Frederick the Wise faced harsh repercussions—ostracism from the Church or worse, excommunication—if he did not arrest or banish Luther per Cajetan’s directive. Frederick wrestled with his options. He wanted to be a faithful servant of the Church, but he was ill-prepared to rule on matters of theology within his province. Frederick knew, of course, that Luther was a respected member of the faculty of his University and that he had the general support of his colleagues. Frederick’s closest advisor, Spalatin, spoke highly of Luther, as well. Frederick did not believe that Luther was a heretic, as Cajetan claimed. That determination was, it seemed, a matter for the pope, and absent such a papal decree Frederick was unsure that he should listen to Cajetan. On the other hand, the pope had called Luther a “son of iniquity,” and he had dispatched Cajetan to preside over the hearing at Augsburg. Should Frederick heed the stern warnings of Rome’s emissary? What should be done with this outspoken monk?
Luther was aware of Frederick’s dilemma, and in late November wrote to him:
I am sorry that the legate blames you. He is trying to bring the whole House of Saxony into disrepute. He suggests that you send me to Rome or banish me. What am I, a poor monk, to expect if I am banished? Since I am in danger enough in your territory, what would it be outside? But lest Your Honor suffer on my account I will gladly leave your dominions.1
He also wrote to Spalatin:
I beseech you, dear Spalatin, be not fearful, nor let your heart be downcast with earthly cares. You know that if Christ did not watch over me I should have perished long ago…. At all events, even should I perish, nothing would be lost to the world. For my friends at Wittenberg have now progressed so by God’s grace that they do not need me at all.2
While he waited for Frederick to make his decision, Luther wrote an account of his trip to Augsburg, entitled Acta Augustana. He was grateful, he wrote, that the proceedings had taken place in Germany, but he did not believe he had been treated fairly. Cajetan was a Dominican, after all, just a Roman mouthpiece whose only agenda was to gain a revocation from Luther. Cajetan “had not produced one syllable of scripture!” Luther noted.3 Cajetan had adamantly refused to debate the issues—which was the one thing Luther desperately wanted to do. The entire trip had been a waste of time, Luther felt, and a wasted opportunity. He wrote:
They vexed Reuchlin a long time for some advice he gave them, now they vex me for proposing questions for debate. Who is safe from the teeth of this Behemoth? … I see that books are published and various rumors scattered abroad about what I did at Augsburg, although truly I did nothing there but lose the time and expense of the journey…. For I was instructed there that to teach the truth is the same as to disturb the Church, but to flatter men and deny Christ is considered the same as pacifying and exalting the Church of Christ.
Increasingly, Luther was becoming certain that the pope was misguided and ill-advised (non recte consulto). Germans had no duty to follow his faulty pronouncements. “Before long,” Luther wrote, fanning nationalistic flames, “all the churches, palaces, walls and bridges of Rome will be built out of our money. First of all we should rear living temples, next local churches, and only last of all St. Peter’s. Better that it should never be built than that our parochial churches should be despoiled.”4 The only absolute authority Luther recognized was Holy Scripture, and Christians were not obligated to place their standing as believers on the directives of the pope—particularly, of course, when the pope was wrong. There could be no compromise on this issue.
Divine truth is the lord even of the Pope. I await not the judgment of men when I have already recognized the judgment of God…. On this point depends the whole summa of salvation. You are not a bad Christian whether you acknowledge or ignore the Bull Unigenitus. But you are indeed a heretic if you refuse faith in the word of Christ…. The Apostolic Legate opposed me with the thunder of his majesty and told me to recant. I told him the pope abused Scripture. I will honor the sanctity of the pope, but I will adore the sanctity of Christ and the truth…. I deny that you cannot be a Christian without being subject to the decrees of the Roman pontiff…. I deny that the merits of Christ are a treasure of indulgences because his merits convey grace apart from the pope…. These adulators put the pope above Scripture and say that he cannot err. In that case Scripture perishes, and nothing is left in the Church save the word of man.5
Despite the quiet objections of Frederick, Luther saw to it that his Acta Augustana was printed and distributed in early December. He then made public his appeal of Cajetan’s proclamation to a General Church Council, knowing full well that the pope had declared this mechanism heretical (Bull Execrabilus), for it questioned the ultimate authority of the papacy. Here Luther was looking for a venue that might validate his concerns. He did not, after all, strictly recognize a council as supremely authoritative. Rather, he would only recognize Holy Scripture in this way. But he did believe a council was superior to the pope in terms of interpretation of theological issues. It mattered little if this technical but important point was lost on the public. Luther wanted to ride the groundswell of support that he had generated, and his documents continued to be snatched up as soon as they could be printed. His appeal was so popular in Saxony that it quickly went through ten printings.6 The distance between himself and Rome was growing greater. He began to sign all his correspondence as simply “Brother Martin Luther, Augustinian.”7
Luther forwarded his Acta Augustana to his friend Wenceslaus Link, who had been with him in Augsburg. His accompanying letter was telling, for his disdain for the papacy was obvious. He wrote, “I send you my trifling work that you may see whether I am not right in supposing that, according to Paul, the real Antichrist holds sway over the Roman court. I think he is worse than any Turk.”8 Biblically, the Antichrist was the singular evil that was prophesised to struggle with Christ for the soul of mankind. Luther was not ready to publicly make known his feelings about the pope, but that day was not far in the future.
