwingli, 231–33; Decretum III, Dist. 2, c. 50, CIC 1:1332. 18   From canon law: Z 4:807, 809, 820–21, 840, 855, 861; Bromily, Zwingli, 197–99, 207– 8, 222, 233, 237; Decretum III, Dist. II, c. 36, 44, 47, 51, 59, 62, CIC 1:1326, 1330–33; some of the material in the Decretum was drawn from Augustine’s homilies on John 6. Taken directly from the homilies: Tract. 45 on John 10: Z 4:826–27, Bromily, Zwingli, 212 (MPL 35:1723); and Tract. 62 on John 13: Z 4:852; Bromily, Zwingli, 231 (MPL 35:1802). To Boniface: Z 4:856–57, Bromily, Zwingli, 234 (MPL 33:363–64). 19   Z 4:836; Bromiley, Zwingli and Bullinger, 218. 20   Z 4:856; Bromiley, Zwingli and Bullinger, 233–34. Although he continued to cite the Fathers, in subsequent works Zwingli regularly referred his readers to Oecolampadius’s publications with regard to the Fathers; see his Responsio ad epistolam Ioannis Bugenhagii (1525), Z 4:572. 21   De genvina verborum domini, Hoc est corpus meum, iuxta uetutissimos authores expositione liber (Strasbourg: Knoblauch, 1525). For summaries of the contents, Walther Köhler, Zwingli und

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the five church fathers cited by Zwingli in his three earliest works on the Supper, Oecolampadius quoted or referred to Ambrose, Basil, Chrysostom, Cyprian, Cyril, the Council of Ephesus, Eusebius, Gregory Nazianzen, Hegesippus, Ignatius, and Irenaeus – over eighty references in all. Two dozen of these references were to the writings of Augustine, four of them taken from the best-known collections of patristic statements: Gratian’s Decretum and Peter Lombard’s Sentences.22 Oecolampadius also used Augustine’s City of God, his treatises On the Trinity and Against Faustus, and his commentaries on Genesis and the Psalms, as well as his letters and sermons.23 Ambrose, Chrysostom, Cyril, and Origen were each discussed seven times, Cyprian and Tertullian five times, and Irenaeus four times.24 Oecolampadius drew on a broad range of works by these Fathers as well, including commentaries, letters, sermons, and works opposing heresy.25 Like Zwingli, Oecolampadius argued that when the Fathers referred to Christ’s body and blood, they meant the sacrament or sign of Christ’s body and blood, not their substance. Citing Augustine’s, “Why do you prepare your teeth and your stomach? Believe, and you have eaten,” he emphasized that one ate Christ’s body only spiritually.26 Those who asserted that Christ was bodily present were forced to conclude that there was one Christ in heaven and as many Christs on earth as there were altars, an absurdity, Oecolampadius claimed, that Chrysostom had rejected: What then? Do not we offer every day? We offer indeed, but making a remembrance of His death, and this [remembrance] is one and not many. .  .  . And yet by this reasoning, since the offering is made in many places, are there many Christs? But Christ is one everywhere, being complete here and complete there also, one Body. As then while offered in many places, He is one body and not many bodies; so also [He is] one sacrifice. Luther: Ihr Streit über das Abendmahl nach seinen politischen und religiösen Beziehungen, Quellen und Forschungen zur Reformationsgeschichte 6–7 (Gütersloh: Bertelsmann, 1924–1953), 1:117–22; Ernst Staehelin, Das theologische Lebenswerk Johannes Oekolampads, Quellen und Forschungen zur Reformationsgeschichte 21 (Leipzig: Heinsius, 1939), 277–83. 22   Decretum III, Dist. II, c. 44, 45, 47, 92, CIC 1: 1330–1, 1350; cf. Sent. IV, Dist. 9, c. 1 (MPL 192:858), and Dist. 10, c. 1 (MPL 192:859–60). 23   De genvina .  .  . expositione, A6r-v, A7v-A8r, B8v, C2r, C6v, D1v-D2v, E6v, F4v, F8r, G2r-v, H8r, K2v-K4r, K7v. 24   De genvina .  .  . expositione, B2r, B3r, B5v, C4v, C5v, C6v-C8r, D3r, D4r, D8v, E7v-F3v, F5r-v, F6v-F7v, F8v-G1v, G3v, G4v, G5r, G7r-8v, H1r-v, H6r-H8r, I4v, I5v, I6v, I7v-I8r, K1v. 25   These include the commentaries of Cyril on John; of Chrysostom on John and Matthew; of Origen on Genesis, Leviticus, and Matthew; of Jerome on Ecclesiastes and Matthew; and of Ambrose on 1 Corinthians; sermons of Ambrose and Cyprian; Irenaeus’s Against Heresies; and Tertullian’s Against Marcion. 26   So, for instance, Augustine to Boniface, de genvina .  .  . expositione, K2v-K3v (MPL 33:363–4); and Augustine’s “believe and you have eaten” (de genvina .  .  . expositione, F5r, from his Homily on Jn 6:29, Tract. 25.12 [MPL 35:1602]). The passage was cited both in canon law, Decretum III, Dist. II, c. 47, CIC 1:1331, and in Sent. IV, dist. 9, c. 1 (MPL 192:858).

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He is our High Priest, who offered the sacrifice that cleanses us. That we offer now also, which was then offered, which cannot be exhausted. This is done in remembrance of what was then done. For (saith He) “do this in remembrance of Me.” It is not another sacrifice, as the High Priest, but we offer always the same, or rather we perform a remembrance of a Sacrifice.27

Christ’s statement therefore had to be understood figuratively, but where Zwingli believed that the trope or word understood figuratively was “is,” Oecolampadius saw the trope in “body,” so that when Christ said, “this is my body,” he meant, “this is the figure of my body.” To support this interpretation, he cited from Book 4 of Tertullian’s Against Marcion: Having taken bread and distributed it to the disciples, [Christ] made it his body, saying “this is my body,” i.e. “the figure of my body.” A figure, however, there could not have been, unless there were first a veritable body. An empty thing, or phantom, is incapable of a figure.28

Because a figure must refer to some thing that is being figured, the bread had to be a figure of Christ’s true body, and Tertullian did not believe that Christ’s body was hidden in the bread.29 Oecolampadius also introduced two new arguments into the debate. In defense of his first argument, that no miracle occurred when the Eucharist was celebrated and nothing occurred in it that was beyond human understanding, he listed Augustine’s nine genres of miracles and signs described in On the Trinity. Augustine stated that the ninth type of sign included those things that pass away after having accomplished its ministry, as the bread made for the purpose is consumed in the receiving of the sacrament. But because these things are known to men, in that they are done by men, they may well meet with reverence as being holy things, but they cannot cause wonder as being miracles.30

On the basis of these words, Oecolampadius concluded that Augustine taught that there was no miracle or permanent change wrought in the Sacrament.31 Oecolampadius’s second argument was that Christ’s human body could only occupy one place, and that place was in heaven at the right hand of the Father. To support this assertion, he cited Augustine as quoted in both the Sentences and canon law:

27   De genvina .  .  . expositione, F7v; Chrysostom, Homilies on Hebrews, 17.6, http://www. ccel.org/ccel/schaff/npnf114.v.xxi.html (NPNF1 14:449). Cf. Hoffmann, Kirchenväterzitate, 33–35. 28   http://www.ccel.org/ccel/schaff/anf03.v.iv.v.xl.html (ANF 3:418). 29   De genvina .  .  . expositione, C5v-C6v; cf. Hoffmann, Kirchenväterzitate, 35–36. 30   De Trinitate III.10.19–20, http://www.ccel.org/ccel/schaff/npnf103.iv.i.v.xi.html (NFPF1 3:63–64). 31   De genvina .  .  . expositione, A7r-v; Hoffmann, Kirchenväterzitate, 26–30.

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Until the end of the age, the Lord is above; but the Lord, the Truth, is also here. For the body of the Lord, in which He rose again from the dead, can be only in one place; but His truth is everywhere diffused.32

Oecolampadius also quoted at length and then explained several passages that at first sight seemed to teach Christ’s corporeal presence. On closer examination, he argued, they all supported his own symbolic understanding of the Sacrament. Augustine’s typological interpretation of 1 Samuel 21:13, taken from his explanation of Psalm 34 [Vulgate 33], and familiar because it was cited in canon law, was one of these: “And [Christ] was carried in His own hands:” how “carried in His own hands”? Because when He commended His own body and blood, He took into His hands that which the faithful know; and in a manner carried Himself, when He said, “This is my body.”33

Oecolampadius neutralized the passage in three different ways. First, he stated that the Hebrew original, which differed from the Septuagint that Augustine used, did not say “he was carried in his own hands,” but “he fell into their hands.” Second, the nature of the allegory was found in Augustine’s preceding and subsequent words emphasizing Christ’s humility, since to fall into someone’s hands was a sign of weakness. Finally, Augustine used two qualifying clauses, “which the faithful know” and “in a manner” (quodammodo), both of which weakened the identification of the bread with Christ’s body.34 Oecolampadius also discussed a lengthy passage from Irenaeus: But how can they be consistent with themselves, [when they say] that the bread over which thanks have been given is the body of their Lord, and the cup His blood, if they do not call Himself the Son of the Creator of the world? .  .  . Then, again, how can they say that the flesh, which is nourished with the body of the Lord and with His blood, goes 32   De genvina .  .  . expositione, C6v; Sent. IV, Dist. 10, ch. 1 (MPL 192:859–60); Decretum III, Dist. II, c. 44, CIC 1:1330. According to the Decretum, the passage came from Augustine’s exposition of Psalm 54, but in fact the canon was drawn from several sources, and this particular statement came from Augustine’s homilies on John, Tract. 30.1, http://www.ccel. org/ccel/schaff/npnf107.iii.xxxi.html (NPNF1 7:186). Significantly, while the English translation in NPNF1 refers the phrase, “until the end of the world” to the preceding sentence, Oecolampadius (in the passage cited here) and both the Decretum and the Sentences used it to qualify the subsequent statement, “the Lord is above.” On the source of Oecolampadius’s argument, see Amy Nelson Burnett, Karlstadt and the Origins of the Eucharistic Controversy: A Study in the Circulation of Ideas, Oxford Studies in Historical Theology (New York: Oxford University Press, 2011), 86–87; on Oecolampadius’s use of Augustine for this point, Hoffmann, Kirchenväterzitate,85–86. 33   http://www.ccel.org/ccel/schaff/npnf108.ii.XXXIV.html (NPNF1 8:73); Decretum III, Dist. II, c. 92, CIC 1:1351. 34   De genvina .  .  . expositione, A6r-A7r. The qualifying power of “which the faithful know” refers to Oecolampadius’s earlier discussion of two types of “mysteries and sacraments,” the first miraculous and beyond human understanding, such as the incarnation, and the second understood only by those who had been initiated into them, such as the Eucharist, De genvina .  .  . expositione, A4v-A5r. Cf. Hoffmann, Kirchenväterzitate, 97–99.

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to corruption, and does not partake of life? Let them, therefore, either alter their opinion, or cease from offering the things just mentioned. But our opinion is in accordance with the Eucharist, and the Eucharist in turn establishes our opinion. For we offer to Him His own, announcing consistently the fellowship and union of the flesh and Spirit. For as the bread, which is produced from the earth, when it receives the invocation of God, is no longer common bread but the Eucharist, consisting of two realities, earthly and heavenly; so also our bodies, when they receive the Eucharist, are no longer corruptible, having the hope of the resurrection to eternity.35

As Oecolampadius admitted, Irenaeus’s words “at first glance seem to assert that we are nourished by the Lord’s flesh, and the bread is the very body of Christ.” Irenaeus, however, was arguing against heretics who denied that creation was good and who rejected the resurrection of the body. He therefore stated that Christ had chosen bread, a good created thing, to be a sacrament of his body. The Eucharist had two natures, earthly (which the papists denied), by which one discerned the gift of God, and heavenly, because it served for thanksgiving and because God’s name was invoked over it. Irenaeus’s words would not have been as obscure to his contemporaries as they had become to us, Oecolampadius concluded.36 Last but not least, Oecolampadius challenged the authenticity of several works that were used to support Christ’s corporeal presence. Ambrose did not write the two treatises On the Sacraments and On the Mysteries that were attributed to him, nor did Cyprian write the sermon On the Chief Works of Christ.37 Oecolam35   Against Heresies, IV.18.4–6, http://www.ccel.org/ccel/schaff/anf01.ix.vi.xix.html (ANF 1:486). Oecolampadius, like his Catholic opponents at the colloquy of Baden and his Lutheran opponent Willibald Pirckheimer, must have had access to a manuscript copy of Against Heresies, because Erasmus’s edition of Irenaeus’s works was not published until 1526. See Irena Backus, The Disputations of Baden, 1526 and Berne, 1528: Neutralizing the Early Church, Studies in Reformed Theology and History 1 (Princeton: Princeton Theological Seminary, 1993), 25. 36   De genvina .  .  . expositione, G3v-G4r, G5r; cf. Hoffmann, Kirchenväterzitate,101–6. Oecolampadius also quoted a lengthy passage concerning Christ’s blood and the cup of the Eucharist from Against Heresies V.2.2, but this passage would not have as important a place in the subsequent debate as his statement about the two realities in the bread. De genvina .  .  . expositione, G4v-G5r. 37   Oecolampadius’s colleague in Basel, Konrad Pellikan, had privately questioned the authenticity of On the Sacraments as early as 1506. See Bernhard Riggenbach, ed., Das Chronikon des Konrad Pellikan (Basel: Bahnmaier, 1877), 36. He did so publicly in a letter to Erasmus written soon after the publication of De genvina .  .  . expositione and published in Epistola D. Erasmi Roter. Cum amico quodam expostulans (s.l., 1526); cf. The Collected Works of Erasmus, vol. 11: Letters 1535 to 1657 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1994), 356–57. The authenticity of both works, and especially On the Sacraments, continued to be disputed between Catholics and Protestants into the early twentieth century (see St. Ambrose On the Mysteries and the Treatise On the Sacraments by an Unknown Author, trans. T. Thompson, ed. J. H. Srawley [New York: Macmillan, 1919], xv-xvi, xviii-xix), but they are now recognized as genuine (see Johannes Quasten, Patrology [Westminster, MD: Newman Press, 1950–60], 4:171–72). The treatise attributed in the sixteenth century to Cyprian, De cardinalibus operibus Christi, was actually written by the twelfth-century Benedictine abbot Arnold of Bonneval. See John

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padius cast doubt as well on the authenticity of the Sententiae of Augustine collected by Prosper and the work of Eusebius Emisenus, both of which were cited in the Decretum.38 Like Zwingli, he criticized Pope Nicolas and his contemporaries for forcing Berengar to recant and to sign a confession stating that Christ’s true body and blood were handled and eaten, and he blamed Peter Lombard for condemning as heretics all who understood “this is my body” figuratively, although by so doing he condemned the oldest teachers of the church.39 Oecolampadius’s treatise fundamentally changed the way the writings of the church fathers would be used in the eucharistic controversy. While one might dismiss Zwingli’s claims that the Fathers taught the same as he did, it was impossible to ignore the many references and the lengthy quotations used by the Basel reformer. Oecolampadius had a well-established reputation as a patristic scholar because of the editions and translations, especially those of the Greek fathers, that he had already published. His claim that “the oldest authorities” understood “this is my body” figuratively rather than literally therefore had to be taken seriously, particularly when it was backed up by so many citations from so many different authors. The variety of patristic citations left readers with the impression that the church fathers were united in their understanding of the Sacrament, an understanding that was identical with what Oecolampadius and Zwingli taught. The Fathers were no longer simply witnesses to Zwingli’s claim that his figurative understanding of the Sacrament was not new and therefore not heretical; they were now presented as if this understanding was the only view taught in the early church. Zwingli could therefore assert in his Clear Instruction that “the Christians and Fathers of the first five centuries all understood Christ’s words: ‘this is my body,’ in a figurative and not a literal sense.”40 The Genuine Exposition provoked an immediate reaction. Within a matter of months, three different responses were written by Lutherans: the Swabian Syngramma written by Johannes Brenz in the name of fourteen of his fellow pastors; an epistolary exchange between the Nördlingen pastor Theobald Billican and his colleague in Augsburg, Urbanus Rhegius, published as On the Words of the Lord’s Supper and the Variety of Opinions; and the Nuremberg humanist Willibald Pirckheimer’s Response to Johann Oecolampadius on the True Flesh of Christ and his True Blood.41 These Lutheran authors took two different approaches to OecoMcClintock, Cyclopaedia of Biblical, Theological and Ecclesiastical Literature (New York: Harper and Brothers, 1889), 12:1045. 38   De genvina .  .  . expositione, E7v-E8r, K1v, K2r. 39   De genvina .  .  . expositione, E3r, A2v-A3r. 40   Z 4:852; Bromiley, Zwingli and Bullinger, 231. 41   Johannes Brenz, Werke. Eine Studienausgabe, ed. Martin Brecht et al. (Tübingen: Mohr, 1970-), Frühschriften 1:234–78; De Verbis Coenae Dominicae et opinionum uarietate. Theobaldi Billicani ad Vrbanum Regium Epistola. Responsio Vrbani Regij ad eundem (Augsburg: Ruff, 1526); Billibaldi Birckheimheri de vera Christi carne & uero eius sanguine, ad Ioan. Oecolampadium responsio (Nuremberg: Petreius, 1526). The first two pamphlets were published in January 1526, and

