It had only been four years since Luther nailed his Ninety-Five Theses to the door of the Castle Church in Wittenberg. With his challenge and subsequent actions Luther had broken away from Rome irrevocably. He had exposed corruption and deceit within the Church, labeled the Pope as the Antichrist, faced his accusers at Heidelberg, Augsburg, and Leipzig, and defied the Emperor himself at Worms. He had been branded a heretic and excommunicated, and although the Edict of Worms had been published nationwide, the Church, preoccupied with war in France, seemed to lack the will to enforce it. In addition to Luther’s own revolutionary writings, which were the most popular works in Germany, a sympathetic biography entitled “The Passion of Dr. Martin Luther” became a bestseller. Protected by Frederick the Wise, for nearly a year Luther watched and waited in seclusion at the Wartburg castle, safely away from his enemies. He continued to work, however, relentlessly churning out sermons and commentaries, including a new essay on the Virgin Mary and the Magnificat, a series sermon guides (postils) on Sunday gospels and epistles, and an exposition of the thirty-seventh Psalm. His massive translation of the New Testament into German was ready for publication and distribution. His friends kept him apprised of the events that were changing Germany—and Europe—forever. Thousands of people were anxious to put Luther’s unprecedented ideas into practice; he had “put the match to the great fire,” and his followers were ready to fan the flames of revolt.1 But strangely, in many ways, the reform movement that Luther inspired was taking place without him.
With Luther in seclusion for most of 1521, reform occurred erratically, meeting with different degrees of success from church to church, city to city, region to region. While Protestants were united against the oppression of Rome and the corruption of the Church, they did not consistently stand together in ideology or in religious practice. They had remarkably different opinions as to how Luther’s messages were to be interpreted, and how reform was to be implemented. Further, while Luther had limited himself to spiritual matters, the reform movement spread to other areas; in fact, a “massive civil, social, religious, and political upheaval” was taking place across the country.2 The results were uneven at best, and much to Luther’s dismay, increasingly violent.
Galvanized by their dissatisfaction with the Church and outraged by the publication of the Edict of Worms and Luther’s excommunication, common people rose up against a variety of authorities. In June, peasants in Erfurt refused to pay dues to the Church and market fees to the city. One week later a group of students took to the streets, where they were joined by hundreds of peasants, in town for the midweek markets. Both church and city officials tried to silence the marchers to no avail. The protest quickly escalated into a riot, or “Pfaffensturm” (parson-storm). The mob sacked over forty clerical houses, all of which belonged to the town’s overlord, the non-reformist Archbishop of Mainz, and at least one man was killed.
To local government officials, the rioting in Erfurt blurred social, economic, and religious lines. Anxious to restore order and wary of the heavy-handed aid of the archbishop, they worked quickly to regain control of the municipality by negotiating a compromise. Under the “treaty of protection” that resulted, destruction of property would cease, and orthodox clergy would be protected from harm. Certain church privileges, however, including the clerical exemption from taxation, would be eliminated. The clergy paid 10,000 gulden in recognition of back taxes, and in the future would pay the same rates as everyone else. Further, four priests of known Lutheran sympathies would be allowed to preach in the city. Similar protests in Memmingen, Nuremburg, Eilenburg, and many other places across Germany, resulted in similar arrangements. The tide of reform was unstoppable.
The center of the reform movement was Luther’s own Wittenberg. The city had long prided itself on its independence and creative thinking. Its university (the only such institution in Germany founded without papal charter), attracted students and faculty who were open to new ideas. In Luther’s absence, Andreas Karlstadt, Luther’s colleague on the theology faculty, and a young Augustinian friar named Gabriel Zwilling, took charge. Karlstadt envisioned transforming Wittenberg into a “model Christian city.” Embracing Luther’s view of the centrality of faith—“He who through faith is just shall live”—Karlstadt denounced the trappings and the rigidity of the Church. Karlstadt believed that the mass itself, the center of worship and devotional experience, needed to be restructured. It was never meant to be a sacrifice to God, or an offering, for God needed nothing from man. Rather, the mass was an expression of thanksgiving, a joyous celebration of God’s gift, and a communion of believers, or saints. Any words in the liturgy to the contrary would be removed. Similarly, private masses—said by priests with no members of the congregation present, often presented for the benefit of the souls of the dead—came under attack by the reformers. By September Zwilling proclaimed that, unless the reforms were enacted, no masses should be celebrated at all. By the end of October Church-sanctioned masses all but disappeared. Vigils ceased, as did fasting on Mass days.
Joined by Luther’s ally Philip Melanchthon, Karlstadt announced that the laity should receive both cup and bread during communion. (The common Church practice was to allow the laity to receive only the bread.) Further, the Catholic notion of transubstantiation—in which the bread and wine became body and blood through the consecrating words of the priest—was rejected, as was the necessity of the elevation of the elements; neither practice was founded on Scripture. Karlstadt next declared that it was no longer necessary to confess sins or fast before communion. (In fact, Karlstadt believed to do so was sinful. He went well beyond Luther in his views here, setting a pattern for the future.) In late September 1521, Melanchthon, joined by several of his students, took the Eucharist in this way for the first time. Shocked at this break with revered tradition, Frederick the Wise appointed an investigative commission to study the matter and report to him; the commission could reach no consensus, however, and quickly disbanded.