Luther also sent his Acta to Duke George of Dresden, who was, along with his cousin Frederick, one of the electors for the Holy Roman Emperor. Hoping that George might be sympathetic to his cause, Luther requested that “a common reformation should be undertaken of the spiritual and temporal estates.” This is the first known usage of the word that would have such historic impact and significance.9
As Frederick vacillated and Luther wrote and worried, Pope Leo made a move. He issued a bull Cum Postquam (“when after”), which officially validated and defined the doctrine of indulgences. While the bull did not specifically attack Luther, or even mention his name, it condemned “all monks and preachers” who taught anything to the contrary. This opened the door to ecclesiastical prosecution and removed from Luther the option of further debate on the matter. The bull also reaffirmed that Christ and the saints had accumulated a treasury of merits, which the Church could apply to the penitent, and it further required all Christians to believe in the pope’s power to grant indulgences. The bull was, to Luther, another reason to criticize what he believed were abuses of papal power.
In the meantime, Luther’s communications with Spalatin led him to conclude that Frederick was nearing a decision, and that he would reluctantly surrender Luther to the Roman authorities as directed. By mid–December Luther told Spalatin that he was ready to leave Germany. “I am expecting the curses of Rome any day. I have everything in readiness. When they come, I am girded like Abraham to go I know not where, nay, most certainly where, because God is everywhere…. Pray for me. I am in the hands of God and my friends.”10 He wrote Staupitz that Frederick “would be happier if I were somewhere else,” and his old mentor, now residing in Salzburg, Austria, advised him to leave. “The world hates the truth,” wrote Staupitz gloomily. “By such hate Christ was crucified, and what there is in store for you today if not the cross I do not know…. Leave Wittenberg and come to me that we may live and die together. The prince (Frederick) is in accord. Deserted let us follow the deserted Christ.”11
Luther believed that the situation was hopeless. On December 20, just days before Christmas, Luther delivered what was meant as a final sermon to his concerned congregation at Wittenberg Church. “As you have learned,” he told them, “I am a somewhat unreliable preacher. How suddenly and without farewell I have left you in the past! If this ever happens again, I want to say good-bye in case I do not return.”12 That night he shared a supper at his home with a few close friends, and said his good-byes. He would leave at first light the next day for France, where enlightened theologians could work and freely debate the important issues.
But then, suddenly, a surprising message came from Spalatin: Frederick wanted Luther to stay. His concern for the lack of fundamental fairness in Augsburg, his desire for a final disposition from the pope and not an emissary, the well-being of his university (and, of course, the wishes of a large percentage of his subjects), were the deciding factors in his decision. He would continue to provide support and protection for his professor and monk. By letter Frederick advised Cajetan that he would ignore the directive that he arrest Luther or banish him:
We are sure that you acted paternally toward Luther, but we understand that he was not shown sufficient cause to revoke. There are learned men in the universities who hold that his teaching has not been shown to be unjust, unchristian, or heretical. The few who think so are jealous of his attainments. If we understand his doctrine to be impious or untenable, we would not defend it. Our whole purpose is to fulfill the office of a Christian prince. Therefore we hope that Rome will pronounce on the question. As for sending him to Rome or banishing him, that we will do only after he has been convicted of heresy. His offer to debate and submit to the judgment of the universities ought to be considered. He should be shown in what respect he is a heretic and not condemned in advance. We will not lightly permit ourselves to be drawn into error or to be made disobedient to the Holy See. We wish you to know that the University of Wittenberg has recently written on his behalf. A copy is attached.13
Luther received the news of Frederick’s decision with relief and great happiness. “I have seen the admirable words of our Most Illustrious Prince to our Lord the Legate of Rome,” he wrote Spalatin. “Good God, with what joy I read and reread them.” Luther believed Frederick to be a courageous and inspiring leader, as well as a pragmatic one. “He is the sort of man whose grasp extends to politics and learning at the same time.”14
And matters of the Church never strayed far from politics. Since Pope Leo’s plan to impose a new tax on the Germans had been defeated, he was left scrambling to find a way to fund his planned-crusade against the Turks. Then Maximillian I died in January 12th, 1519 and for the next five months Leo spent much of his time and energy maneuvering to ensure that Charles did not become the next Holy Roman Emperor. (In this Leo would be unsuccessful; boosted by the vote of Frederick the Wise, on June 28 Charles was elected.) Leo could not yet directly intervene in the Luther situation.