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lampadius’s use of the Fathers. Brenz and Billican acknowledged Oecolampadius’s patristic learning but, like Luther, they emphasized the ultimate authority of Scripture. Rhegius and Pirckheimer, however, were more willing to challenge Oecolampadius using the Fathers themselves. Billican took the emphasis on Scripture to the greatest extreme: he dismissed not only the Fathers but even Zwingli’s use of other scriptural passages, especially John 6, to explain the institution of the Lord’s Supper.42 Most of Billican’s treatise was devoted to a refutation of Zwingli’s argument that “is” meant “signify,” but he also discussed Tertullian, because Oecolampadius followed him by using the phrase “figure of my body.” Billican pointed out that there were only a few passages in Tertullian that could support this interpretation. He then rejected the equation of “body” with “figure of my body” by using Christ’s words, “this is my blood of the new testament” (Mt 26:28; Mk 14:24). If “blood” were understood as “figure of my blood,” either the new testament would be reduced to a figure, or Christ’s actual blood would be a figure; in either case, Christ’s body would be made into a phantasm, as Marcion had taught. Billican suggested that either Tertullian forgot what Matthew and Mark had said, he adopted Marcion’s own position to use against him, or (which seemed most likely to Billican) he called the bread a figure without thereby rejecting the true presence of the body. This last view seemed confirmed by Tertullian’s statement later in the same book, that “when treating of the gospel, we have proved from the sacrament of the bread and the cup the verity of the Lord’s body and blood in opposition to Marcion’s phantom.”43 Brenz also reacted against Oecolampadius’s use of the Fathers by stating that the Basler could not challenge the Lutherans by using human authority, no matter how holy the Fathers might be. The Fathers themselves did not want to be accepted with more faith than Scripture itself. They were to be venerated but not set before the clear words of Christ.44 As Billican had done with regard to Tertullian, Brenz also questioned Oecolampadius’s interpretation of the patristic texts he discussed and introduced patristic citations of his own. He was willing to grant that Oecolampadius may have been correct in his interpretation of Tertullian’s argument against Marcion, but there was no compelling reason to believe that Christ meant his own words to be understood as Tertullian explained them. Moreover, one could not explain away Augustine’s understanding of “he bore his body in his hands”; that Pirckheimer’s treatise appeared in March. Pirckheimer later stated that he wrote the treatise before the other two works were published, but an attack of kidney stones had delayed its publication; Bilibaldi Birckheimerheri de uera Christi carne .  .  . responsio secunda (Nuremberg: Petreius, 1527), I2v. 42   De Verbis Coenae Dominicae, A2r-v; German translation in St.L 17:1549. 43   De Verbis Coenae Dominicae, B1r-B3v, citation at B3v; St.L 17:1557–60, citation at 1560; Against Marcion, V.8, http://www.ccel.org/ccel/schaff/anf03.v.iv.vi.viii.html (ANF 3:445). 44   Brenz, Frühschriften 1:243–44.

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Father’s use of “in a manner” (quodammodo), for instance, was a rhetorical flourish, not a qualifying phrase.45 Refuting Oecolampadius’s use of On the Trinity, Brenz pointed out that although Augustine said that the bread was consumed during the sacrament, he did not deny that the bread was Christ’s body. The Fathers may have called the bread a symbol of the body, but this did not exclude the belief that it was also Christ’s true body. As evidence Brenz mentioned Chrysostom’s statement that Christ drank his own blood from the cup before giving it to his disciples and Augustine’s explanation for the disciples’ reception of Christ’s body and blood without fasting.46 Against Oecolampadius’s insistence that “the flesh is of no use,” Brenz cited at length from Augustine’s homily on John 6:63: What is it, then, that He adds? “It is the Spirit that quickens; the flesh profits nothing.” .  .  . Wherefore it is said that “the flesh profits nothing,” in the same manner as it is said that “knowledge puffs up.” Then, ought we at once to hate knowledge? Far from it! And what means “Knowledge puffs up”? Knowledge alone, without charity. Therefore he added, “but charity edifies.” Therefore add to knowledge charity, and knowledge will be profitable, not by itself, but through charity. So also here, “the flesh profits nothing,” only when alone. Let the Spirit be added to the flesh, as charity is added to knowledge, and it profits very much. For if the flesh profited nothing, the Word would not be made flesh to dwell among us.47

Brenz also introduced Theophylactus’s commentary on the Gospels, which Oecolampadius himself had translated from Greek. In his comments on both Matthew 26:26 and Mark 14:22, Theophylactus expressly said that the bread was Christ’s body and not merely a figure of it. Forestalling the argument that Theophylactus lived several centuries after Tertullian, Brenz pointed out that the former showed more true piety than the latter, who had ended his life as a Montanist.48 Rhegius was even more willing to challenge Oecolampadius’s use of the Fathers. The Augsburg preacher pointed out that although the Fathers might sometimes speak as if they agreed with the “Karlstadtians,” they often wrote in a completely different way, and so he refused to change his mind concerning Christ’s corporeal presence. Like Brenz, he mentioned Theophylactus’s com45

  Brenz, Frühschriften 1:244–45.   Brenz, Frühschriften 1:244–45; Chrysostom: Homily 83 on Matt. (MPG 58:739); Augustine: Decretum III, Dist. II c. 54, CIC 1:1333–34, from Augustine’s ad Januarium I.5 (CSEL 34:166). 47   Brenz, Frühschriften 1:271–72; Homilies on John, Tract. 27.5 (MPL 35:1617), http:// www.ccel.org/ccel/schaff/npnf107.iii.xxviii.html (NPNF1 7:175; reading modernized). A portion of this passage was included in the Decretum III, Dist. 2, c. 44, CIC 1:1330, and cited in Sent. IV, Dist. 10, c. 1 (MPL 192:859), but Brenz’s citation of the entire passage suggests that he took it directly from Augustine’s work. 48   Brenz, Frühschriften 1:239, 245–46; Theophylacti Archiepiscopi Bulgariae in IV Ev. Enarrationes Ioanne Oecolampadio interprete (Basel, 1524). 46

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mentaries on the Gospels and introduced new quotations into the discussion, citing Athanasius’s exegesis of 1 Corinthians 11:29 and passages from Cyprian’s On the Lord’s Supper and Cyril’s interpretation of John 6:63 that Oecolampadius had not mentioned.49 The most important challenge to Oecolampadius’s selection and interpretation of the church fathers, however, came from Willibald Pirckheimer, whose Response to Oecolampadius displayed an impressive knowledge of patristic works.50 The treatise contained over forty references to the Fathers. Almost two-thirds of these references were to authors or passages not mentioned by Oecolampadius, while the remainder were Pirckheimer’s responses to passages cited in the Genuine Exposition. As in Oecolampadius’s treatise, Augustine was the Father most frequently discussed, with thirteen citations. Pirckheimer directed his attention especially at the quotations from Augustine incorporated into canon law and to Augustine’s homilies on John 6, including the exposition of John 6:63 used by Brenz, but he also addressed Oecolampadius’s excerpts from On the Trinity (adding a citation of his own) and Augustine’s sermon On the Utility of Doing Penance.51 Chrysostom was a close second, with eight references, half of them new passages taken from his homilies on John.52 Pirckheimer introduced three new citations from Ambrose and a poem by the fourth-century Spanish priest Juvencus; he also cited Athanasius’s commentary on 1 Corinthians and Theophylactus’s commentary on the Gospels discussed by Brenz and Rhegius.53 Just as significant as those Fathers Pirckheimer cited are those he did not. He said nothing about Origen or about Oecolampadius’s citations from Ambrose, made only a passing reference to Jerome, and responded to only one of Oecolampadius’s citations from Cyril, although he did introduce another passage from Cyril into the debate. His Response therefore was the first stage in a winnowing process that helped focus the discussion on a small group of Fathers and several key passages whose interpretation would be contested by both sides. Pirckheimer’s goal was to demonstrate that “almost all the ancient fathers taught that the true body of Christ and his true blood are on the altar.”54 Oeco49   De Verbis Coenae Dominicae, C6r-C7v, St.L 17:1568–69. Throughout his letter Rhegius referred to all those who rejected Christ’s corporeal presence as “Karlstadtians,” which prompted Zwingli to complain, “you call everyone a Karlstadtian who disagrees with you; if then we were to show that Christ himself disagreed with you, would he be a Karlstadtian?” Responsio ad Theobaldi Billicani et Urbani Rhegii epistolas (1526), Z 4:933. 50   Pirckheimer was renowned for his mastery of Greek, and he had translated both classical and patristic works. See Lewis W. Spitz, The Religious Renaissance of the German Humanists (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1963), 164–68. 51   Ad Ioan. Oecolampadium responsio, A8v-B5v, B7v, D2v, F1r, F4r, H7r-v. 52   Ad Ioan. Oecolampadium responsio, C1r-C2r, D5r-v, F7v, G7r-v, H6r-v. 53   Ad Ioan. Oecolampadium responsio, Ambrose: B7v, C4r-v, F7v; Juvencus: B7r-v; Athanasius: C1r; Theophylactus: C2r-v. 54   Ad Ioan. Oecolampadium responsio, B7r.

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lampadius was therefore wrong in claiming patristic support for his understanding of the Lord’s Supper. Furthermore, he could not be trusted as an expositor of the Fathers. The Basler ignored those writers who clearly taught Christ’s true and substantial presence in the elements, and he misrepresented or falsified the views of the Fathers whom he did cite. Oecolampadius’s efforts to undermine Augustine’s statement, “Christ was borne in his own hands,” for instance, did more to complicate than to explicate the passage.55 Oecolampadius’s discussion of Augustine’s nine types of miracles and signs was no better. Pirckheimer rejected the Basler’s assertion that something done by men could not be miraculous. Just as God’s word made the bronze snake raised up in the wilderness into a miracle, so, Pirckheimer argued, Christ’s words, “this is my body,” converted the bread and wine into Christ’s true flesh and blood. Moreover, it was a false syllogism to argue that the bread was consumed when the Sacrament was celebrated, therefore Christ’s flesh and blood could not be contained in bread.56 Pirckheimer also rejected Oecolampadius’s use of Tertullian’s “figure of my body,” but his argument differed from that of Billican. He asserted that it was faulty logic to argue against the Marcionites, as Oecolampadius did, that Christ’s flesh was figured and not truly hidden under the bread; therefore Christ’s body consists of flesh. Moreover, how could one understand Tertullian’s statement that Christ made ( fecit) his body, if his body were not contained in bread? Pirckheimer asserted that Oecolampadius had fundamentally misunderstood Tertullian by equating figura with “sign.” In fact the African Father understood the word as “form” or “species,” so that just as the figure of the body was contained in bread in a fleshly way, so also the figure or form of Christ’s body existed as flesh and blood. Finally, Pirckheimer charged Oecolampadius with truncating Tertullian’s text to support his own view. Immediately after the passage quoted by the Basler, Tertullian had interpreted Jeremiah 11:19 (in the Vulgate, “let us cast the tree upon his bread”) to refer to the cross borne by Christ’s body. Pirckheimer concluded that Tertullian’s subsequent words proved that the bread became Christ’s body: Tertullian follows this by saying, “And thus, casting light, as He always did, upon the ancient prophecies, He declared plainly enough what He meant by the bread, when He called the bread His own body,” i.e. He made the bread His body and He spoke plainly, showing that He Himself had a true body. [Tertullian] then added, “He likewise, when mentioning the cup and making the new testament to be sealed in His blood, affirms the

55   “Sed dum id agis, magis te intricas quam extricas,” Ad Ioan. Oecolampadium responsio, B2r. 56   Ad Ioan. Oecolampadium responsio, B4r-v. Just before discussing the bread and wine of the Eucharist, Augustine had discussed the bronze snake (Nm 21:9) as an example of a sign that did not change.

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reality of His body,” i.e. he confirmed sufficiently the substance of his body, which was true and not a phantasm, because he sealed his testament with blood.57

Pirckheimer used the same tactic to argue that other passages cited by Oecolampadius actually supported Christ’s substantial presence. The Basler read his own view into Chrysostom’s words about Christ’s one sacrifice, and in fact Chrysostom more clearly supported Pirckheimer’s position. Moreover, Ambrose had made the same argument that Christ was offered only once, as only one victim, not many.58 Likewise, Pirckheimer asserted that everyone could see that Oecolampadius’s lengthy quotation from Irenaeus supported the Lutherans, and the Basler’s reading only twisted the Father’s words.59 Last but not least, Pirckheimer also cited Berengar’s confession in canon law. While Zwingli and Oecolampadius used that recantation to illustrate how the church had adopted an impious understanding of the Sacrament, Pirckheimer cited it to show that Oecolampadius’s error had been condemned long ago, and in fact it was no different than the view held by the heretical Pighards and Waldensians.60 Oecolampadius could not let his Lutheran opponents go unanswered, and over the first half of 1526 he published two treatises defending his understanding of the Lord’s Supper, the first combining responses to Billican and the Swabian Syngramma, and the second written to Pirckheimer.61 The Basel reformer did not introduce any new passages from the Fathers in these works, but he did discuss several of the authors or passages introduced into the debate by his opponents. He dismissed Pirckheimer’s citation of Athanasius, for instance, arguing that the passage cited did not support Pirckheimer’s position.62 Theophylactus was also rejected as “papistic,” and Oecolampadius said that those who cited him might as well join the papists.63 The Basler was quick to defend his interpretation of both Chrysostom and Irenaeus, however. He accused Pirckheimer of misleading his readers with regard to the former and comparing the Nuremberger’s “misunderstanding” of the latter to that of Johann Eck and Johann Fabri, who had used Irenaeus to 57   Ad Ioan. Oecolampadium responsio, G2v-G4v, citation at G4r; cf. Against Marcion IV.40 (ANF 3:418). 58   Ad Ioan. Oecolampadium responsio, F7r-v; Pirckheimer’s citation from Ambrose was included in canon law, Decretum III, Dist. II, c. 53, CIC 1:1333. 59   Ad Ioan. Oecolampadium responsio, H3r-H4v. 60   Ad Ioan. Oecolampadium responsio, B6v. “Pighard” was a derisive term for the Hussites; the “Waldensians” were in fact the Bohemian Brethren (called the Waldensian Brethren in Germany), whose confessions had been printed in Basel in 1523. See Burnett, Origins, 80– 82. 61   Apologetica Ioann. Oecolampadii. De dignitate Evcharistiae Sermones duo. Ad Theobaldvm Billicanvm quinam in uerbis Caenae alienum sensum inferant. Ad Ecclesiastas Svevos Antisyngramma (Zurich: Froschauer, 1526); Johannis Oecolampadii ad Billibaldum Pyrkaimerum de re Eucharistiae responsio (Zurich: Froschauer, 1526). 62   De re Eucharistiae responsio, d4r. 63   De re Eucharistiae responsio, d4r, d5r.