At Zwilling’s encouragement, in the fall thirteen Augustinian friars abandoned the Wittenberg monastery, denouncing the Church as the “mother of dogma, pride, avarice, luxury, faithlessness, and hypocrisy.”3 Many followed Zwilling’s advice and turned to agriculture, believing that it was nobler to earn their bread by the sweat of their brows. Some sought wives, and a few quickly married; threats of arrest were ignored. The five who remained at the monastery pondered their futures warily, for there were no indications that the old ways of life and worship would ever return. The prior, who opposed any reform, reported that he felt unsafe walking about the streets of town.4 By early November 1521, half of the monasteries in Germany stood empty.
The Wittenberg city council also acted in the spirit of reform, passing a number of social programs designed to help the less fortunate. In November it provided for a “common purse,” allaying funds to be distributed to the poor. Two months later the council expanded the program: now orphans would be cared for, students would be assisted financially, and low-interest loan programs at four percent were established. Further, houses of prostitution were closed down, and poor girls were supplied with dowries. Another measure, clearly unenforceable, bound the government to make certain that only pure gospel was preached. Word of all of these reform measures met with Luther’s approval. But he wanted to see for himself what was happening. Driven in part by his curiosity, and in part by his frustration that the publication of some of his writings was inexplicably delayed, in December Luther secretly traveled to Wittenberg. Still disguised as Junker George, he stayed with Melanchthon and other friends for three days, gauging the situation. He pronounced himself pleased with the reforms he witnessed, and minimized the signs that trouble was brewing. “I was disturbed by various rumors of a certain ill-will among our people,” he wrote, apparently passing if off as the mischief of over-zealous university students.5
Karlstadt’s attacks on the mass continued. On December 3 several orthodox priests were driven from the Castle Church as they tried to celebrate Mass. When some of the worshippers knelt to pray before a statue of the Virgin Mary, they were taken out to the streets and pelted with stones. The next day an altar at the Franciscan convent was destroyed. A week later more damage was done to other buildings; when the rioters were arrested, a group of students stormed the jail, forcing their release.
On Christmas Eve hundreds of agitated Protestants, some carrying daggers beneath their cloaks, swelled the Castle Church. There was no violence, but the traditional mass was disrupted by shouting, and bits of lead and mud balls were thrown at the priests. The mob took their revelry outside to the church courtyard, where they hurled rocks at windows and statues. When the choir began to sing, the rowdies drowned it out with folk songs, including “A Maid Has Lost Her Shoe,” an obvious dig at the pope. The next day Karlstadt celebrated Christmas Day mass. He wore civilian clothes instead of vestments, and omitted all references to sacrifice. And to the astonishment and delight of the two thousand people in attendance, Karlstadt spoke in German. Now, for the first time in their lives, the parishioners heard these sacred words in their native language, and thus understood them:
“Nehmen; essen. Das ist mein Leib.”
(“Take; eat. This is my body.”)
“Trink daraus, alle von ihnen. Dieses Blut ist das Neue Testament, das für viele zur Vergebung der Sünden vergossen wird.”
(“Drink from it, all of you. This blood is the new testament, which is shed for many for the remission of sins.”)
Karlstadt invited all worshippers to receive the Eucharist by eating the bread with their hands, and drinking wine from the chalice. This, too, was a new experience for the parishioners, and some were terrified that they might spill a crumb, or a drop. Karlstadt assured them that they were protected by God’s grace. And the Lord’s Supper was offered to anyone regardless of whether they had fasted, or confessed their sins. In fact, Karlstadt now went beyond Luther again, preaching that to the extent that confession detracted from the Eucharist, it was sinful. One did not obtain forgiveness from a verbal confession, he reasoned. He knew of no absolution of sins except through the promise of the Savior’s blood; that is, the cup.6 Whether or not you have confessed, he preached, “You should go joyfully in good confidence, hope, and faith, and receive this sacrament, for it must certainly be true that faith alone makes us holy and righteous.”7 Karlstadt’s words had an unmistakable effect; confessions, noted church officials, decreased significantly in the following months.
In mid–January 1522 Karlstadt (who now insisted on being called “brother Andrew”) became the first priest to marry, insisting that it was his responsibility to begin a family. “I observe that in Scripture no estate is as highly lauded as marriage,” he wrote to Frederick the Wise, “and for the lack of it many poor priests have suffered sorely in the dungeons of the Devil.”8 Luther knew the bride, a fifteen-year-old girl named Anna Mochau, and approved of the match. He reacted with bemusement. “Good Heavens!” he wrote. “Will our Wittenbergers give wives to monks? They won’t give one to me!”9 He remained a single man, at least for the time being, but repeated the theme he had expressed in his On Monastic Vows: “Marriage is good, virginity is better, but liberty is best.”10 The vows of monks, like those of priests, he believed, were not based upon Scripture and could be disregarded.