In lieu of Frederick’s stubborn decision and repudiation of Cajetan, faced with a growing list of German grievances and unrest, and exacerbated by Luther’s popularity among the peasantry, Leo needed to take a different strategy. He appointed a mediator of sorts. Leo directed a papal cleric named Karl von Miltitz to travel to Germany and negotiate a settlement with Luther, or, as members of the Roman curia now called him, “that child of Satan, son of perdition, (and) scrofulous sheep.”15
Miltitz was himself a German. Born in Meissen in 1480, Miltitz received his theological training at Mainz, studied law at Cologne, and began his career in Rome in 1514. He had achieved mid-level clerical status in the Vatican by 1519, where he served as Gentleman-in-Waiting for the pope and as unofficial nuncio, or messenger in papal affairs. While he had not been trained as a diplomat (nuntius et orator), Leo felt that his Saxon roots and his connections (he had relations among the German lesser nobility), along with his familiarity with Frederick, made him a good candidate to act as a papal subordinate (nuntius et commissarius).
He had another reason for traveling to Wittenberg. Frederick was still anticipating receipt of the Golden Rose (a special gift by which the Church honored deserving princes), and Miltitz was authorized to deliver it. He left Rome in late December and took his time, meandering through the towns, churches, and taverns of southern Germany, speaking with locals and gathering gossip. He was surprised at the amount of support Luther held among the peasantry, estimating that three out of four people approved of the monk’s activities. Miltitz was loose-lipped and did his best to gain favor with everyone he met. The pope, he said, was unhappy with the entire Dominican order. Leo placed little stock in the hurriedly-written and superficial report of Sylvester Prierias the previous summer, and believed that Cardinal Cajetan had bungled his task in Augsburg. Most of all, Miltitz said, the pope blamed the entire mess on Johan Tetzel, the Schweinehund (dirty dog) who had improperly distributed indulgences with his outrageous promises.
To prove his point, Miltitz stopped in Leipzig, where Tetzel now lived in retirement. He confronted Tetzel with the provincial of the Dominican Order and a representative of the Fuggers’ banking house. He showed Tetzel s statement of his accounts, ledgers which proved that Tetzel had pocketed extravagant amounts of money and had lived lavishly at peasants’ expense. He confronted Tetzel about his two illegitimate children. He advised the provincial to confine Tetzel to a monastery, which he soon did. Tetzel, now essentially an outcast, lived his final few months in despair (he died on July 4, 1519). His depression was not lifted even when he received a letter from Luther, who told him that he shouldn’t take this treatment to heart. “Don’t take it too hard,” Luther wrote. “You didn’t start this racket. The child had quite a different father.”16
Miltitz brought numerous documents with him on his journey, meant to convince the Saxons that the pope was sympathetic to their station, and of course, to impress Frederick. He carried certain dispensations, annulling the stain of illegitimate births of two of Frederick’s grandsons, and a sheaf of appointments, thirty in all, to papal notary positions for loyal and faithful believers. He also carried a certificate attesting to the awarding of the Golden Rose (the actual statuette was deposited with the Fuggers). This was a change from the original plan: Miltitz was to carry a papal brief which made presentation of the Rose conditional upon Luther’s extradition to Rome. This idea was scrapped, however, when a cardinal at the Vatican said, “You are a pack of fools if you think you can buy the monk from a prince.”17 But in any event, Miltitz apparently had authority to offer Frederick ten thousand ducats and the position of cardinal if he cooperated. “We’ll have it all fixed up in no time,” he bragged.18 “Doctor Martin is in my hands.”19
But at their meeting on December 28, Frederick found Miltitz to be a bit of a buffoon. He did not appreciate Miltitz’s casual methods and detected hints of condescension. Frederick saw through Miltitz’s strategy, an odd mix of cajolery and financial persuasion, and had no interest in taking a bribe. When Miltitz advised Frederick that no case in a thousand years had plagued the Church as much as Luther’s, Frederick agreed. But, Frederick wondered, did not the serious issues the monk presented call for a frank and thoughtful discussion? Annoyed that the Golden Rose was still not in his hands, Frederick quickly dismissed Miltitz. Luther, Frederick advised, was conducting university business in Altenburg, about sixty miles away. Miltitz could find him at the home of Spalatin. He wished Miltitz the best of luck in dealing with the stubborn monk.
Luther met with Miltitz on January 4, 1519, the occasion proctored by Fabian von Feilitzsch, another of Frederick’s counselors. Surprisingly, the men got on reasonably well. Miltitz flattered Luther, expressing surprise that the monk was so young (Luther was then thirty-five years old). “I had thought of you, Martin, as an old, grey-haired theologian debating with himself by his own fireside,” said Miltitz. “Now I see before me a man in the full vigor of his youth. I would not dare to hand you off to Rome, even with 25,000 armed men at my back.”20 Miltitz was certain that the differences between Luther and Rome could be resolved. Luther had simply misled the German people when he criticized Tetzel’s indulgence practices. For while Tetzel had surely overstepped his authority and had acted primarily to satisfy Albrecht of Mainz’s need of money, Rome itself had not approved. To this suggestion Luther politely disagreed. Rome, too, had acted greedily. It was the pope, after all, who needed funds and had initiated the sale of indulgences in the first place.