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support their unscriptural doctrine of transubstantiation at the recent disputation of Baden.64 He also devoted several pages to defending his interpretation of Tertullian, arguing that Pirckheimer’s belief that the body was contained in the bread supported the Marcionite heresy, for such a body would be invulnerable and impassible, and therefore not a real body.65 Oecolampadius’s discussion of Augustine merits special attention, since over half of the Basler’s patristic citations in each of these two treatises were taken from the bishop of Hippo. A few of these were defenses of interpretations contested by his opponent. Thus Oecolampadius asserted that in On the Trinity Augustine taught that the bread of the Sacrament was a sign, not a miracle. Likewise, Augustine’s discussion of Christ’s bearing himself in his hands had to be understood within the larger context of the entire sermon. Moreover, one could not put too much weight on this statement, since there was scarcely any other passage in which Augustine spoke as he did in his prologue to Psalm 34.66 Oecolampadius also brought up again those passages supporting a symbolic understanding of the Sacrament that his opponents had passed over in silence. The most important of these was Augustine’s statement that “the body of the Lord, in which he rose again from the dead, can be only in one place; but his truth is everywhere diffused,” a passage Zwingli had also cited in his Clear Instruction.67 Peter Lombard had obscured this clear and simple sentence by explaining it to mean, “his truth, i.e. his true body, is on every altar where [the Sacrament] is celebrated.”68 Oecolampadius accused the Lombard of twisting other passages from Augustine as well, and for the first time he referred his readers to Augustine’s On Christian Doctrine, where the Father discussed the relationship between sign and signified. Oecolampadius cited the same work when discussing Augustine’s distinction between the ceremonies of the Old and New Testament and his rules for determining when to interpret a scriptural text figuratively.69 Perhaps because they saw the Fathers as at best only of secondary importance to the eucharistic controversy, neither Billican nor Brenz continued their public 64   De re Eucharistiae responsio, f 7v-f8v, h1v-h2r. The disputation was held from 21 May to 8 June, 1526. Oecolampadius had begun work on his response to Pirckheimer before the disputation and finished it after his return to Basel. On the use of Irenaeus at Baden, see Backus, Disputations, 25–27. 65   De re Eucharistiae responsio, g2r-g5v. 66   De re Eucharistiae responsio, d7v-d8r; d6r-d7v; Apologetica, k4r. 67   See n. 32. Oecolampadius had first cited this passage in De genvina .  .  . expositione, C6v; cf. Z 4:840; Bromily, Zwingli and Bullinger, 222. 68   De re Eucharistiae responsio, b4v-b5r; cf. Sent. IV, Dist. 10, c. 2 (MPL 192:859–60). Oecolampadius mistakenly believed that the sentence came from Augustine’s letter to Dardanus. 69   Oecolampadius, Antisyngramma, d6v, k7r; cf. his later discussion in Ad Billibaldvm Pyrkhaimervm de eucharistia, Ioannis Husschin, cui ab aequalibus a prima adolescentia Oecolampadio nomen obuenit, Responsio posterior (Basel: Cratander, 1527), b8v, e6v, f4r.

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debate with Oecolampadius. Pirckheimer, though, was provoked to write a Second Response on the True Flesh of Christ and His True Blood against the Insults of Johann who Calls Himself Oecolampadius, published in early 1527.70 The work was a more polemical restatement of Pirckheimer’s earlier argument, and it emphasized more clearly the authority Pirckheimer attributed to the Fathers. As he asserted at the close of the treatise, “You have heard the opinion of the venerable doctors, you have the practice of the universal church, both Greek and Latin, from which it is not only unsafe, but even impious and detestable to deviate.”71 So visceral was Pirckheimer’s abhorrence of Oecolampadius’s position that he was apparently unaware of how his own argument based on patristic consensus might be used against other Evangelical teachings, such as the rejection of the sacrifice of the mass. Pirckheimer accused Oecolampadius of following only Augustine, Origen, and Chrysostom and dismissing all the other Fathers. Even those Fathers Oecolampadius endorsed were cited selectively.72 In contrast, Pirckheimer set out to display the breadth of patristic support for Christ’s substantial presence, with sixty-five references to fifteen different Fathers. Almost half of these citations were to Augustine, but Cyprian was mentioned nine times, Chrysostom six times, and Ambrose five times.73 Moreover, well over half of these citations were introduced into the debate for the first time. Pirckheimer took a number of them from canon law,74 but he also drew on other sources, such as Ambrose’s On the Mysteries, Augustine’s On Christian Doctrine, and Cyprian’s letters. With regard to its range of citations, Pirckheimer’s Second Response was the Lutheran equivalent of Oecolampadius’s Genuine Exposition. In addition to introducing new citations, Pirckheimer continued the wellworn debate over specific passages, such as Augustine’s definition of miracles and signs in On the Trinity, his explanation of Christ’s bearing himself in his hands in the prologue to Psalm 34, and his understanding of “Christ’s body and 70   Bilibaldi Birckheimheri de uera Christi carne & uero eius sanguine, aduersus conuicia Ioannis, qui sibi Oecolampadij nomen indidit, responsio secunda (Nuremberg: Petreius, 1527). 71   Responsio secunda, K3r-v: Audauistis doctorum antiquorum opinionem, habetis usum ecclesiae uniuersalis tam Graecae quam Latinae, a qua adeo temere desciscere non solum tutum non esset, sed et impium et detestandum;” cf. E8r, F1r. 72   Responsio secunda, A8v. 73   Also mentioned were Cyril, Gregory Nazianzen, Hilary, Irenaeus, Jerome, Juvencus, Origen, Prosper, Tertullian, and Theophylactus, as well as Berengar’s recantation and the Councils of Vercelli, Tours, and Worms. 74   The texts from canon law were identified in the margin. Most of them were attributed to Augustine in the Decretum, but they also included citations from Ambrose and Jerome: Decretum III, Dist. 2, c. 41 (Responsio secunda, B2r, D1v), c. 44 (Responsio secunda, B1r, B2rB3r, C5v, D8v, G6v, I8v), c. 45 (Responsio secunda, D8r), c. 46 (Responsio secunda, C6r), c. 54 (Responsio secunda, E1r), c. 56 (Responsio secunda, C6v, D5r-v), c. 72 (Responsio secunda, C6r, H8r), c. 76 (Responsio secunda, C6v), c. 85 (Responsio secunda, C6v), c. 92 (Responsio secunda, D8r); CIC 1:1328, 1330–31, 1333–35, 1342–43, 1345, 1349–51.

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blood” as “the sacrament of Christ’s body and blood.”75 For the first time Pirckheimer defended the Lombard’s interpretation of Augustine’s statement that Christ’s body was “only in one place, but his truth is everywhere diffused,” and he rejected the claim that this passage proved that Christ’s body could not be present under the bread.76 He assailed Oecolampadius’s interpretation of Chrysostom and Irenaeus, and he repeated at length his own understanding of Tertullian’s use of “figure of my body.”77 Pirckheimer’s Second Response also contained a scathing personal attack on Oecolampadius, which compelled the Basler to publish his Posterior Response on the Eucharist of Johann Husschin, who Received his Name from his Comrades in early Youth.78 Oecolampadius limited his discussion of the Fathers to rebuttals of about thirty passages, including the now familiar ones from Augustine, Chrysostom, Irenaeus, and Tertullian.79 The controversy initiated by the Genuine Exposition thus had reached an impasse, with each side claiming to have the support of all the Fathers and charging their opponents with ignoring or misinterpreting those passages that were held up against them. The debate over the Fathers’ understanding of the Eucharist would be given new life, however, by the publication two months later of Luther’s That These Words of Christ, “This is My Body,” etc. Still Stand Firm Against the Fanatics. The Wittenberger aimed his treatise at those he condemned as “fanatics” – not only the Swiss but also Karlstadt, the Strasbourgers, the Silesians, and anyone else who rejected the literal understanding of “this is my body.”80 In the first and lengthier part of the book, Luther refuted what he saw as the two chief arguments of the sacramentarians: the claim that Christ’s human body was seated at the right hand of the Father in heaven and so could not be substantially in the elements of the Sacrament, and their interpretation of John 6:63, “the flesh is of no use.” The Fathers received only scant mention in this section of the book. Luther rejected as childish the Swiss interpretation of Augustine’s statement that “Christ must be in one place in heaven but his truth is everywhere,” and he compared the sacramentarians’ claim that it was not honorable for Christ to be 75

  Responsio secunda, B3v, D8r, F2r.   Responsio secunda, B1r, B2v-B3r. 77   Responsio secunda, G7v-G8r, H6v-H8r, H1v-H3v. 78   Ad Billibaldvm Pyrkhaimervm de eucharistia, Ioannis Husschin, cui ab aequalibus a prima adolescentia Oecolampadio nomen obuenit, Responsio posterior (Basel: Cratander, 1527). 79   Augustine: on the difference between servitude and liberty, On Christian Doctrine III.9, Responsio Posterior, c5b; on miracles and signs, On the Trinity III.10.19–20, Responsio Posterior, d5v; Christ’s body in one place, Decretum III, Dist. 2, c. 44, Responsio Posterior, d3r; Christ’s bearing himself in his hands, Decretum III, Dist. 2, c. 92, Responsio Posterior, d4v. Chrysostom: Christ’s one sacrifice, Homily 17 on Hebrews, Responsio Posterior, e2r-v. Irenaeus: two realities, Against Heresies III.33, Responsio Posterior, e4r-v; Tertullian: figura corporis, Against Marcion IV.40.3, Responsio Posterior, c3r, e4v. 80   Luther’s use of the Fathers in this treatise is discussed by Hoffmann, Kirchenväterzitate, 158–67, and Heimbigner, “Evolution,” 6–8. 76

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in the Supper with that of the pagans described by Cyprian and Augustine who rejected the belief that God’s Son was born of a virgin. He also alluded to Hilary’s interpretation of Isaiah to mean that God is substantially present everywhere.81 Only after dealing with these two theological issues did Luther consider more directly the patristic citations used by Oecolampadius. He limited his discussion to five Fathers: Augustine, Tertullian, Irenaeus, Hilary, and Cyprian. Virtually all of his references to Augustine were to those passages familiar from their use in canon law and the Sentences and that had already been introduced into the debate over the Sacrament. Luther rejected three citations used by the Swiss: Augustine’s “believe and you have eaten,” his reference to Christ’s bearing himself in his hands, and his calling the Sacrament a sacrifice because it was a commemoration of Christ’s one sacrifice. He endorsed two further citations introduced by Brenz and Pirckheimer against the Swiss: Augustine’s statement that the disciples received the Sacrament without fasting, and his distinction between what was celebrated visibly and understood invisibly.82 Finally, he used Augustine’s definition of a Sacrament as the visible form of an invisible grace to explain the Father’s use of the terms “mystery” and “sacrament.”83 Luther’s discussion of the remaining four Fathers was shaped by the exchange between Oecolampadius and Pirckheimer. This was most clear in the discussion of Tertullian’s “figure of the body.” Like Pirckheimer, Luther translated figura as “form” rather than as “sign, “ and he cited Tertullian’s interpretation of the Vulgate’s rendering of Jeremiah 11:19 to argue that the bread not only figured but was Christ’s body.84 Luther also charged Oecolampadius with twisting Irenaeus’s discussion of the “two realities, earthly and heavenly,” present in the sacrament. Oecolampadius made of the bread that had been blessed a single thing, although Irenaeus made it clear that the bread became a twofold thing, both bread and Christ’s body.85 Similarly, Luther accused Oecolampadius of twisting Hilary’s words, and he added several further citations from On the Trinity to demonstrate that Hilary believed that Christians received Christ’s substan81

  WA 23:131, 157; LW 37:55–56, 72 (Augustine); WA 23:135; LW 37:59 (Hilary).   WA 23:213, 243, 273; LW 37:105–6, 123–24, 144; Augustine’s distinction between Christ’s visible and invisible body, cited in Decretum III, Dist. 2, c. 45 (CIC 1:1330–31) was first cited by Pirckheimer in his Ad Ioan. Oecolampadium responsio, B1r-v. Oecolampadius gave his own interpretation in his De re Eucharistiae responsio, d2r, which Pirckheimer in turn criticized, Responsio Secunda, D8r. 83   WA 23:211, LW 37:104; cf. Sent. IV, Dist. I (MPL 192:1089). 84   Brenz had also cited Tertullian’s use of Jer 11:19, although he pointed out that the verse should more correctly be translated as “let us throw poison in his food,” Frühschriften 1:244. Luther cited Tertullian’s discussion of Jer 11:19 not only in Against Marcion, III.19 but also in Against the Jews (MPL 2:629, ANF 3:166). He suggested that the verse should be translated as “let us uproot the tree with the food;” WA 23:221–27; LW 37:109–14. 85   WA 23:231–35; LW 37:115–18. 82

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tial flesh and blood.86 Finally, like Pirckheimer, he pointed out that Cyprian held that the Sacrament strengthened those who received it.87 Luther’s entrance into the debate over the Lord’s Supper brought a re-orientation to the use of the Fathers that was as significant as that caused by the Genuine Exposition, because it focused attention on a limited number of Fathers and a specific set of citations. In their responses to the Wittenberger, both Oecolampadius and Zwingli would concentrate on those Fathers and citations discussed by Luther in That These Words .  .  . Still Stand Firm.88 Additional citations (most notably to Fulgentius) would be introduced during the Marburg Colloquy and the subsequent exchange between Melanchthon and Oecolampadius on the patristic understanding of the Eucharist.89 Rather than tracing the discussion further, however, I will instead highlight the significance of this first stage of the debate. The early years of the eucharistic controversy were crucial not only for the formulation of arguments for and against Christ’s corporeal presence in the Supper. The debate also forced the reformers to consider more seriously the place of the early church in the defense of their eucharistic theology. In addition to disagreeing about the correct interpretation of Christ’s words, “this is my body,” the two sides also disagreed about the correct interpretation of patristic statements concerning the Eucharist. The Fathers were cited not as authorities used to interpret Scripture but instead as witnesses demonstrating the antiquity, and therefore the authenticity, of each party’s respective understanding of the Sacrament. For the Swiss, the patristic testimony proved that their position was not new and that belief in Christ’s corporeal presence was a deviation from the teaching of the early church. The Lutherans cited the Fathers to argue that Christ’s corporeal presence had been taught continuously in the church from its 86   WA 23:237–38; LW 37:120–21. Pirckheimer had also criticized Oecolampadius for twisting Hilary’s words and cited an additional passage against the Basler, Responsio secunda, E8r. 87   WA 23:239–41; LW 37:122–23; cf. Pirckheimer, Responsio secunda, E4r. Luther also cited a passage from Cyprian’s On the Lapsed concerning those who received the sacrament after offering to idols. 88   Zwingli, Das diese Worte .  .  . ewiglich den alten Sinn haben werden (1527), Z 5:969–74; Das der miszuerstand D. Martin Luthers/ vff die ewig-bstendige wort/ Das ist mein leib/ nit beston mag. Die ander billiche antwort Joannis Ecolampadij (Basel: Cratander, 1527). Augustine is discussed several times throughout the latter pamphlet, but Oecolampadius responded most directly to Luther’s discussion of the Fathers, i3r-p1r. 89   Zwingli used Fulgentius to support the argument that Christ’s body was in only one place. See Walther Köhler, Das Marburger Religionsgespräch 1529: Versuch einer Rekonstruktion, Schriften des Vereins für Reformationsgeschichte 48/1 (Leipzig: Heinsius, 1929), 29, 32–33, 97, 111–13; LW 38:31, 33; see Chung-Kim, Inventing Authority, 23–31. On Melanchthon’s Sententiae veterum aliquot scriptorum, see Quere, Melanchthon’s Christum Cognoscere, 266–80; on Oecolampadius’s influence on Melanchthon, see Wriedt, “Schrift und Tradition,” 150, but cf. Hoffmann, Kirchenväterzitate, 227–32.