What would make Luther recant, asked Miltitz? To this Luther repeated his familiar line: he would gladly recant all he had said and written if he could be proven wrong by Scripture. Miltitz now turned emotional and began to weep. Could not Luther see that his words and actions were driving a wedge between the Church and the faithful? History had shown that schisms within Christendom had only resulted in misery. Surely Luther would not want something like that on his conscience. Luther replied that it was not he that had disgraced the Church in Germany; rather it was the Church’s spokesmen who had made absurd declarations in the name of the pope. While it is doubtful that Luther was moved by Miltitz’s mournful display—he wrote later that Miltitz cried “crocodile tears”—he did agree to a compromise. It was important to restore some measure of papal dignity. He would abide by a code of silence, and would speak no more of indulgences, as long as the Church would do the same. Further, Luther would write a letter to Pope Leo, admitting that he had been “too hot and hasty,” and he would advise all who listened to him in Saxony that they should follow the Roman Church, and “obey and honor her.” Finally, any remaining issues would be resolved by Mathew Lang, the Archbishop of Salzburg (and, perhaps not coincidentally, a close friend of Staupitz). This last point was the suggestion of Feilitzsch.21
Luther made an attempt to follow the agreement. In late February he published a pamphlet called Doctor Martin Luther’s Instruction on Several Articles which are Ascribed and Assigned to him by his Detractors. He wrote that his previous actions should not be considered an affront to the Church. But he went much further. The saints should be venerated, he wrote, but while they could be approached for spiritual desires, the real power was with God. Luther was willing to consider the possibility that purgatory existed, but indulgences could help no soul imprisoned there. He insisted that the doctrines of the Church were subordinate to God’s commandments, and that good works led to salvation but only if they flowed through God’s grace and rested on faith. To be sure, Christian unity with the Church should be preserved, for it was admirable and desirable. But blind adherence to its doctrines was not a precursor for eternal life.
But almost immediately Miltitz violated the agreement, taking credit for much more than had actually been accomplished. He wrote to Leo and advised that the entire matter was resolved. Thanks to his excellent work, he wrote, Luther was now ready to recant everything. Of course the pope was pleased to hear this, and in March he had a member of his Curia, the scholar Sadoleto, prepare a letter for his signature. “My dear son Martin Luther,” the missive began, “The Lord says: I take no pleasure in the death of a sinner, but that he may turn from his wickedness and live.” In the pope’s view Luther was a prodigal son, ready to return to his home. Leo invited Luther to travel to Rome and formally recant. He would be received, and forgiven, by His Holiness.22
Luther never saw the pope’s letter, for it was intercepted and destroyed by Frederick the Wise. It mattered little to Luther. He could not be concerned if Miltitz had misconstrued the terms of their agreement or deliberately falsified the results of their meeting. He was prepared to place his full trust in God’s word, not in the actions of a pope or a papal spokesman. He had no intention of acknowledging any authority but Holy Scripture. Luther did not remain silent for long. He had faced a series of challenges in recent months. Now he would face a far more worthy adversary, a distinguished theologian named Johann Eck who came not from Rome, but from Germany.
*
For the first few months of 1519 Rome was occupied with the election of a new Holy Roman Emperor, the position finally filled, to Pope Leo’s consternation, by the nineteen year-old Charles V. Luther followed the guidelines of the ceasefire agreement he had forged with Miltitz and ceased his public criticisms of the Church. He was happy to remain out of the spotlight, at least temporarily. He delivered another series of lectures on the Psalms which were quickly printed and distributed across Europe. He also completed a second commentary on Paul’s letter to the Galatians, although his understanding of Paul’s meanings continued to evolve, not always easily: “It does not do enough for my stomach,” he wrote.23 Luther would produce a third commentary in 1523, and a fourth in 1535. His reputation as a scholar continued to grow; other theologians called Luther’s work “learned and flawless” and “a rich treasure of the dogma of true theology.”24 Luther was awarded the black cowl, which he wore proudly as a sign of his adherence to St. Augustine’s teachings, and which marked his new position of dean of the theology faculty.
Luther also took the time to focus on academic matters at the University of Wittenberg. Frederick the Wise had made curriculum reform a priority at the school and Luther enthusiastically worked to purge the institution of scholasticism, those centuries-old methods of instruction based on traditional Church doctrines. Aristotelian logic might be useful in physics or the sciences, but, Luther believed, it had no place in theology, for God’s grace was far beyond the human mind’s ability to comprehend. Now the humanism model of study was to take root at Wittenberg, emphasizing Greek and Latin, philosophy, history, arts, and the natural sciences. The study of all of these subjects, Luther thought, surely pleased God and would bring his blessing. It certainly pleased the students, for since Luther’s arrival barely a decade ago, enrollment figures at the university had tripled. By the summer of 1519 Wittenberg students were “swarming the city like an anthill,” and many who sought admission had to be turned away.25
While Luther continued to communicate with Frederick through his advisor Spalatin, thus securing the elector’s critical support in bringing about these changes in the university’s curriculum, he worked most closely with two fellow professors. The new professor of Greek, Phillip Melanchthon, came to be Luther’s favorite ally. Born in Bretten, Germany, Melanchthon was fourteen years Luther’s junior. Just twenty-one years old when he came to Wittenberg, Melanchthon quickly earned the titles of Master of Arts and then Doctor of Theology, and just as quickly came to revere Luther. In his inaugural address just days after joining the faculty Melanchthon referred to Luther as a proclaimer of divine truth and guardian against false doctrine.26 The two men were remarkably consistent in their positions on ecclesiastical issues. In years to come Melanchthon would become one of the age’s great religious figures and, next to Luther, its greatest Protestant theologian. His quiet and thoughtful manner, and his proclivity to negotiate and compromise, was in stark contrast to Luther’s bombast and quick temper, but Melanchthon was just as committed to the cause of Church reform. Frail and unassuming, Melanchthon was extremely popular at the university and his lectures, always delivered in Latin, regularly drew hundreds of students and auditors. He was also fiercely loyal to his mentor. “I would rather die than be separated from Luther,” he said. Luther was, he remarked, no less than “the champion of the Lord.”27 While Luther compared himself to the warrior King David, Melanchthon reminded him of the peaceful and wise King Solomon. Luther wrote:
I have been born to war, and fight with factions and devils; therefore my books are stormy and warlike. I must root out the stumps and stocks, cut away the thorns and hedges, fill up the ditches, and am the rough forester to break a path and make things ready. But Master Philip walks softly and silently, tills and plants, sows and waters with pleasure, as God has gifted him richly.28
Luther’s other ally was Andreas Bodenstein, called Karlstadt after his Bavarian hometown. Karlstadt had been a professor at Wittenberg since 1505. Once a dedicated scholastic, he had been won over by Luther’s argument and now advocated curriculum reform. Karlstadt’s vision of reform did not end with his students. Rather, his great ambition was to transform Wittenberg in a wholly Christian community that others might admire and emulate. He had also boisterously supported Luther’s attack on indulgence trafficking. He was “hotter in the matter than I,” said Luther. (In fact, Karlstadt had written about the indulgence abuses six months before Luther, but no one had paid any attention.) It was Karlstadt who figured directly in Luther’s next great confrontation with Rome and with his most formidable adversary, Dr. Johann Eck.
Ironically, Luther and Eck, a professor of theology at the University of Ingolstadt, had once been friends. But two years earlier, when Luther had posted his theses on the door of the Wittenberg church, Eck rose to defend the Church and its practices. He published his Obelisks, comparing Luther to Czech reformer Jan Hus, who had been burned at the stake for his views. Eck called Luther “a Bohemian heretic, an insolent rioter, and a heretic.”29 While Luther responded to the attacks with his Asterisks, Karlstadt could not resist and jumped into the fray. He published his own tract of 406 declarations, defending Luther and outlining his belief in the natural, sinful state of man, the indispensability of grace, and God’s—not the pope’s—remission of sins. Karlstadt also courageously wrote that the Bible held absolute authority over Church doctrines, decretals, and traditions. Eck responded in the summer of 1518 by proposing a public debate between himself and Karlstadt, the points of contention to be decided by the pope himself, or the faculties of the universities in Cologne, Paris, or Rome.
Negotiations over the venue of the debate, and the arbiters, dragged into the winter, and as Luther busied himself with proceedings at Heidelberg and then Augsburg, it became clear that Eck’s real target was not Karlstadt, but Luther. In December Eck published twelve theses which proposed that the subject matter of the disputation be greatly expanded. He wanted to debate absolution of sins, purgatory, indulgences, the treasury of merit possessed by the Church, and above all else, the supremacy of the Roman Church—and therefore the pope—itself. The last of these topics, particularly, had been on Eck’s mind since Luther had published his Resolutions, in which he wrote:
That the Roman Church is superior to all others is shown by the vapid decrees the Roman popes have promulgated during four hundred years; against these are the historical evidence of fifteen hundred years, the text of the Sacred Scriptures, and the decree of the Council of Nicaea, the most sacred of all.30
In other words, the only voice setting forth Roman superiority was Rome itself, an assertion Luther was prepared to challenge. Luther was clear that he was not questioning the office of the pope, for since the office had been established by God, it had to be recognized. Rather, he believed the papacy possessed no sacred dignity, no supreme authority. Those were attributes of Sola Scriptura: Scripture alone. In anticipation of the debate, and of the critical issue that would dominate it, Luther published yet another tract: Resolution of the Thirteenth Thesis Concerning the Power of the Pope.