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inception.90 Both sides saw Berengar’s confession as occurring at a crucial moment in time when, according to one’s perspective, the church either turned away from the truth to teach Christ’s corporeal presence or condemned the error of those who rejected that presence. The two most important contributors to the discussion concerning the patristic understanding of the Eucharist were the Basel reformer Johann Oecolampadius and the Nuremberg humanist Willibald Pirckheimer. Oecolampadius’s importance for introducing the use of the Fathers into the eucharistic controversy is generally recognized, although attention tends to focus on his 1530 Dialogue on What the Fathers Thought about the Eucharist rather than on his earlier Genuine Exposition.91 Pirckheimer’s contributions to the debate, however, have been virtually ignored, as have Oecolampadius’s two responses to Pirckheimer. The value of Pirckheimer’s treatises was recognized by his contemporaries, however, and in fact the publication of his first response to Oecolampadius persuaded Melanchthon not to write against Oecolampadius himself.92 Luther’s treatment of the church fathers in That These Words .  .  . Stand Firm has sometimes been discussed as if it were sui generis,93 but Luther drew heavily on all of these earlier treatises. The published exchanges of 1525–1526 provoked the Wittenberger to discuss the views of the church fathers not because they were authoritative, but in order to refute the false interpretation given to them by the “fanatics,” who misled the common people.94 In order to do so, he relied especially on Pirckheimer’s works. Over half of the passages he discussed had first been used by the Nuremberg humanist to defend Christ’s corporeal presence in the elements of the Supper. Luther’s later statement that it was dangerous to depart from the long consensus of the church echoed Pirckheimer’s words in his Second Response to Oecolampadius.95 The early debate over the Lord’s Supper focused attention on specific Fathers and on a limited number of passages. Although almost two hundred different citations from twenty different Fathers were introduced into the debate during these years, only a dozen or so of these citations became truly important. Augustine, of course, was the most influential Father both in terms of how often 90   Dingel (“Streben,” 184–86) points out that Zwingli and Luther agreed that the Fathers were subordinate to Scripture, but each believed that the early church supported his own understanding of the Sacrament. 91   Qvid de Evcharistia veteres tvm Graeci, tum Latini senserint, Dialogus .  .  . (Basel: Froben, 1530). 92   Cf. Wilhelm H. Neuser, Die Abendmahlslehre Melanchthons in ihrer geschichtlichen Entwicklung (1519–1530), Beiträge zur Geschichte und Lehre der Reformierten Kirche 26 (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1968), 246–48. 93   This is particularly true of Heimbigner, “Evolution”; Quere, Melanchthon’s Christum Cognoscere, looks only at Oecolampadius’s Genuine Exposition. 94   WA 23:219, 229; LW 37:108, 115; Hoffmann, Kirchenväterzitate, 153–54. 95   Sendschreiben an Herzog Albrecht von Preußen (1532), WA 30/III:552; cf. Hoffmann, Kirchenväterzitate, 154–55.

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he was cited and the number of his works used, but even here there was a concentration on citations taken from only a few sources. Roughly twenty per cent of the statements attributed to Augustine were taken from canon law. On Christian Doctrine and the homilies on John 6 each furnished another twelve per cent of that total. Both sides argued that Augustine supported their understanding of the Sacrament, Oecolampadius by emphasizing Augustine’s strict separation of sign and signified, and the Lutherans by arguing that although the bishop of Hippo used terms such as “sign” and “mystery,” he did not thereby reject the substantial presence of Christ’s body in the bread. Augustine thus proved to be an ambiguous witness, and at Marburg Melanchthon would admit that many of the passages from Augustine seemed to support Zwingli – although he claimed that all of the other Fathers supported Luther.96 In his own way, Tertullian was just as significant as Augustine, for both sides used his discussion of the Eucharist to support their own understanding and to argue that their opponents, like the Marcionites, denied the truly human nature of Christ’s body. Likewise, each side claimed that Irenaeus and Chrysostom supported their own view, and all contributors to the debate accused their opponents of either misunderstanding or consciously misinterpreting the passages being discussed. Other Fathers were introduced early in the debate but did not become part of the extended discussion during this first phase of the eucharistic controversy. Cyril, Jerome, and Origen all fall into this category, while Cyprian and Hilary did not become prominent until Luther discussed them in his 1527 treatise. Similarly, the liveliest debate with regard to Ambrose concerned his authorship of the treatise On the Sacraments rather than his statements about the Eucharist.97 Although the Swiss had initiated the discussion of the Fathers’ understanding of the Sacrament, the debate gradually forced Oecolampadius into a defensive position. The Basler had fired off a barrage of citations in his Genuine Exposition, all intended to prove that the Fathers believed the same as he did about the Supper. In his subsequent treatises, though, Oecolampadius had to respond to the patristic citations chosen by his opponents, and the debate shifted away from those that most readily supported his own position. Nevertheless, several of the passages that the Basler introduced into the debate were destined to play a prominent role over the long course of the eucharistic controversy. Melanchthon devoted a large section of his collection of patristic citations published in 1530 to Augustine’s statement that Christ’s body was “in one place but his truth is diffused everywhere.”98 Irenaeus’s discussion of the “two realities, earthly and 96

  Köhler, Marburger Religionsgespräch, 42.   Pirckheimer defended Ambrose’s authorship in his Ad Ioan. Oecolampadium responsio, B7v and his Responsio secunda, B1v, E3r, while Oecolampadius continued to reject it. De re Eucharistiae responsio, d3r; Responsio Posterior, d3r. 98   Sententiae veterum aliquot scriptorum de Coena Domini, CR 23:746–50. 97

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heavenly,” in the consecrated bread would be cited in the opening lines of the 1536 Wittenberg Concord.99 In the final version of the Institutes, Calvin would refer to Augustine’s discussion of signs that pass away when their ministry is ended in order to argue that the Sacrament was not a miracle, and he interpreted “in a manner” (quoddam modo) to mean that Augustine did not believe that Christ truly bore himself in his own hands.100 Scott Hendrix has distinguished the south German/Swiss reformation from that of Luther chiefly by its urban character rather than its theology.101 He is certainly right to draw attention to the differing social contexts, but the innerProtestant debate over the use of the church fathers reminds us that the fragmenting of western Christendom resulted first and foremost from fundamental disagreements concerning the interpretation of the Bible and of church history. Along with raising questions about the exegesis of Scripture, the eucharistic controversy had significant ramifications for the broader discussion of the relationship of Evangelical teaching to that of the early church. Reflecting their own particular understanding of the reform agendas of Erasmus and Luther, its participants made varying use of patristic writings, but they all saw themselves as defending the genuine teaching of the early church as well as the proper understanding of Scripture. Their disagreements about the correct interpretation of the latter could not be resolved by an appeal even to “the oldest authorities” but instead only furthered the confessional division of the Evangelical movement.

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  BDS 6/1:120–21.   Inst. IV.17.28, CO 2:1027; John Calvin, Institutes of the Christian Religion, ed. Ford Lewis Battles, Library of Christian Classics 20–21 (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1960), 2:1396. The reference to these two passages suggests that Calvin drew them directly from Oecolampadius’s Genuine Exposition, where they are both discussed in the opening section of the treatise. Calvin must have read the work sometime during the 1550s, in the course of his exchange with Joachim Westphal; on this debate, see Esther Chung-Kim, “Use of the Fathers in the Eucharistic Debates between John Calvin and Joachim Westphal,” Reformation 14 (2009): 101–25. 101   Scott H. Hendrix, Recultivating the Vineyard: The Reformation Agendas of Christianization (Louisville; London: Westminster John Knox Press, 2004), 69–96; his discussion of Luther and Zwingli on the Lord’s Supper, 78–79. 100

Pruning the Vines, Plowing Up the Vineyard The Sixteenth-Century Culture of Controversy between Disputation and Polemic Irene Dingel Translated by Robert Kolb Recultivation of a vineyard requires more than planting and watering; weeds must be eliminated, and diseases, threatening insects, and other invaders must be prevented from destroying the vines and the grapes. As Scott Hendrix reminds readers in Recultivating the Vineyard, Luther and his followers regarded their work as more than the positive presentation of the gospel. They viewed their times as the Last Times, and they viewed their task as the pursuit of the eschatological battle of God and his truth against Satan and his lies: “the true church had to be defended against all its enemies.” This perception of the world and his task in it was not only, in Hendrix’s judgment, the product of Luther’s goal of reforming church and society but also grew out of his “suspicion that the theology and practice on which the new Christendom was built would be undercut,” and that suspicion grew out of his own personal experiences  and his conviction that his opponents, some of whom wanted to burn him at the stake, were “agents of the devil who, in the last days of the world, had unleashed a final assault upon Christendom.” The recultivation of the vineyard, as Luther, Philip Melanchthon, and their students and followers viewed it, took form, however, not only within their eschatological convictions and perceptions of the world. They grew up academically in what scholars across the historical disciplines today are labeling a “culture of controversy” or of “conflict.” To understand the role of polemic



  This is a slightly modified English version of a lecture given in German at the Institute of European History, Mainz.    Scott H. Hendrix, Recultivating the Vineyard: The Reformation Agendas of Christianization (Louisville; London: Westminster John Knox Press, 2004), 173.    Ibid., 38; cf. Mark U. Edwards, Jr., Luther and the False Brethren (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1975).    Hendrix, Recultivating the Vineyard, 54.

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within the entire process of reformation of church and society in the sixteenth century, a broad look at this culture of controversy is necessary.

I.  Presuppositions from a Theological Perspective For many years the study of the phenomenon of controversy and conflict earned nothing but scorn from those in the humanities, and not the least from those in church history and the history of theology. For the phenomenon of conflict – at least in European culture – generally evokes negative connotations. Striving for consensus and convergence, the negotiation of compromises and agreements, the search for freedom wins accolades. Only in recent years have scholars focused on the various forms in which controversial exchanges took place. They began to lay aside their dismissal of the importance of such disputes, to pose questions concerning the diverse processes and structures that governed their development, to explain their concentration on specific topics as the result of mechanisms for discussion that they employed, and to take seriously their farreaching impact upon the cultures in which they occurred. Nonetheless, when one speaks of a “culture of controversy” in this context, there is certainly the risk of being misunderstood. For the concept of culture used here does not refer to the achievements of an individual or society which may be evaluated as positive – in the sense that those who participate in the culture of controversy progress beyond coarse polemic to a moral, ethical form of discussion. Just the opposite. Here culture is defined as the totality of human activity, the normal practices of people, the essentials parts of their environment, for controversy and conflict clearly belong to daily life in society quite apart from the manner and fashion in which they are conducted, apart from the forms in which people pursue them. In the words of the editors of a recent collection of essays on the culture of controversy, this phenomenon has been rediscovered as “a characteristic and indispensible condition for modern, pluralistic societies of the West.” From the perspective of the history of the church and of theology, and from the vantage point of the history of the development of the confessional positions of the churches, some refinement of this hypothesis is necessary. Four theses guide our consideration. First, the development of a theological culture of “controversy” is a critical characteristic of the early modern period. In reference to the Wittenberg Reformation, placed in the context of the religious and political constellations of that time, it came to “full bloom” in the second half of the sixteenth century. It    Uwe Baumann, Arnold Becker, and Astrid Steiner-Weber, “Vorwort,” in idem, eds., Streitkultur: Okzidentale Traditionen des Streitens in Literatur, Geschichte und Kunst (Göttingen: V & R Unipress, 2008), 1.

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would be worthwhile to ascertain whether in that period in other geographical settings similar clusters of these characteristics can be identified or whether dependence on contingent factors in their environment gave different “cultures of controversy” their unique cast. Second, all forms of controversy are concerned with, in the broadest sense, a search or a struggle for the “truth” and the validity of the claim that this truth is true. I use the term “truth” in a rather open fashion at this point and define the concept in a broad sense as that which human beings, whether a majority or a minority in society, presume as setting the standard for all, as a fundamental axiom. The concept of truth presumes the agreement of the conceptualization with reality. This means, in terms of theological positions, that the culture of controversy functions as a decisive medium for the search for doctrinal “truth.” This is the same also for secular contexts, in my opinion. Even conflict for money, influence, or power presumes that those who participate in the controversy ascribe at least a “truth valid for an individual” to that which they wish to maintain against an opponent. People engage in controversy over that which, whether correctly or allegedly, they regard as right, which they wish to establish as valid in general, in the eyes of all. Third, disputes, that is, the culture of controversy, give the content which is under discussion a character that bestows specific definition as well as its identifying features upon the subject. Finally, fourth, it is important to note that the solution of problems and the search for truth through oral presentation and counter-presentation cannot be viewed as a new invention of the early modern period. It has a long tradition. The early church recognized the need to condemn false teaching to make its pronouncements of true biblical teaching clear, and by the twelfth century, with Abelard and Peter Lombard, the “sic et non” method of searching for the truth had established itself as a primary route to the truth. The culture of controversy in the early modern period can be understood as a transformation of medieval rhetorical forms, of the practices of the medieval university, and of the legal structures of the time on the level of popular justice. Structures of communication that developed their rules in the realm of the university moved into the sphere of daily life and were thereby altered and extended, adapted to individual occasions, situations, and opponents. This focus guides the considerations that follow, and through it provides explana   The essays in the volume Vera Doctrina: Zur Begriffsgeschichte der Lehre von Augustinus bis Descartes. L’Idée de Doctrine d’Augustin à Descartes, ed. Philippe Büttgen et al. (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2009), demonstrate that this is true for the disciplines of the early modern university. They treat the concept of true or pure teaching in the humanities, theology, jurisprudence, and medicine.    Hans-Werner Gensichen, Damnamus: Die Verwerfung von Irrlehre bei Luther und im Luthertum des 16. Jahrhunderts (Berlin: Lutherisches Verlagshaus, 1955), 11–18.    Martin Grabmann, Geschichte der scholastischen Methode (Freiburg/Br.: Herder, 1911, repr. Berlin: Akademie-Verlag 1988), 2:esp.  220.

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tions for and examples of the first three theses from the context of the Reformations of the sixteenth century and their recultivation of the vineyard of Western European society, especially its ecclesiastical life and thought.