Luther viewed Eck’s attacks as more than sufficient cause to end his silence and was anxious to debate. In February he wrote to Eck, his contempt unconcealed:
I wish you salutation and that you may stop seducing Christian souls. I regret, Eck, to find so many reasons to believe that your professed friendship for me is hypocritical. You boast that you seek God’s glory, the truth, the salvation of souls, the increase of the faith, and that you teach of indulgences and pardons for the same reasons. You have such a thick head and cloudy brain that, as the apostle says, you know not what to say….
I wish you would fix the date for the disputation or tell me if you wish me to fix it. More then. Farewell.31
Luther knew he was treading on dangerous ground. No one had ever publicly challenged Roman superiority, or the pervasive power of the papacy, before. He rejected his critics: “The more they rage, the bigger my strides. I give up my first position, they yap at my heels, I move on to the next, they yap at me there.”32 Spalatin, speaking for Frederick the Wise, cautioned Luther to reconsider. But Luther wrote that he was certain the Christ was guiding him; if this were not true, he would have perished long ago. Rome had become an apocalyptic beast, a Babylon, and he could not defend the truth without insulting her. His friends, said Luther, might desert him, but then the disciples had deserted Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane. Now Luther’s decisive hour was approaching, and he would not flinch or hesitate. His opponent was “a crafty, arrogant, slippery, loud-mouthed sophist whose one aim is to traduce me publicly and hand me over to the Pope devoted to all the furies.” He would prepare with months of study, and the truth would emerge victorious.33
After many months of bickering between the parties a venue for the debate was decided: the University of Leipzig. At first the school’s theology faculty, under the leadership of their chancellor, the Bishop of Merseburg, was opposed to hosting the event. They reasoned that the issue of indulgences, at least, had been resolved by the recent papal bull. Why should the matter come to the forefront again? But the Bishop’s position was overruled by Duke George, the Prince of Albertine Saxony. George was, like most of the faculty, a staunch traditionalist and defender of Church (and papal) doctrine. But he was also keenly interested in a good fight, and he wasn’t afraid of the implications. He chastised his faculty for their timidity: “They are evidently afraid to be disturbed in their idleness and guzzling, they think that whenever they hear a shot fired, it has hit them.”34 When his Bishop also balked, George berated him as well: “Disputations have been allowed since ancient times, even concerning the Holy Trinity. What good is a soldier if he is not allowed to fight, a sheep dog if he may not bark, and a theologian if he may not debate? Better to spend money to support old women who can knit than theologians who cannot discuss.”35 More ground rules were set. Luther insisted that the pope not serve as judge; His Holiness was, after all, the subject of the central argument. Notaries would take down every word spoken so that an accurate record could be sent to the universities in Erfurt and Paris, whose theologians and canon lawyers were finally selected as judges. Correctly perceiving that the sensational nature and subject matter of the debate would attract large crowds, George cleared the largest hall at his Castle of Pleissenburg. Two of his most trusted counselors would preside, and George himself would be present. Dozens of extra police guards were dispatched throughout the city, and would serve as protective escorts for the participants. The disputation would last several weeks, and was scheduled to begin in late June 1519.
Eck was the first of the participants to arrive in Leipzig. Accompanied only by a servant, he entered the city on June 22 and was met by cheering crowds. He participated in a Corpus Christi processional, a festive parade through the streets of the town held in honor of the Holy Eucharist, the following day. On June 24 the Wittenberg entourage arrived. First came Karlstadt, alone in his wagon and surrounded by dozens of his reference books. (Unknown to him, the rules established by Duke George would prohibit their use in the debate, a tremendous advantage for the elderly and experienced Eck.) Just inside the city gate at Grimma, near St. Paul’s Church, a wheel on Karlstadt’s wagon broke off, sending him flying into the dirt, bruising his arm and shoulder. The superstitious Leipzig residents who viewed the incident took it as a sign from above: surely Karlstadt was destined to lose the debate. In the second wagon came Luther and his protégé Melanchthon, along with Duke Barnum of Pomerania, the rector of the University of Wittenberg, and two other professors, Nicholas von Amsdorf and Johann Agricola. This group had been accompanied from Wittenberg by two hundred students, some armed with clubs and axes, in case of trouble. (This anticipation proved correct; several skirmishes broke out between the Wittenberg students and their Leipzig counterparts.)
Luther and his associates were met with a cool reception in Leipzig, which was primarily a Dominican city. Luther first stayed at the home of a printer named Melchior Lotter, then later with a physician named Heinrich Stromer von Auerbach, but the rest of his party had to pay for their lodging or sleep in the streets. Eck was put up free of charge by the city. Eck was provided a great stag for his dining pleasure, and a team of cooks to prepare it; Luther was given nothing. For a time Luther’s safe conduct pass was withheld, and he threatened to return to Wittenberg unless it was provided. It was whispered that a ring Luther wore on his finger was a sign of his alliance with Satan. When he entered a church the resident monks left in silence. For the entire three weeks that Luther was in Leipzig he was not allowed to say the Mass.
The festivities began on Monday morning, June 27, with a six a.m. service at St. Thomas Church. The boys’ choir, led by cantor Georg Rhau, sang the twelve-part Mass he had composed, entitled De Spiritu Sanctu. This no doubt pleased Luther, for not only was he a lover of music, but Rhau had worked as a printer and publisher in Wittenberg, and the two men were friends. (Two hundred years later the music director at St. Thomas would be Johann Sebastian Bach.) Then the parties marched to the Pleissenburg, drums beating and banners waving, as hundreds of spectators waved and cheered along the city streets.
The great hall, secured by seventy-six armed guards, was lavishly decorated for the event with tapestries and ornate candles. A crowd of several hundred squeezed inside. At the front of the hall stood two podiums, facing each other. Eck’s was decorated with the insignia of St. George, while the Wittenberg lectern featured St. Martin. Supporters of both parties crowded around nearby. A Leipzig Latin scholar named Peter Mosellanus, who also served as Duke George’s secretary, gave the welcoming address, reminding the participants that God demanded they treat each other with respect and dignity. “A grand address,” said George, “though I marvel that theologians should need such advice.” The crowd kneeled and chanted Veni, Sanctus Spiritus (Come, Holy Ghost) three times. Then it was time for the noonday meal of venison and wine.
At two p.m. the debate proper began. For the next several days Eck and Karlstadt debated the topic of free will and grace. Eck was confident and played to the crowd, while Karlstadt, nervous without his reference books, was hesitant. Luther bided his time and planned his strategies. He had wanted the chance to debate for years, and now was his chance. On July 2 and 3 the parties took a break for the Festival of Saints Peter and Paul, and finally Luther took center stage on July 4. Mosellanus described the combatants:
[Luther] is of middle stature, his body thin, and so wasted by care and study, that nearly all his bones may be counted. He is in the prime of life. His voice is clear and melodious. His learning and his knowledge of Scripture are extraordinary; he has nearly everything at his fingers’ ends. Greek and Hebrew he understands sufficiently well to give his judgment on the interpretation of the Scriptures. In speaking, he has a vast store of subjects and words at his command; he is moreover refined and sociable in his life and manners; he has no rough Stoicism or pride about him, and he understands how to adapt himself to different persons and times. In society he is lively and witty. He is always fresh, cheerful, and at his ease, and has a pleasant countenance, however hard his enemies may threaten him, so that one cannot but believe that Heaven is with him in his great undertaking. Most people however reproach him with wanting moderation in polemics, and with being more cutting than befits a theologian and one who propounds something new in sacred matters.
[Eck] is a man of a tall, square figure, with a voice fit for a public crier, but more coarse than distinct, and with nothing pleasant about it; with the mouth, the eyes, and the whole appearance of a butcher or soldier, but with a most remarkable memory. In power of memory and elocution he surpassed even Luther; but in solidity and real breadth of learning, impartial men like Pistoris gave the palm to Luther.
In a debate that lasted some ten days, several crucial topics were discussed that set forth the immense differences between the established Catholic doctrines and the upstart reformation movement. The first issue was papal authority, a topic so momentous that never before in the history of the Christian church had it been so seriously challenged. Eck stated that Christ himself had established papal primacy over God’s church, and both Scripture and tradition offered proof. Any hierarchy, on earth or in heaven, necessitated a top position; on earth that position was held by the pope. The world mirrored the divine, Eck argued. While God was the sovereign in heaven, the pope was the sovereign on earth. Tradition supported this position, since for over a thousand years the fathers of the church, and the faithful, had acknowledged the pope as their leader. Indeed, they looked to the pope for guidance on spiritual issues. Since Christ had authorized the papal office when he established Peter as the first pope (“Thou are Peter and on this rock I will build my church … feed my sheep … follow thou me … strengthen thy brethren.”), and since Christ was part of the godhead, this was all part of God’s will and God’s plan. The papacy was established by divine right. Was God not incapable of error? Eck also produced letters credited to a Roman bishop in the first century: “The Holy Roman and Apostolic Church obtained the primacy not from the apostles but from our Lord and Saviour himself, and it enjoys pre-eminence of power above all the churches and the whole flock of Christian people.”36 To deny any of this was heretical.