II.  From the Medieval Disputation to Confessional Polemic Controversies over the proper formulation of faith and public teaching, whether in the academic forum or even on the public stage, are not exceptional occurrences or crises in the history of Christianity, and particularly in the history of the Reformation. The solution of problems and the search for the truth found the path of conversation, the confrontation of oral presentation and counterpresentation, an oft-used means for reaching understanding. Crucial roots for this lay in the practice of the academic disputation in the medieval university, which followed firmly established rules and employed specific rhetorical patterns and techniques. Since the disputation was universally practiced in medieval universities, it should be seen as characteristic for the academic life of medieval Europe. The procedures of the disputation frequently served society outside the life of the university since it functioned very well in both oral and written exchanges. Theses provided the basis for the oral disputation, and from the time that print shops began to serve the university, most of them were printed. The most famous example of such theses are the Ninety-five Theses of Martin Luther, composed against the practice of indulgences, which he made public on 31 October 1517, of which copies appeared in print immediately. With these theses Luther had chosen a form for the exchange of ideas that was borrowed from the procedures of the academic disputation and aimed at a public exchange of opinions among scholars. He explicitly called for that in these theses. That the disputation he intended to elicit never actually took place does not change the fact that the way he had chosen to make the issue a matter of academic discussion was in no way unusual. It was completely within the framework of those possibilities which the university professor of that day had at his disposal for clarifying disputed questions and for influencing the process of shaping opinions. His later foe, the Ingolstadt professor Johannes Eck, proceeded in similar fashion when he composed his four-hundred-four theses against the Wittenberg theology in 1530.10 Eck’s theses did differ from Luther’s in that 

  WA 1:233–38; LW 31:25–33.   .  .  . Articulos 404. partim ad disputationes Lipsicam, Baden. & Bernen. attinentes, partim vero ex scriptis pacem ecclesiae perturbantium extractos, Coram diuo Caesare Carolo V. Ro. Imp. semper Augu. ec. ac proceribus Imperii, Ioan. Eckius minimus ecclesiae minister, offert se disputaturum, vt in scheda latius explicatur Augustae Vindelicorum. Die & hora consensu Caesaris posterius publicandis (Ingolstadt, 1530); D. Johann Ecks Vierhundertundvier Artikel zum Reichstag von Augsburg 1530, ed. Wilhelm Gussmann (Kassel: Edmund Pillardy, 1930). English translation in Sources and 10

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they were aimed precisely at the ways in which Wittenberg theologians were constructing their public confession of the faith, but the title of his theses indicates that he at least wanted to convey to the public his intention to conduct once again a public disputation of the sort he had with the Wittenberg representatives at Leipzig in 1519. This provides a further example of the fact that the academics of this time were accustomed, out of their background in late medieval educational (university) culture, to search for solutions to academic questions by contrasting theses and counter-theses; they used confrontation as a means of searching for, and when possible attaining, these solutions. What was new, however, in the sixteenth century, as a part of the Reformation, was that ever more frequently the disputation over true teaching went beyond the academic framework. Disputation made its impact in the non-academic, public sphere and began to make use of the vernacular along with the Latin. That did not at all mean the end of the academic culture of the disputation at the universities and in scholarly circles.11 But to its side came, more or less as a corollary activity, a form of exchange and discussion which aimed at involving the public beyond academic circles, the religious colloquy or dialogue. What from our perspective can be identified as a process of development, and the different forms of communication that we can distinguish, did not appear to be a different phenomenon from the standpoint of the people of that time. How little they were able to differentiate the distinctive forms of communication and interchange that were being adapted to the needs of the time may be seen in the fact that the very same kind of event could bear the same designations in Latin and in the vernacular: “disputatio,” “colloquium,” or “religious conversation.”12 Along with this, a further crucial alteration in the theological culture of controversy at this time occurred: the modification of the rules governing the standard methods for the course of a disputation. At least in the initial stages of the Reformation, the Protestant reformers decisively rejected the formal academic procedure for proving a case according to the scholastic prescriptions for verification of the truth of the theological problem under consideration, the syllogism. Not the syllogistic arrangement of positions with major premise and minor premise – propositiones maiores et minors – was to serve Contexts of the Book of Concord, ed. Robert Kolb and James A. Nestingen (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2001), 33–82. 11   E.g., at the University of Wittenberg, disputations were abolished for about a decade, renewed in the last fifteen years of Luther’s life, largely fell again into disuse and then revived to become a permanent part of the plan for instruction after 1580. See Kenneth G. Appold, Orthodoxie als Konsensbildung: Das theologische Disputationswesen an der Universität Wittenberg zwischen 1570 und 1710 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2004), 15–54; and idem, “Academic Life and Teaching in Post-Reformation Lutheranism,” in Lutheran Ecclesiastical Culture, 1550– 1675, ed. Robert Kolb (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 83–85. 12   Irene Dingel, Art. Religionsgespräche IV. Altgläubig – protestantisch und innerprotestantisch, in TRE 28 (1997): 654–81.

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as a means of theological truth but rather the hermeneutic drawn from Holy Scripture. The reformers viewed Scripture as the highest norm for truth, as the source of truth. This historically grounded, written source became the authority, the proper understanding of which was raised to the standard by which decisions in regard to the truth were made. Truth and falsehood had to be proven on the basis of the statements of Scripture. This change of paradigm emerged clearly as early as the Leipzig Disputation between Luther and Eck in 1519, a discussion between scholars. Another event which was not confined to the scholarly sphere, the first disputation in Zurich on 29 January 1523, can serve as an example. It was a public colloquium, or argument, which was designed to put the viability of the Reformation which Zwingli was proposing to the test. The disputation was arranged by the mayor and the Large Council of the city of Zurich, and the Council defined the criterion which was to serve as the basis for the decision whether evangelical teaching, and with it Zwingli’s preaching, was to be permitted. This criterion was to be – as it was called in the sources of that time – the “true, divine Scripture.” The Council itself served as judge in the proceedings and exercised the chair as the discussion took place. As practical as this arrangement might appear at first glance – the Council did introduce the Reformation as a result of the disputation – it was still very difficult to establish the authority of Holy Scripture as the final judge since it remained a disputed principle among the parties. The authority of the Scripture was not given the same weight nor was it interpreted in the same way by the two parties. That was one of the most decisive reasons why the religious dialogues, which took as their model the medieval disputation, failed even though they really intended to do nothing else than establish the truth on the basis of an exchange that followed the old rules.13 This is true – even though the opposite seems likely – in the final analysis also for the religious colloquies within Protestantism, which Lutheran and Calvinistic theologians conducted with each other, as they were organized by political authorities. Indeed, the participants in this case agreed with the other side regarding the “rules” for determining public teaching, namely the acceptance of Holy Scripture as the highest norm and authority, but different hermeneutical approaches blocked the path toward the solution of the disagreements, and indeed to establishing the truth. Neither the Maulbronn Colloquy of 1564 nor the Colloquy of Montbéliard in 1586, the best examples, reached this goal. Paradoxically the attempts to resolve the controversies pro13   Cf. Dingel, Art. Religionsgespräche, 655–56. The dialogues constructed for popular consumption, for the most part a fictional dialogue or trialogue, usually end by persuading the participants in the dialogue who cannot decide between the medieval way of expressing the biblical message and the evangelical faith of the truth of the latter. See “Disputation zwischen einem Chorherren und Schuchmacher darin[n] das wort gottes / vnd ein recht Christlich wesen verfochten würdt. Hanns Sachs. M D XXiiij,” in Hans Sachs, Die Wittenbergisch Nachtigall: Spruchgedicht, vier Reformationsdialoge und das Meisterlied Das Walt Got, ed. Gerald H. Seufert (Stuttgart: Philipp Reclam, 1974), 41–71.

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vided the tinder for new disagreement. It is worth noting that the religious dialogues that served the purposes of the Counter-Reformation and that both in the German lands and in France aimed at great accomplishments, and that proceeded not in the smallest way through the revitalization of syllogistic argumentation, simply ignored the question of authority as well as the hermeneutical differences. This short sketch demonstrates the great extent to which in the sixteenth century forms of communication derived from the medieval disputation were used as means of explanation and reaching understanding. The countless colloquies and an extensive series of publications and counter-publications, which multiplied, particularly in the second half of the sixteenth century, demonstrate this as ever more published treatises carried on controversies, not only between Evangelical theologians and adherents of the Roman church, but also within Protestantism. Often authors presented their arguments in the discussion under the title Disputatio even when no public disputation took place or was planned.14 Therefore, such debates and controversies were in no way simply self-serving or some pointless and tangential activity of these theologians. They rather aimed at demonstrating that opponents were wrong with good arguments, at rebutting them, and even in the final analysis at convincing them and drawing them over to the proper position if it was possible to succeed in convincing them of the inadequacy of their position on the basis of a generally accepted presumption of the Holy Scripture as the ultimate authority. That could coincide with ever sharper polemic when the goal was to warn the public of an adversary who had been identified as an incorrigible perverter of the truth and thus one who had to be categorized as theologically dangerous. Exposing the silliness of the opponent’s position and demonstrating the absurdity of his seductive teaching served to neutralize his credibility and the danger his teaching posed for society, for the common people. To classify as purposeless such a culture of controversy emerging out of very different contexts, as often happened in the older secondary literature, or to accuse those who took part in these controversies of “intellectual pigheadedness and unresponsiveness,”15 which we read in the newer literature, fails to recognize that the opposing sides never were trying to negotiate a compromise but rather to establish their absolute claim to the interpretation of the truth. This, they were convinced, would sooner or later rebut the opponent, win over the common people, and convince them of the legitimacy of their own 14   The data bank of the project “Controversia et Confessio,” which offers a bibliography of the controversial literature within German Protestant circles, chiefly those leading to the Formula of Concord (http://www.litdb.evtheol.uni-mainz.de/datenbank/index front.php), lists over ninety printed works with “Disputatio” in their titles. 15   Kai Bremer, Religionsstreitigkeiten: Volkssprachliche Kontroversen zwischen altgläubigen und evangelischen Theologen im 16. Jahrhundert (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 2005), 5.

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standpoint and its conformity to Holy Scripture, if they were only skilled enough to fashion their ideas properly and present them with sufficient creativity.

III.  The Culture of Controversy in the Context of Lucas Cranach the Younger: The Controversies Flowing from the Augsburg Interim as a Process of Clarification and the Establishment of Confessional Identity What were the characteristics of the culture of controversy which arose within and around those in the Wittenberg circle at the time of Paul Eber and Lucas Cranach the Younger? These controversies resulted from the introduction of the imperial policy labeled “the Augsburg Interim,” fashioned in 1548.16 The answer to the question must be unfolded on several levels. From the vantage point of the history of printing and communication in general it is interesting that this theological culture of controversy that developed in the second half of the sixteenth century made use of a host of literary genres: academic disputations and the formulation of theses for such disputations, sermons, confessions of faith, polemical writings, satirical graphics and songs, which either served the purpose of propaganda against opponents and confrontation with their arguments or the purpose of consolation and reinforcement, even for the common people. The literary genres also enable us to follow the course of academic culture from written statements through public addresses and polemic into the level of popular culture. In addition, it is possible to follow the actual sequence of argumentative exchanges and to chart groups that conducted the controversies by reading the publications and counter-publications that used the full range of these genres. No one literary form dominated any longer. The content of these circles of controversy focused on specific theological questions, which were raised by the imperial Augsburg Interim or – more frequently – by the alternative draft of a religious policy for electoral Saxony dubbed the “Leipzig Interim” by its foes. The controversies among the scholars, in Latin, moved quickly into discussions in the vernacular, which implicitly drew the so-called “common man” into the discussion. Most striking, without doubt, is that this culture of controversy in the period after the Interim integrated the confession of faith formulated by the individual, a confession developed for apologetic purposes, into the continuum of controversial literature. This indicates to what a great extent those theological disputes – and this point can certainly be generalized for other cultures of controversy – set in mo16   For an overview of the several controversies that divided members of the Wittenberg circle at this time, see Irene Dingel, “The Culture of Conflict in the Controversies Leading to the Formula of Concord (1548–1580),” in Lutheran Ecclesiastical Culture, 15–64.

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tion the process of creating a personal profile on the basis of one’s teaching that contributed to the formation of the larger confessional identity. This process over the long term led to the establishment of the several churches that emerged with such identities in the second half of the sixteenth century. The culture of controversy within the churches of the late sixteenth century was determined to a large extent by theological issues. The controversies grew out of a situation in which theological formulations of many shades and stripes existed side by side, with varying degrees of tension or tranquility. They were not only determined by factors of religious policies of secular government, as was the case with the Augsburg Interim, but also involved the theological development that arose out of the efforts of those in the Wittenberg circle to sort out and apply anew the insights they had learned from Luther and Melanchthon. In this essay it is impossible to analyze in detail the various positions that their students held in the middle of the sixteenth century. The confrontations that arose in this situation tended to channel the plurality of views into the greatest degree of unanimity possible for the preservation of the Wittenberg theological legacy. That in no way should be taken to mean that this development led to “Lutheran Orthodoxy,” set in cement, as can be read in even more recent historical studies. Such a perspective is quite short-sighted and misfocused. The controversies of the period after the Interim only partially reduced the doctrinal pluralism of the time. Indeed, it is important to note, against an oversimplified picture of an orthodoxy which was the worthy goal and a heterodoxy which had to be excluded, that already in the early sixteenth century debates, controversies, and doctrinal discussions which repeatedly broke out, as well as the formal disputations and religious colloquies of several types, initiated a process of clarification that, as mentioned above, flowed into the establishment of theological identities (e.g., the distinction of the Wittenberg from the Zurich or Genevan Reformation and their respective theologies, the distinction between Luther’s theology and Melanchthon’s, etc.) and later into the culture, both theo­ logical and social-political, organized along confessional lines. These processes of clarification and the formation of confessional identity took their course with appeals to secondary theological authorities, which found their place alongside the primary authority of Holy Scripture and were designed to guarantee the hermeneutic derived from the norm set by Scripture. Appeals were made to the great figures of the beginnings of the Reformation, especially to Luther or to Melanchthon, and the two were differentiated from each other. Also those who wished to view the positions of the two Wittenberg reformers as in agreement even where their doctrinal formulations went in different directions – and this was a strong tendency – won a hearing for their argument as they strove to keep the Wittenberg Reformation from fragmenting. Confessions and Corpora doctrinae became ever more prominent and thus prepared the way for the establishment of the great confessional churches of Western Christendom. The culture

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of controversy in the period after the Augsburg Interim promoted the sharpening of the profiles of the positions of each group and also the drawing of boundaries between the confessional positions in general. The significance of the controversies following the Interim must also be discussed from the perspective of the history of culture, which obviously cannot be separated from the first two perspectives discussed here. That it was not simply a matter of orthodoxy or heterodoxy is clear.17 The arena of conflict involved much more, and that becomes apparent when we assess what provided the impetus for the developments within this particular culture of controversy. Attention must focus on several aspects. First, the controversies reflect a strident conflict between generations, between the first and second generations of the reformers (though the second generation was not of one mind, either). Without addressing the way the problems were posed in the individual controversies at this point,18 even apart from a specific analysis of the several differing positions on different topics that were of relevance for the history of theology and were widely held at the time, it is not difficult to establish that the international throng of Melanchthon’s students were divided among themselves and a part of them turned decisively against their praeceptor. The dividing line between the groups followed absolutely no geographical or national borders. This is evident from the fact that the spokesperson of that new generation – “the young wild ones,” it might be said – came from what was then known as Illyria (today Croatia), had studied in Venice, and then came to Wittenberg: Matthias Flacius. Flacius combined his unswerving dedication to a theological profile that adhered to the thought of Martin Luther with a theology of history, which he shared with both of his teachers, Luther and Melanchthon, which he used, however, in his involvement with the religious-political issues raised by the socalled “Leipzig Interim,” which he presented negatively as part of the struggle of the Last Times between God and the devil, Christ and Belial, the Christian and the Antichrist. He viewed the “Leipzig Interim” as a retreat from the clear confession of the truth that was especially necessary in a time of crisis, when the gospel was under threat. This raises a second point: The eschatological emphasis of the situation defined by the crisis, the threat of Roman Catholic elimination of the Lutheran confession of the faith, was decisive in driving the controversies of 17   For example, the conflicts that led to clarifying and formulating confessional identity took place alongside the disputes with the Antitrinitarians, who were surfacing at the same time and extended over a longer chronological period and a wider geographical area. In contrast to the controversies that divided the Wittenberg circle at this time, the culture of controversy on the Antitrinitarian side played itself out largely in the underground. The controversies of this period, therefore, concern more than simply the dispute between “orthodoxy” and “heterodoxy” within the Wittenberg Reformation even if that is only a part of the larger picture. 18   See Dingel, “Culture of Conflict.”

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the period after the Augsburg Interim. Contrasting perceptions of reality and approaches to dealing with reality existed between Melanchthon and some of his students, perhaps even a difference in the way their historical consciousness analyzed the situation. The disappointment of many in the second generation of the Wittenberg circle over the way in which the options for action were handled after Luther’s death by his surviving colleagues, such as Melanchthon, Johannes Bugenhagen, and Georg Major, in view of the challenges of the religious and political situation which they faced and which seemed to threaten the Reformation itself, made its impact over a longer period and the sharp tone of the polemic exchanged between the parties. Lists of witnesses to the truth and of martyrs appeared, a theological elite, including political officials – e.g., Elector Johann Friedrich of Saxony, who was taken into captivity by the emperor19 – as well as clergy who went into exile, as “exules Christi,” often several times.20 This leads to a third decisive factor in these controversies, a significant characteristic in this culture of controversy. It is the question of authority and, connected closely with that question, the struggle to define the theological legacy of the Wittenberg Reformation. The controversies posed anew the question of who or what exercised authority that gave direction for life and doctrine in society. The fronts and groups which were forming around different positions each made the claim, often in vehement attacks on each other, that they truly were the successors of the original Wittenberg reformers and were faithfully preserving their legacy, even when that meant opposing the teachers, the first authorities in Wittenberg whom they had revered. Arguments were made with Luther against Melanchthon and vice versa, or some attempted to harmonize the theological views of the two of them in order to prevent a rupture within the ranks of the Wittenberg theologians. The claims of the differing groups, which were continually realigning, that they were able to secure the unadulterated theological legacy of the Wittenberg Reformation in a manner that would last, be authoritative, and establish confessional identity, was the soil that fostered new controversies, which in turn propelled the refinement of theological profiles and the consolidation of confessional positions.

19

  Robert Kolb, “The Legal Case for Martyrdom: Basilius Monner on Johann Friedrich the Elder and the Smalcald War,” in Reformation und Recht. Festgabe für Gottfried Seebaß zum 65. Geburtstag, ed. Irene Dingel, Volker Leppin, and Christoph Strohm (Gütersloh: Kaiser/ Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 2002), 145–60. 20   Irene Dingel, “Die Kultivierung des Exulantentums im Luthertum am Beispiel des Nikolaus von Amsdorf,” in Nikolaus von Amsdorf (1483–1565) zwischen Reformation und Politik, ed. Irene Dingel (Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 2008), 153–75.

408

Irene Dingel

Conclusions This study has led us to observe three significant aspects of the sixteenth century turmoil that emerged from the several calls for reform of that period. First, in the late sixteenth century a culture of controversy developed in the wake of the Augsburg Interim, which took form in relatively closed circles of conflict. This culture of conflict used traditional elements of the academic disputation, which were then adapted in altered conditions to the construction of new forms of dispute in the search for truth and confessional identity. Second, it is striking that those who participated in this culture of controversy employed a large variety of literary genre. A tendency toward individual theological expression, served by the literary form of the personal confession of faith, combined with a broad popularization of the issues through intentional use of forms of communication that reached the common people, such as songs and sermons. Their publication and their claim for a general recognition of their truthfulness directed the controversies back into the private sphere. Third, the culture of controversy in the period after the Augsburg Interim cannot be understood without consideration of the theological content and the directions that the theological debates took (even though this essay has not analyzed them). Against this background, it is possible to demonstrate more clearly that an oversimplified contrast of “orthodoxy” and “heterodoxy” does not do justice to the situation. It is also possible to see the explosive impact of the eschatological focus in the crisis situation of the Wittenberg circle at this time and to assess how great an impact the struggle for standard-setting reformational authorities and for the definition of their theological legacy became. In this sense the cultivation of controversy was naturally and inevitably a part of the recultivation of the vineyard.

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“Homosexuality, Conscience, and the Reformation.” Lutheran Partners 21, no. 4 ( July/ August 2005): 30–31. “Urbanus Rhegius, Frontline Reformer.” Lutheran Quarterly 18 (2004): 76–87. “The Limitation of Law in Luther’s Reform.” Journal of Lutheran Ethics 4, no. 2 (February 2004). http://www.elca.org/scriptlib/dcs/jle/article.asp?aid=280. “The Kingdom of Promise: Disappointment and Hope in Luther’s Later Ecclesiology.” Lutherjahrbuch 71 (2004): 37–60. “Reflections of a Frustrated Film Consultant.” Sixteenth Century Journal 35 (2004): 811– 14. Reprinted in Clio’s Eye: A Film and Audio Magazine for the Historian (May 2005). http://clioseye.sfasu.edu/main_page.htm. “Rose-Colored Glasses” (Sermon). The Princeton Seminary Bulletin N. S. 25 (2004): 139–42. “The Work of Heiko A. Oberman (1930–2001).” Religious Studies Review 28 (2002): 123–30. “American Luther Research in the Twentieth Century.” Lutheran Quarterly 15 (2001): 1–23. “In memoriam Lewis W. Spitz.” Lutherjahrbuch 67 (2000): 11–14. “Luther on Marriage.” Lutheran Quarterly 14 (2000): 335–50. “Rerooting the Faith: The Reformation as Re-Christianization.” Church History 69 (2000): 558–77. “Rerooting the Faith: The Coherence and Significance of the Reformation.” The Princeton Seminary Bulletin N.S. 21 (2000): 63–80. “Martin Luther’s Reformation of Spirituality.” Lutheran Quarterly 13 (1999): 249–70. “Martin Luther und die lutherischen Bekenntnisschriften in der englischsprachigen Forschung seit 1983.” Lutherjahrbuch 68 (2001): 115–36. “Rhegius, Urbanus (1489–1541).” Theologische Realenzyklopädie, vol. 29:155–57. Berlin & New York: Walter de Gruyter, 1998. “Offene Gemeinschaft: Die kirchliche Wirklichkeit der Rechtfertigung.” Kerygma und Dogma 43, no. 2 (1997): 98–110. “Rhegius, Urbanus.” The Oxford Encyclopedia of the Reformation, vol. 3:429–30. New York: Oxford University Press, 1996. “Reformation Impossible.” Dialog: A Journal of Theology 35 (1996): 204–8. “Beyond Erikson: The Relational Luther.” Bulletin of the Lutheran Theological Seminary at Gettysburg 75 (1995): 3–11. “Masculinity and Patriarchy in Reformation Germany.” Journal of the History of Ideas 56 (1995): 177–93. “Loyalty, Piety, or Opportunism: German Princes and the Reformation.” Journal of Interdisciplinary History 25 (1994): 211–224. “Christianizing Domestic Relations: Women and Marriage in Johann Freder’s Dialogus dem Ehestand zu Ehren (1545).” Sixteenth Century Journal 23 (1992): 251–66. “Luthers Theologie.” Evangelisches Kirchenlexikon, vol. 3:211–20. Göttingen: Vanden­ hoeck & Ruprecht, 1990. “Toleration of the Jews in the German Reformation: Urbanus Rhegius and Braunschweig 1535–1540.” Archive for Reformation History 81 (1990): 189–215. “What Is a Good Book on Luther?” The Mt. Airy Parish Practice Notebook 28 (Fall 1986): 1–6. “Luther’s Impact on the Sixteenth Century.” Sixteenth Century Journal 16 (1985): 3–14. “Luther and the Church.” Lutherjahrbuch 52 (1985): 140–45.

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“In memoriam Roland H. Bainton.” Lutherjahrbuch 52 (1985): 9–12. “Brethren of the Common Life.” Dictionary of the Middle Ages, vol. 2:366–70. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983. “In memoriam Wilhelm Pauck.” Lutherjahrbuch 50 (1983): 23–24. “Luther Studies Today: The Fog is Lifting.” Religious Studies Review 9 (1983): 305–14. “Luther against the Background of the History of Biblical Interpretation.” Interpretation 37 (1983): 229–39. “Martin Luther und die Confessio Augustana in der englischsprachigen Forschung seit 1977.” Lutherjahrbuch 50 (1983): 166–80. “The Controversial Luther.” Word & World 3 (1983): 391–97. “Martin Luther und Albrecht von Mainz: Aspekte von Luthers reformatorischem Selbstbewusstsein.” Lutherjahrbuch 49 (1982): 96–114. “Non-Doctrinal Factors Affecting Baptist and Lutheran Identity,” with Winthrop S. Hudson. American Baptist Quarterly 1 (1982): 129–36. “Lutheran Response to Borchert (‘The Nature of the Church: A Baptist Perspective’).” American Baptist Quarterly 1 (1982): 167–68. “The Sacraments in Lutheranism.” American Baptist Quarterly 1 (1982): 179–87. “Urbanus Rhegius and the Augsburg Confession.” Sixteenth Century Journal 11 (1980): 63–74. “Reply to Jungkuntz.” Currents in Theology and Mission 5 (1978): 58–60. “Charismatic Renewal: Old Wine in New Skins.” Currents in Theology and Mission 4 (1977): 158–66. “In Quest of the vera ecclesia: The Crises of Late Medieval Ecclesiology.” Viator: Medieval and Renaissance Studies 7 (1976): 347–78. “Luther et la papauté.” Luther jadis et aujourd’hui = Concilium: Revue Internationale de Théologie 118 (1976): 49–57. “Luther und das Papsttum.” Concilium 12 (1976): 493–97. “‘We are all Hussites’: Hus and Luther Revisited.” Archive for Reformation History 65 (1974): 134–61. “Luther and the Climate for Theological Education.” Lutheran Quarterly 26 (1974): 3– 11.

Book Reviews Freedom in Response. Lutheran Ethics: Sources and Controversies, by Oswald Bayer. Scottish Journal of Theology 64 (2011): 499–500. The Reformation in the Cities, by Steven E. Ozment. Sixteenth Century Journal (Fortieth Anniversary Issue) 40 (2009): 82–85. Als Frieden möglich war: 450 Jahre Augsburger Religionsfrieden, edited by Carl A. Hoffmann, Markus Johanns, Annette Kranz, Christof Trepesch, and Oliver Zeidler. Lutheran Quarterly 21 (2007): 485–86. Luther Handbuch, edited by Albrecht Beutel. Lutherjahrbuch 74 (2007): 199–201. Sex, Marriage, and Family in John Calvin’s Geneva. Vol.  1: Courtship, Engagement, and Marriage, by John Witte, Jr., and Robert M. Kingdon. Theology Today 63 (2006): 408– 10. Christ Present in Faith: Luther’s View of Justification, by Tuomo Mannermaa. Theology Today 63 (2006): 276–78.

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The Cambridge Companion to Martin Luther, edited by Donald K. McKim. Theology Today 61, no. 2 (2004): 286. Law and Protestantism, by John Witte. Lutheran Quarterly 18, no. 3 (2004): 348–50. Christians in Society: Luther, the Bible, and Social Ethics, by William H. Lazareth. Lutheran Quarterly 17 (2003): 115–18. The Voices of Morebath: Reformation and Rebellion in an English Village, by Eamon Duffy. Scottish Journal of Theology 56 (2003): 122–24. Divided Souls: Converts from Judaism in Germany, 1500–1750, by Elisheva Carlebach. Journal of Ecclesiastical History 54 (2003): 360. The Imaginative World of the Reformation, by Peter Matheson. Church History 70 (2001): 793–94. Reformationsstudien, by Leif Grane, edited by Rolf Decot. Theologische Literaturzeitung 126 (2001): 1174–75. Les femmes dans la correspondance de Luther, by Matthieu Arnold. Church History 70 (2001): 357–58. Martin Luther’s Theology: Its Historical and Systematic Development, by Bernhard Lohse. Theology Today 58 (2001): 124–26. “Lectura in Biblia”: Luthers Genesisvorlesung (1535–1545), by Ulrich Asendorf. Lutherjahrbuch 67 (2000): 167–68. Lutherans and Calvinists in the Age of Confessionalism, by Bodo Nischan. Seminary Ridge Review 2, no. 3 (2000): 63–67. Christus – König und Priester: Das Amt Christi bei Luther im Verhältnis zur Vor- und Nachgeschichte, by Karin Bornkamm. Journal of Ecclesiastical History 51 (2000): 410–11. Martin Luther: The Christian between God and Death, by Richard Marius. Theology Today 56 (1999): 414–18. On Being a Theologian of the Cross: Reflections on Luther’s Heidelberg Disputation, 1518, by Gerhard O. Forde. Theology Today 56 (1999): 146–47. The Life of Thomas More, by Peter Ackroyd. America 180, no. 3 (1999): 32–33. “Habsucht” bei Martin Luther, by Ricardo Rieth. Sixteenth Century Journal 29 (1998): 1107–8. Antifraternalism and Anticlericalism in the German Reformation: Johann Eberlin von Günzburg and the Campaign against the Friars, by Geoffrey Dipple. American Historical Review 103 (1998): 1620–21. Theologie der Bekenntnisschriften der evangelisch-lutherischen Kirche: Eine historische und systematische Einführung in das Konkordienbuch, vol. 1, by Gunther Wenz. Journal of Religion 78 (1998): 628–29. Humanists and Reformers: A History of the Renaissance and Reformation, by Bard Thompson; A Short History of Renaissance and Reformation Europe: Dances over Fire and Water, by Jonathan W. Zophy; and The European Reformations, by Carter Lindberg. Sixteenth Century Journal 28 (1997): 831–33. Reordering Marriage and Society in Reformation Germany, by Joel Harrington. Journal of Religion 77 (1997): 617–18. Luthers Theologie, by Bernhard Lohse. Church History 66 (1997): 349–51. Reformatorische Existenz und konfessionelle Identität: Urbanus Rhegius als evangelischer Theologe in den Jahren 1520–1530, by Hellmut Zschoch; Aus Liebe zur Kirche Reform: Die Bemühungen Georg Witzels (1501–1573) um die Kircheneinheit, by Barbara Henze; and Hochstift und Reformation: Studien zur Geschichte der Reichskirche zwischen 1517 und 1648, by Eike Wolgast. Journal of Ecclesiastical History 48 (1997): 367–69.

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Schism, Heresy, and Religious Protest, edited by Derek Baker; and Popular Belief and Practice, edited by G. J. Cuming and Derek Baker. Journal of the American Academy of Religion 41 (1973): 636–37. Erasmus and the Seamless Coat of Jesus, by Raymond Himelick. Journal of the American Academy of Religion 41 (1973): 251–52. The Church and the Secular Order in Reformation Thought, by John Tonkin. Journal of Ecumenical Studies 9 (1972): 891–92.

Contributors Robert Bireley, S. J., is Professor of History at Loyola University Chicago. His two most recent books are The Refashioning of Catholicism, 1450–1700: A Reassessment of the Counter Reformation (1999) and The Jesuits and the Thirty Years War: Kings, Courts, and Confessors (2003). He is nearing completion of a biography of Emperor Ferdinand II. Amy Nelson Burnett is Professor of History at the University of Nebraska–Lincoln. She is the author of Karlstadt and the Origins of the Eucharistic Controversy: A Study in the Circulation of Ideas (2011); Teaching the Reformation: Ministers and their Message in Basel, 1529–1629 (2006); and The Yoke of Christ: Martin Bucer and Christian Discipline (1994); and is the editor and translator of The Eucharistic Pamphlets of Andreas Bodenstein von Karlstadt (2011). She is also co-author of Inquiry into the College Classroom (2007) and Making Teaching and Learning Visible (2006). Gerald Christianson is Professor Emeritus of Church History at the Lutheran Theological Seminary in Gettysburg, PA and a former colleague of Scott Hendrix’s there. He is the author of Cesarini, the Conciliar Cardinal: The Basel Years, 1431–1438, and editor of numerous works on Nicholas of Cusa and the fifteenth-century church. Irene Dingel is Professor of Church History and History of Dogma in the Evangelical Theological Faculty, Johannes Gutenberg-Universität, Mainz, and Director of Institute of European History (Abteilung für Abendländische Religionsgeschichte) in Mainz. She is author of “Concordia controversa”: Die öffentlichen Diskussionen um das lutherische Konkordienwerk am Ende des 16. Jahrhunderts (1996) and Controversia et Confessio 8: Die Debatte um die Wittenberger Abendmahlslehre und Christologie (1570–1574) (2008). She is serving as Project Director and Editor of the critical edition of the Book of Concord under the auspices of the Evangelische Kirche in Deutschland. James M. Estes is Professor Emeritus of History and Distinguished Senior Fellow in the Centre for Reformation and Renaissance Studies at the University of Toronto. He is the author of Peace, Order, and the Glory of God: Secular Authority

420

Contributors

and the Church in the Thought of Luther and Melanchthon, 1518–1559 (2005) and Christian Magistrate and Territorial Church: Johannes Brenz and the German Reformation (2007). He presently serves as a historical annotator for the Collected Works of Erasmus, published by the University of Toronto Press. Berndt Hamm is Professor Emeritus of Church History at the Friedrich-Alexander-Universität Erlangen-Nürnberg. He has authored and edited numerous books, including Lazarus Spengler (1479–1534). Der Nürnberger Ratsschreiber im Spannungsfeld von Humanismus und Reformation, Politik und Glaube (2004), Reformation of Faith in the Context of Late Medieval Theology and Piety (edited by Robert J. Bast, 2004), Reformation: Potentiale der Freitheit (with Michael Welker, 2008), and Der frühe Luther: Etappen reformatorischer Neuorientierung (2010). He has also co-edited several volumes of Lazarus Spengler’s writings and Martin Bucer’s correspondence. Anna Marie Johnson is Assistant Professor of Reformation History at GarrettEvangelical Theological Seminary in Evanston, Illinois. She is a former doctoral student of Scott Hendrix’s and is working on a book about Luther’s efforts to reform Christian practice. Susan C. Karant-Nunn is Director of the Division for Late Medieval and Reformation Studies, as well as Regents’ Professor of History at the University of Arizona. Her most recent books are The Reformation of Feeling: Shaping the Religious Emotions in Early Modern Germany (2010) and Masculinity in the Reformation Era, coedited with Scott H. Hendrix (2008). Currently she is writing a book on Martin Luther’s body. Russell Kleckley is Associate Professor of Religion at Augsburg College, Minneapolis, and a former student of Scott Hendrix’s at Lutheran Theological Southern Seminary. His research interests focus on the relationship between religion and natural philosophy in the Reformation/Early Modern period, specifically the life and work of Johannes Kepler. Robert Kolb is Professor of Systematic Theology Emeritus at Concordia Seminary, Saint Louis. He is the author of numerous books, including Luther and the Stories of God (2012); Martin Luther, Confessor of the Faith (2009); and, with Charles P. Arand, The Genius of Luther’s Theology (2008). He also edited Lutheran Ecclesiastical Culture, 1550–1675 (2008), and, with Timothy J. Wengert, edited The Book of Concord (2000). He has been a member of the continuation committee of the International Congress for Luther Research since 1993 and was associate editor and then co-editor of the Sixteenth Century Journal from 1973 to 1977.