Luther was forceful in his replies. He had great respect for the papacy, he declared. But it was nothing more than an earthly institution. All earthly institutions were subject to error. Certainly the church required a leader, but that leader was Christ, not the pope. There had been no pope at the Councils of Nicaea in the fourth and fifth centuries, yet those councils had equated Jesus with God, and had firmly established the truth of the Holy Trinity. The Greek Church had endured for fourteen hundred years, all without proclaiming allegiance to a pope. Were all those Greek Christians condemned to eternal punishment? “I hold it to be certain,” Luther said, “that neither the Roman pontiff nor all of his flatterers are able to cast out of heaven so great a number of saints, who have never been subject to his authority…. If they are heretics because they did not recognize the Roman pontiff, I will accuse my opponent of being a heretic, who dares to assert that so many saints held in honor throughout the universal church are damned.”
As for Christ’s admonition to Peter, Luther asserted that “the rock” referred not to Peter as first pontiff but to his confession of faith. Christ was the real rock, a position accepted by St. Augustine and other early Christian fathers. Further, the admonitions to “feed my sheep,” “follow me,” and “feed my brethren” applied to all of the disciples, not just Peter. History proved that the disciples did not consider Peter to be their leader, for they all shared in the ministry. In fact, Paul had denounced Peter, as recorded in Galatians.
Eck insisted that tradition proved papal supremacy. God had always been present in his church, and God’s truth was revealed in it. Church leaders had looked to the pope for guidance and leadership for centuries. As for those “Christians” who did not adhere to the leadership of Rome—in fact the Greek empire had been overtaken by the Turks, which was surely proof of God’s displeasure. Luther scoffed at this suggestion. It was, he believed, only Eck’s arrogance that could lead to such a statement.
Eck now maneuvered Luther into a corner. The infamous John Wycliffe and Jan Hus had proclaimed that adherence to Rome was not a necessary precursor for salvation. Both had been branded as heretics by Church councils at Constance, and had paid for their evil assertions. Was not Luther guilty of the same? Luther replied that he was not defending the Hussites. He did not believe that a single assertion by these men necessarily meant that all of their positions were in error. It was clear, after all, that these “heretics” believed in one universal church, the Holy Spirit, and a communion of saints. In these beliefs they were “most Christian and evangelical.”37
When Eck charged that Luther meant to praise the Hussites, and that he had equated the Greeks with the heretics, Luther interrupted and angrily called Eck a liar. But Eck accused Luther of denying the authority of Constance, which had condemned Wycliffe and Hus. Again Luther broke in, again calling Eck dishonest. Eck insisted on an answer: was the Council of Constance, which was acknowledged to be holy and most revered by all of Christendom, capable of error?
Indeed it was, stated Luther. “That’s the plague!” said a shocked Duke George, who was sitting close by. But Luther was firm. Councils were made up of men, and were, like the pope himself, subject to error. Christians were obligated to test the words and deeds of men by Holy Scripture. Scripture alone was perfect in its authority: Sola Scriptura, he called it. Thus, as far as Scripture contradicted the pope or any council or any church tradition, those earthly institutions were wrong.
The debate continued for another few days, the topics including indulgences, purgatory, and the priest’s power to absolve sins. Luther was surprised, but pleased, to hear that Eck’s views on the indulgence scandal were similar to his. With typical bluntness, Luther stated that only “the ignorant” would trek to shrines, in Rome or elsewhere, to obtain them. Just because the Church sold them, and vouched for their effectiveness, did not make it so. As for purgatory, Luther stated that while it was not mentioned specifically in the Bible, even Augustine seemed to impliedly acknowledge its existence when he prayed for souls of the dead. Perhaps, wondered Luther, the souls of the dead slept there; the matter required further study. Luther’s views on absolution were already well known: forgiveness came from God. To believe otherwise was folly. Now it was Eck’s turn to scoff. “Are you the only one who knows anything?” he asked. “Except for you is all the Church in error?”38 Luther answered, “God once spoke through the mouth of an ass.” Then he concluded his argument with these words: “I am sorry that the learned doctor only dips into Scripture as deep as the water spider into the water—nay, that he seems to fly from it as the devil from the Cross. I prefer, with all deference to the Fathers, the authority of Scripture, which I herewith recommend to the arbiters of our cause.”
Luther’s startling declarations, that the papacy and Church Councils were less than perfect, were the watershed moments of the Leipzig Debate. He had come to believe that the pope had put himself in the place of Christ, a proposition he could never accept. Leipzig made Luther one of the most famous men in all of Europe. But he returned to Wittenberg disappointed. He complained of the special treatment Eck had received, and of the partisan crowds in Leipzig. He resorted to name-calling: Eck was, he wrote, “slippery and hypocritical,” and Eck’s supporters were “senseless” and “shameless.”39 Eck returned to Rome, convinced that he had triumphed. The status quo—that is, the supremacy of the Church—had weathered Luther’s attacks. Although no official victor was declared (the universities of Erfurt and Paris never got around to proclaiming a winner), Eck crowed about his performance to all who would listen. He wasted no time in securing an audience with the pope. The time was now ripe, he said, for curial action against the son of iniquity, Martin Luther.