Contributors

421

Volker Leppin is Professor of Church History at the Eberhard Karls Universität Tübingen and Director of the Institut für Spätmittelalter und Reformation. His publications include Wilhelm von Ockham. Gelehrter–Streiter–Bettelmönch (2003), Martin Luther (2006), Das Zeitalter der Reformation. Eine Welt im Ubergang (2009), and Thomas von Aquin (2009). He is editing the Augsburg Confession for the new German edition of the Book of Concord and is a member of the continuation committee of the International Congress for Luther Research. Carter Lindberg is Professor Emeritus of Church History, Boston University School of Theology. His recent publications include The European Reformations (1996; 2nd rev. ed., 2010); Love: A Brief History through Western Christianity (2008); and A Brief History of Christianity (2005). John A. Maxfield is Assistant Professor of Religious Studies at Concordia University College of Alberta (Edmonton, Alberta) and a former doctoral student of Scott Hendrix’s at Princeton Theological Seminary. He is the author of Luther’s Lectures on Genesis and the Formation of Evangelical Identity (2008) and has edited several books on confessional Lutheran theology and church life published by Concordia Historical Institute and the Luther Academy. Elsie Anne McKee is Archibald Alexander Professor of Reformation Studies and the History of Worship at Princeton Theological Seminary, where she was also Scott Hendrix’s colleague. She has published several works, including John Calvin on the Diaconate and Liturgical Almsgiving (1984); Elders and the Plural Ministry (1988); Katharina Schütz Zell: The Life and Thought of a Sixteenth-Century Reformer and The Writings: A Critical Edition (1999); and translations of Calvin (2001, 2009) and Schütz Zell (2006). She is currently working on a book on Calvin and the pastoral ministry, and a critical edition of Calvin’s sermons on 1 Corinthians 1–9. Austra Reinis is Associate Professor of the History of Christianity at Missouri State University in Springfield, Missouri and a former doctoral student of Scott Hendrix’s. She is the author of Reforming the Art of Dying: The “ars moriendi” in the German Reformation (1519–1528) (2007). Currently she is exploring various genres of preaching in the Reformation era–funeral, catechism, Haustafel, and Old Testament sermons. Ronald K. Rittgers holds the Erich Markel Chair in German Reformation Studies at Valparaiso University, where he is also Professor of History and Theology. His first book, The Reformation of the Keys: Confession, Conscience, and Authority in Sixteenth-Century Germany (2004), examines how the Lutheran version of private confession shaped the politics and piety of the German Reforma-

422

Contributors

tion. His forthcoming book, The Reformation of Suffering: A Study of Pastoral Theology and Lay Piety in Late Medieval and Early Modern Germany (Oxford University Press, 2012), examines the effect of the Reformation on the pastoral care of the sick and suffering. Risto Saarinen is Professor of Ecumenics at the University of Helsinki and the Chair of the Preparatory Committee for the 12th International Congress for Luther Research in Helsinki, 2012. He is the author of Weakness of Will in Renaissance and Reformation Thought (2011) and is currently working on Luther and Renaissance philosophy. James M. Stayer is Emeritus Professor of History at Queen’s University in Ontario. He has been associated with the post-confessional trend in the study of the German Reformation, particularly with reference to Reformation radicalism. Recent published works include A Companion to Anabaptism and Spiritualism, 1521–1700 (2007), coedited with John D. Roth. Forthcoming is a publication of the Thomas Müntzer Gesellschaft, Mühlhausen i. Th., Prophet, Apokalyptiker, Mystiker: Thomas Müntzer und die “Kirche” der Patriarchen, Propheten und Apostel. Timothy J. Wengert is the Ministerium of Pennsylvania Professor of Reformation History and Confessions at the Lutheran Theological Seminary at Philadelphia. He is co-editor with Robert Kolb of The Book of Concord, and has written and edited numerous books on Philip Melanchthon and Martin Luther, including Philip Melanchthon, Speaker of the Reformation: Wittenberg’s Other Reformer (2010); Martin Luther’s Catechisms: Forming the Faith (2009); Human Freedom, Christian Righteousness: Philip Melanchthon’s Exegetical Dispute with Erasmus of Rotterdam (1998); and Law and Gospel: Philip Melanchthon’s Debate with John Agricola of Eisleben over Poenitentia (1997). Merry Wiesner-Hanks is Distinguished Professor of History at the University of Wisconsin–Milwaukee. Her works include Early Modern Europe 1450–1789 (2006); Women and Gender in Early Modern Europe (3rd ed., 2008); Christianity and Sexuality in the Early Modern World: Regulating Desire, Reforming Practice (2nd ed., 2010); and Gender in History: Global Perspectives (2nd ed., 2010). She has also written a number of sourcebooks for use in the college classroom, including Discovering the Global Past (4th ed., 2011); An Age of Voyages, 1350–1600 (2005); and a book for general readers, The Marvelous Hairy Girls: The Gonzales Sisters and their Worlds (2009), the story of a family of extremely hairy people who lived in Europe in the late sixteenth century. She currently serves as Editor-inChief of the forthcoming Cambridge History of the World.

Index Absenteeism, episcopal 13, 47 Abuse(s) – ecclesiastical 13–15, 18, 40–41, 127, 146, 326, 330 – involving veneration of saints 23 – involving images 144, 151–52, 156n, 158, 168 – of Christian freedom 329n – of justice 313 – of natural philosophy 202 – physical 243 Acceptation of Mainz (1439)  47 Adam  (see also Fall, Adam’s)  99, 191, 193, 196, 253n, 280 Adamic nature, old Adam 314, 339 Ad fontes  80n, 82 Aggiornamento 32 Alber, Matthäus 108, 375 Albrecht (Albert) of Mainz  82 Albrecht of Prussia  98, 146n Almsgiving  71, 74, 107, 184, 250 Althaus, Paul 102, 323n Amsdorf, Nicholas von  96, 99, 160n, 218, 370 Anabaptists 50–51, 81, 84, 87, 89, 94n, 96, 98, 103, 106, 133, 226–27, 258, 264–65, 267, 281, 292, 296, 298–99, 316, 327 Anabaptist regime in Münster 105, 117– 22 Anathema, papal 129 Angels 51, 147, 192, 308, 311, 321 Anthropology 57, 102 Antichrist 114, 117, 148, 406 Anti-trinitarians 103 Apocalyptic (see also Eschatological) 76– 77, 105, 117n, 296 Apology of the Augsburg Confession  81, 90, 95n, 96

Aquila, Caspar  81 Aquinas, Thomas 19, 27, 153n, 184, 189, 260n Aristaeus 199–200 Aristotle 19, 28–29, 68, 85, 189, 193–95, 197–98, 200, 204, 236, 259 – Physics 189, 199 Asceticism 24, 61, 76 Astrologers 192, 207, 209 Astrology 192, 203, 207 Augsburg Confession 51, 81–82, 95, 118, 262, 267, 321, 326–28 Augsburg Interim (see Interim, Augsburg) August, Elector (of Saxony)  92–93, 97 Augustine, Saint 33, 45, 80, 100, 145n, 147, 287, 293, 330, 375–95 Augustinian Order 31, 61, 155, 287 Augustinianism 19, 38, 45, 293, 297 Avarice 39, 44, 65, 68 Avila, Juan de 21 Ban – evangelical  67n – imperial 129 – papal 351 Baptism 12, 29, 40, 50, 77, 89, 94, 96, 98, 118, 143, 158, 161, 163, 176, 226, 229, 253, 258, 296, 298, 318, 327, 337, 342 Barth, Karl 102, 104 Baumgartner, Jerome  93 Bellarmine, Robert 28 Benedictine Order 31, 155 Benefice  41, 47 Bernardine of Siena 15 Biel, Gabriel  61n, 170, 176, 287, 329 Bigamy 29, 136n, 243 Billican, Theobald 108, 382–83, 386–88

424

Index

Blickle, Peter 105–6, 109–10, 131n, 163n Bonae literae  80n Boniface VIII, Pope 28, 291 Borromeo, Charles 18 Bossy, John 11, 18, 53 Brenz, Johannes 108, 139n, 215, 227, 310, 382–85, 388, 391 Brotherhoods (see Confraternities) Budé, Guillaume  81 Bugenhagen, Johannes 50, 74n, 88, 96, 136–38, 227, 305–6, 310, 329, 407 Bull, papal (see Papal bull) Bullinger, Heinrich 166n, 221 Cajetan, Cardinal (Tommaso de Vio)  65n, 80n Calderón de la Barca, Pedro 23 Calvin, John 52n, 80n, 102, 141–43, 292, 395 Calvinists 13–14, 258, 261–62, 164, 264–65, 281, 298, 402 (see also Crypto-Calvinist controversy) Canisius, Peter 22 Canon law (ecclesiastical canons) 14, 36–38, 65, 128, 136–37, 148, 176, 297, 353, 365n, 376–77, 379–80, 385, 387, 389, 391, 394 Capistrano, John 15 Capitalism, early modern (also, profit economy)  4, 61–62, 64–66, 69–71, 74–75 Capito, Wolfgang 214, 220–21 Capuchin order 21, 31 Castello, Castellino da 22 Caussin, Nicholas 20 Casuistry, practice of 18, 20 Catechism (see also Luther, Large/Small Catechism) 21–22, 24–25, 53, 141, 258–59, 262, 277, 291, 314, 317n, 324 Catacombs 24 Catholic Concordance, The 35–38, 43–47 Cesarini, Cardinal Guiliano 33–36, 40– 43, 47 Chiliasm (see Millennialism) Christenheit  79, 88–100 Christian III, King (of Denmark)  92–93, 98

Christianitas 14, 55, 79, 83, 87–88 Christianismus  79–87, 90, 95n, 99–100 Christianization – and confessionalization 11–13 – and Erasmian reform 373 – Catholic 16, 25–26, 30–31 – of social culture 169, 188 Christiformitas  44–46 Church and state, relationship between 27, 29–30, 134, 267 Church orders 11, 25n, 70, 73, 298 Cicero 25, 80, 170, 177–78, 184–86, 188 Civil authorities (see also Luther, On Temporal Authority; Politics; State) 12, 25, 56, 62–63, 68, 77, 94, 107, 114, 120–21, 126–35, 143, 163, 169, 215, 227, 258, 267–69, 272, 281, 291–92, 294, 298, 326, 353–54, 369–70, 402 Civil law  68, 136, 257 Clergy 14, 25, 28, 30, 38–39, 41, 46, 51, 73, 113, 126–28, 132, 134, 138–39, 213–14, 218–19, 222, 238, 254, 257, 260–62, 266, 269, 272, 291, 294, 300, 326–28, 332, 334, 336, 355, 358–59, 362, 364, 407 Clerical immorality  40, 47 Cochleaus, Johannes 214 College of Cardinals  47, 370 Colloquy of Marburg (1529) 164–66, 215, 218, 326, 331n, 375n, 392, 394 Colloquy of Regensburg (1541)  87–91 Colloquy of Worms (1557) 51 Common chest  (see also Social welfare)  62–63, 70, 72–73 Common law 136 Communal reform 130–31 Communion of saints  70 Conciliarism 36, 38, 43, 46 Concordat of Munich (1583) 30 Concubinage 39, 41, 254, 328 Confession, private 18, 326–27, 334–36, 339, 356 Confessionalism (Konfessionsbildung) 11– 12 Confessionalization (Konfessionali­ sierung) 2, 5, 11–14, 25, 28, 31, 54–55, 101, 285, 318 Confirmation 22, 95

Index

Confraternities (Brotherhoods) 15, 18, 22–27, 31, 358–59 Confutatio of the Augsburg Confession  81, 87, 89n, 100 Congregation for the Propagation of the Faith 30 Conscience 18, 60, 76–77, 82, 95, 129, 135, 137–38, 148, 160–61, 164, 179, 222, 224n, 228, 231, 237, 265, 268, 272, 301, 317, 321n, 334 Consistory  44, 136–38 Conversos 28 Copernicus, Nikolaus 207–8 Corpus Christi, Feast of 23, 295, 356 Corpus Christianum 52n, 57 Council, appeal to 33, 35, 37–39, 91, 94, 97, 127–30, 132, 139n Council of Basel 33–40, 42, 44 Council of Constance 15, 35, 354 Council of Ferrara-Florence  42–43 Council of Lateran V 34, 65 Council of Nicaea 128n Council of Trent 2, 14, 21–23, 28, 32, 296–97, 300 Council of Vatican II 33, 104 Council of Vienne 356 Cranach, Lucas – the Elder  49–50, 61n – the Younger 50–51, 404 – – Epitaph for Paul Eber (see also Eber, Paul) 50–51, 306, 319, 349 – –  Salzwedel Altar 51 Cruciger, Caspar, Sr. 88, 96, 305 Crypto-Calvinist controversy 51 Cura religionis 132–33 Davis, Natalie Zemon 169 De jure divino 128, 366 De jure humano 128 Delumeau, Jean 11, 52–55, 101, 104 Devil (also Satan) 59, 63, 66, 69–70, 83n, 88, 92, 99, 133–35, 138, 146–48, 151, 157, 166n, 167, 192–93, 201, 226, 243, 251, 264, 266, 271–73, 280, 297, 307– 8, 311, 314, 316–18, 342, 397, 406 Diet, imperial  – of Augsburg 297, 327 – of Speyer 129n, 370

425

– of Worms 129 Digamy 136–37 Divine law, peasants’ appeal to 108–9 Dominican Order 15, 31, 43 Eber, Paul  95, 97, 305–6, 318, 404 – Epitaph for 50–51, 306, 319, 349 Ecclesia catholica  79, 87–89, 91, 99–100 Ecclesiology 3, 36, 38–39, 79, 93, 99 Eck, John  65n, 87, 325, 364–67, 387, 400, 402 Economics, laws of  49, 64, 65n, 69, 77 Edict of Worms 129 Egranus, Johannes Sylvius 112–13 Eire, Carlos 141–43, 167 Elert, Werner 102 Emperor, Holy Roman 36–37, 55–56, 74, 77, 93, 110, 128–29, 132, 261–62, 325, 407 Engagement, clandestine (secret) vs. public 137–38 Erasmus of Rotterdam  80, 84–87, 100, 113, 117, 141, 143, 184, 205–6, 254, 325, 373–74, 395 Eschatological (see also Apocalyptic)  76– 77, 105, 117n, 296, 308–9, 311, 318, 331, 397, 406, 408 Eucharist (see Lord’s Supper) Eugenius IV, Pope 36–37, 43 Evangelization 16, 19, 21, 25, 28–29 Evennett, H. Outram 18 Excommunication 12, 51, 53, 64, 67, 70, 109, 135, 146, 163, 325, 367 Faith and love 55, 60, 102, 141n, 156 Fall, Adam’s (into sin) 100, 190–91, 193–96, 199, 202, 205–6 Fallen condition of humanity and the world 56, 168, 192, 210 Fanatic  81, 142, 371, 375, 390, 393 Febvre, Lucien 17–18 Federal Ordinance 106–10 Ferdinand of Austria 108 Ferrer, Vincent 15 Fertility 119, 231, 234n Flacius, Matthias 50n, 97, 305n, 314, 406 Franciscan Order 15, 31, 155, 287

426

Index

Frankenhausen, Battle of 116 Franz von Waldeck, Bishop 117–18, 120–21 Frederick the Wise, Elector  89, 108, 115, 129n, 146n, 149 Free will, powers of 32, 85–86, 172, 316, 340n Frequens 35 Fröschel, Sebastian 50n, 137, 305, 309 Fugger banking house  65n, 69, 326 Gandhi, Mahatma 111, 122 General Reform of the Church, A (Nicholas of Cusa) 35, 44–45, 57 George of Saxony, Duke 116 Gogarten, Friedrich 102 Gnesio-Lutherans 50n, 51, 314 Gregory the Great, Pope 365 Gregory XIII, Pope 28, 30 Gutenberg, Johannes 17 Hedio, Caspar 214 Heraclius, Emperor 151, 157 Heresy 29, 37, 40, 42, 238, 263, 281, 352, 367, 376, 378, 382, 387–88 Hierarchy – Clerical (see also Magisterium, papal) 3, 38, 45, 127, 131, 146, 290, 294, 296, 356, 369–70 – Social 261, 263, 280–81 Hirsch, Emanuel 102 Hoffman, Melchior 105, 117, 121 Holl, Karl 102, 360 Holocaust, the Nazi 104 Holy cross, the 150–57 Holy Roman Emperor (see Emperor, Holy Roman) Holy Roman Empire of the German Nation 12, 43, 93, 118, 121, 130, 136, 354 Household – in general  42, 120, 179, 216, 231, 246, 248, 251, 254, 290 – Table of duties 5, 257–81 Hubmaier, Balthasar 106, 109 Humanism 17, 19, 21, 32, 84–85, 112, 297, 301, 325 – Meaning of  80n

Humanists 25, 32, 42, 56, 72, 80, 87, 112, 143, 170–71, 205, 292, 325, 328, 373, 382, 393 Huss, John 59, 354, 366 Hussites 36–37, 43, 387n Hut, Hans 105, 115 Iconoclasm 13, 143–44, 147–49, 153n, 154, 158, 161, 163–64, 167 Idolatry 1–2, 5, 13–14, 22, 66n, 68–70, 141–68, 232, 239, 295, 308 Image of God 191, 271, 276 Images – Religious use of 288–91, 295 – Criticism and destruction of (see also Iconoclasm) 14, 59, 106, 142–44, 148, 150–51, 153–54, 158–64, 168, 232, 236, 241–42 Individualism 17–20 Indulgence controversy  62, 127, 146, 326, 361, 363–64, 366, 400 Indulgences 13–14, 51, 148, 152, 257, 286–88, 290, 292, 295, 339, 351 Inquisition 15, 28–29 Intercession (invocation) of the saints 23, 323, 339n Interim, Augsburg (1548)  6, 91, 95, 217, 220, 404–8 Jansenists 20 Jerome, Saint  80, 103, 154–55, 214, 234, 376–77, 385, 389n, 394 Jesuit Constitutions 19 Jesuit Order 14, 19–22, 24–25, 27–28, 31 Jews 12, 16, 28, 40, 88, 104, 189, 309, 314, 321, 331n, 351n John Frederick, Duke  67, 90n, 91–92, 94, 97, 114, 131n, 370 John of Torquemada  43, 350, 353 John the Steadfast, Duke  90n, 115, 129n, 131 Jonas, Justus  88–90, 94, 96–97, 251, 305, 307 Joris, David 121 Josephus, Flavius 196 Judaism  (see also Jews) 84, 102, 104, 113, 122, 196

Index

Judgment Day  63, 135, 138, 308, 342 Jurists, Luther’s dispute with 136–38 Justification by faith 2, 83, 94, 99, 230, 254, 322, 329, 340, 344 Karlstadt, Andreas Bodenstein von 2, 50, 58, 109, 112, 143–44, 149–51, 158–63, 168, 296, 365, 369, 375, 384, 390 Keller, Michael 108 King, Jr., Martin Luther 111, 122 Knipperdollinck, Berndt 118–20 Kristeller, Paul Oskar  80n Landeskirche (see Territorial church) Lang, Johannes 113, 189, 199–200 Last Day (see Judgment Day) Law – and gospel  49–50, 60, 150n, 161–63, 265, 314–15, 317–18, 360 – Natural 172 – of Moses 54, 161, 163 Legalism 144, 150 Leiden, Jan van 105, 118–22 Leo X, Pope 28, 51, 306 Lessius, Leonard 20 Lichtenberger, Johannes 192, 199n Lombard, Peter 27, 376, 378, 382, 390, 399 Lord’s Supper (also Eucharist) 14, 82, 89n, 91, 143, 158, 160–61, 163, 165n, 175, 201, 206, 258, 298–99, 326–27, 333, 337, 356, 373–95 Lotzer, Sebastian 106–7, 109 Loyola, Ignatius 15, 18–19, 25, 28 Luther, Martin  – and the Peasants’ War 111–12 – theology – –  Simul iustus et peccator 57 – – Three estates (hierarchies, orders) (see also Civil authority, Household, Spiritual authority)  60, 258–260, 263–64, 279 – – Polemic against works-righteousness  61, 142, 163, 168 – – View of human reason 55–57, 61, 68, 77, 129, 136, 160, 165n, 168,

427

190–91, 193–95, 197–99, 202, 205n, 253, 276 – – View of sacrifice as thanksgiving 176 – writings – – Appeal to the Christian Nobility  (1520) 5, 30, 63, 125–29, 226 – – Babylonian Captivity of the Church (1520) 194, 200n, 226 – – Dictata super Psalterium (1513– 15) 171–74, 177, 179, 181 – –  Galatians commentary  82 – – Invocavit sermons (1522) 55n, 59, 149–50, 159, 160n, 369 – – Large Catechism  63, 67, 164, 180– 81, 186, 201, 226 – – Lectures on Genesis (1535–45)  71n, 75n, 182, 191, 202–5, 231–34, 243– 45, 253 – – Ninety-five Theses (1517)  6, 126, 360–61, 365–66, 400 – – On Temporal Authority 56–58, 63, 129, 267 – –  Small Catechism 258, 264 Machiavelli, Niccolo 17, 19 Magi 189–90, 192–93, 196, 201–4, 209 Magic 193, 201, 233–34 Magisterial reform (see also Visitation, ecclesiastical) 299, 370 Magisterium, papal 146, 148, 163, 168, 299 Magistrate 25, 81, 100, 129, 132, 226, 268, 298 Major, Georg  88, 95–96, 305, 407 Marburg Articles  94n, 228 Marburg Colloquy (see Colloquy of Marburg)  Marcion 112 Marcionites 103 Martin V, Pope 35 Mary, veneration of 13, 23, 232, 242n, 290, 293–95 Marx, Karl  66n Marxism, Marxists 111 Matthijs, Jan 105, 117–18 Maurice, Duke 135

428

Index

Mazzolini, Sylvester (Prierias)  65n, 364– 66 Melanchthon, Philip 21, 50, 52n, 132, 160n, 171, 190, 204n, 207, 218, 234n, 292, 298, 305–10, 328, 329n, 392–94, 397, 405–7 – and the Peasants’ War 108, 111–12 – his Loci communes  82–85, 88–90, 94, 169, 227 – on “Christianity”  79–100 Melanchthonians (see Philipists)  Mendicant orders 21, 72n, 157 Meritorious works  71–72, 164, 171, 174– 77, 188, 338, 340–41, 344 Millennialism 105, 116 Moral philosophy 20, 85 Moses (see also Law of Moses) 147–48, 196–98, 200, 204, 219 Moriscos 21, 28 Müller, Hans 109 Müntzer, Thomas 50, 52, 55, 97n, 103, 105, 111–17, 122, 158–59, 163, 296 Myconius, Friedrich  81 Nehemiah (biblical prophet)  69 Neoplatonism 38, 143 Nicholas of Cusa 33–39, 42–47, 351 Nominalism (see also via moderna)  61n, 65n, 203n, 208 Notbischof 132n Oberman, Heiko 3, 76, 195, 203n, 208, 209n Occamism (see via moderna, Nominalism) Oecolampadius, John 164–65, 201, 215, 329, 377–95 Old Testament 50, 103–4, 112–14, 116– 17, 122, 197n, 224, 306, 308, 310, 315, 318 O’Malley, John 14 Origen  86, 376, 378, 385, 389, 394 Osiander, Andreas 108 Ottoman Turks (see Turks) Padroado, Portuguese 30 Pamphleteers 109, 239 Papalism  43, 364

Papal bull  44–47, 148, 291, 305–6, 325– 26, 352, 367 Papal colleges 25–28 Papal States  40, 42 Pastor aeternus  45, 47 Patronato, Spanish 30 Peasants’ War of 1525 105–11, 115, 131n, 269, 207 Pelagius, Pelagian 100, 287, 293 Perkins, William 20 Petrarch 17 Pfeiffer, Heinrich 115–16 Philip of Hesse, Landgrave  81, 91, 97– 98, 100, 116, 243, 260, 262, 326 Philipists (Melanchthonians) 51, 306n Philo of Alexandria 191, 196 Pilgrimage 13, 16, 23–24, 44, 141, 152, 156, 288, 295 Pius II, Pope (Aeneas Sylvius Piccolomini)  44–45 Plato 197–98 Politics (see also Civil authorities) 19, 60, 110, 179, 257, 355, 358, 369 Polygamy (in the Anabaptist kingdom of Münster) 119–20, 122 Population, growth of 15–17, 24 Pragmatic Sanction of Bourges (1438)  47, 351, 354 Prague Epistle (Prague Manifesto) 113 Preaching 11–12, 15, 21–22, 28–29, 31, 40, 76–77, 95, 100, 119, 126, 134, 150, 158, 214–15, 219, 221, 226, 258–81, 305–17, 325, 339, 369, 402 Priapus 147–48 Prierias, Sylvester (see Mazzolini, Sylvester) Priesthood (see also Clergy) 26, 38, 45, 254, 290, 325, 327–28 Priesthood of all believers, doctrine of the 125–26, 128, 130–31, 149, 260, 293–94, 333 Princely Reformation 130, 139 Protheus 199–200 Pseudo-Dionysius  46 Public ministry (see Clergy, Priesthood) Purgatory 23, 102–3, 288, 292, 295, 342 Quietism, ethical/political  60, 62, 178

Index

Rabus, Ludwig 215, 217–28 Recatholicization 29 Reformatio Wittebergensis  88, 91, 95–96 Regeneration 102 Reinhard, Wolfgang 12 Relics 24, 47, 151–52, 154–58, 288, 295 Reuchlin, Johannes  80n, 170, 173, 181 Rhegius, Urbanus  4, 6, 218, 227, 321– 45, 382–85 Rites Controversies 16 Roman law 136–37 Rothmann, Bernhard 117–22 Sacrament of the altar (see Lord’s Supper) Sacrifice of the Mass  82–83, 164, 169, 175–76, 295 – Protestant rejection of 378–79, 389, 391 Sachs, Hans 51, 402n Saints, veneration (invocation/cult) of 13–14, 23–24, 141, 151, 155, 288, 293–95, 323, 339 Sales, Francis de 19–20 Salle, John Baptist de la 26 Satan (see Devil) Savonarola, Girolamo 15 Schappeler, Christoph 106–7, 109–11, 117, 122 Schmid, Ulrich 108–9 Scholastic theologians (Sophists)  87, 95n, 110, 170–171 Scholasticism  85, 189, 293, 325, 355, 401 Schön, Erhard 51 Schütz Zell, Katharina 5, 213–30 Schwenckfeld, Caspar 201, 214–17, 219– 27, 229 Schwenckfelders 222–23 Second Vatican Council (see Council of Vatican II) Secular authority (see Civil authorities) Seneca 170 – De beneficiis (On Favors) 184–88 Serfdom 107, 110 Sigismund, Emperor 36–37, 39 Sigismund of Tyrol, Duke  44 Simons, Menno 121 Simony 39–41, 45n

429

Smalcald – Evangelical meeting at  97, 328 – Articles 326, 328 Smalcaldic League 118 Smalcald War  90n, 92 Social ethics 50, 60–62, 77–78 Social welfare (see also Common chest)  49, 62–63, 65, 70–74, 77 Sola fide 32, 83, 94, 99, 127, 177 Sola scriptura 32, 293–94, 296, 365 Spalatin, Georg  94, 146n, 189–90, 305 Spengler, Lazarus 109, 298–99 Spirit, Holy 54, 58, 85–86, 99, 112–14, 116–17, 147, 155, 162n, 165n, 181–83, 193, 204, 226, 230, 234, 248, 254, 266, 272, 286, 308, 327, 334, 381, 384 Spiritual authority (see Clergy) Spiritual Exercises 18–19 Spiritualism, Spiritualist 112, 114, 160, 162, 292, 296, 299, 327 Spirituality 19, 31, 44 Spiritualization of religion 14 State  (see also Civil authority) 12, 53, 107 – Absolutist state 2 – Church and state (see Church and state, relationship between)  – Confessional state 298–99 – Growth of the state 17, 27 – Recatholicization of the state 29 – State and household 179, 270–81 – State-regulated economy  64n, 71 Staupitz, Johannes 227–28, 287, 293, 360 Sturm, Jean 25 Suarez, Francisco 27–28 Superstition 13–14, 31, 43, 165 Swabian League 106–10 Swiss Confederation 108 Tanakh (see Old Testament) Tauler, Johannes 112–13, 356–57, 360 Temporal authority (see Civil authorities; Luther, On Temporal Authority) Territorial church (Landeskirche)  90n, 129, 132 Tertullian  80, 103, 112, 375–79, 383–83, 386, 388–91, 394

430

Index

Thomas à Kempis 15, 19 Thomism 19, 153n Turks  40, 42, 45–46, 66, 92n, 167, 310– 11 Twelve Articles of Memmingen (Swabia) 105–8, 110–11, 115 Two kingdoms, doctrine of 57–58, 60, 62, 78, 110, 129–30, 134–35 Tyrant  66, 92n, 110, 311–12, 315 Tyranny  84, 110, 136, 146–48, 168, 277

Virgil 34, 199 Visitation, ecclesiastical 12, 29, 39, 42– 43, 45, 81n, 131–32, 139n, 249n, 369– 70 Vitoria, Francisco 19, 27 Vives, Juan Luis  72 Vocation, lay 16, 19–20, 60, 298 Vocation, religious 155 Vocation, doctrine of 244, 276, 278–79 Vogelsang, Erich 102

University education 27 University – of Paris 19, 85 – of Wittenberg 5, 112–13, 149, 208, 244, 401n – –  curricular reform at 189–91 Urban VIII, Pope 23 Urban reform 357–58 Urbanization 16 Ursulines 26–27, 31 Usury  4, 20, 58, 62, 64–65, 68–72, 74– 76, 351n Utraquism 36

Wilsnack, shrine and relics at  43–44, 47 Wittenberg Concord  93n, 166n, 218, 395 Wycliffe, John 59

Vatican Council (see Council of Vatican II) Via moderna  (Ockhamism) (see also Nominalism)  61n, 65n, 287, 351n, 355 Vigilantius 154–55

Zeeden, Ernst Walter 11–12 Zell, Katharina Schütz  (see Schütz Zell, Katharina) Zell, Matthäus (Matthew) 108, 213–21, 224, 227 Zurich Disputation 367–68 Zwilling, Gabriel 149 Zwingli, Ulrich 50, 52n, 82, 84, 87, 108, 110, 143–44, 158, 164–66, 168, 201, 206, 215, 218, 292, 327, 359, 362–64, 367–68, 375–78, 382–83, 385n, 387–88, 392–94, 402 Zwinglian 13–14, 89, 206, 228–29, 298– 99, 326