The reformers went further. Karlstadt began to openly question the worth of child baptism. If Sola Scriptura was the controlling doctrine, then Holy Scripture must be taken literally. The Bible clearly stated that “whoever believes and is baptized shall be saved.” Since an infant did not have the capacity to believe, Karlstadt reasoned, child baptism was all but useless. For Luther, baptism was one of only two sacraments, and changes to its institution were a most serious matter; he would have much to say about it in coming months.
Next, Karlstadt and Zwilling insisted that all religious paintings and images, statues of saints, and crucifixes, be torn down. They relied upon the book of Exodus, where God had commanded against idolatry: “Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness of anything that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth.” Music was not to be spared from this iconoclastic revolt, for it had no place in worship, in Karlstadt’s opinion. “Relegate organs, trumpets, and flutes to the theater,” he said, “for the lascivious notes of the organ awaken thoughts of the world.” Even the most venerable of Gregorian chants worked only to “separate the spirit from God.”11 It was far better to offer one heart-felt prayer, he believed, “than a thousand cantatas of the Psalms.”12 Once again, he was not in agreement with Luther in these views, for Luther believed that the arts had a place in contemplation of the Word. “I am not of the opinion” he wrote from Wartburg, “that through the Gospel all the arts should be banished and driven away, as some zealots want to make us believe; but I wish to see them all, especially music, in the service of Him who gave and created them.” But under the fiery leadership of Karlstadt, the radical “Wittenberg Movement,” as it came to be known, continued to gain in momentum.
For his part, Frederick the Wise believed that the problems of reform, though rooted in spiritual affairs, could be solved only through political means. Without unanimity between the government, the established Church, and the Protestants, he reasoned, there could only be chaos, not reform. He hoped that church leaders and government officials could work out their differences through more compromise. Money was at the heart of the problem. Masses, after all, were endowed; if masses ceased, if priests and monks abandoned their vows, if communicants stopped attending services—money would no longer flow. Could this be God’s will? In February Frederick wrote, “We have gone too fast. The common man has been incited to frivolity, and no one has been edified.”13 The Emperor’s secretary, Valdes, wrote, “I perceived that the minds of the Germans are generally exasperated against the Roman see, and they do not seem to attach much importance to the Emperor’s edicts.”14 The prior at the Augustinian monastery wrote privately, “The cloisters are in the grip of the Devil.”15 Compromise appeared impossible.
From Wartburg, Luther could no longer ignore the tumult that Germany was experiencing. He was quickly losing confidence in the leadership skills of Karlstadt and Zwilling, and he was fearful of their radical views. He was concerned that his simple message of faith alone, of which he was certain rested on firm theological ground, was being misconstrued. More precisely, he was afraid that change was taking place too quickly, and through violent means. As always, he took to his pen. He wrote a tract he called Admonition to All True Christians to Guard Themselves against Sedition. In this remarkable document, meant to be an open letter to all Protestants, Luther urged patience, not tumult. God was on the side of the reformers, Luther wrote, because he was on the side of “the true Christian.” God’s word—the spirit, the rod, and the sword of his mouth—had exposed the evils of the papacy. Luther had merely served as conduit. And God’s word would ultimately triumph, but in his time and on his terms.
Urging restraint and not violence, Luther also wrote an open letter to his parishioners at Wittenberg. “You have gone about the business in a way of which I cannot approve,” he wrote, “using your fists, and if this happens again I shall not take your part. You began without me, so carry it on without me. What you have done is wrong, no matter how many Karlstadts approve of it…. Believe me, I know the devil well, and he is at the root of all this and has led you to attack the sacrament, etc., so that he might injure God’s Word, and meantime faith and love are forgotten.”16 Any incident of public uproar, Luther continued, was a “precise and certain sign of Satan’s intervention.” As always, Luther looked to Scripture. “God has forbidden insurrection,” he wrote, which “almost always harms the innocent…. God has said, ‘Revenge is mine; I will repay.’ Insurrection is nothing else than being one’s own judge and avenger, and that is something God cannot tolerate. Therefore, insurrection cannot help but make matters much worse, because it is contrary to God; God is not on the side of insurrection.”17
Luther was particularly troubled that the rioting and violence were being carried out, at least to some degree, in his name. In stark terms he blamed himself for the upheavals. “How did it come about that I, a poor stinking bag of maggots, should come to the point that anyone could give the children of Christ my godless name?”18
Late in 1521 an old controversy suddenly reappeared on the scene. Archbishop Albert of Mainz, long a collector of holy relics, found himself in need of funds. Albert’s collection numbered some 9,000 pieces, including what were said to be one of Isaac’s limbs, bits of Moses’ burning bush, jars from the wedding at Cana in which Jesus had turned water into wine, and even a thorn from the Savior’s crown at Golgotha. In recent months he had added to his collection: complete bodies of various saints, mud God had used to create Adam, milk from the Virgin Mary, and the very finger that Thomas had placed in the side of the risen Christ. Now Albert offered a “surpassing indulgence,” as much as nine million years of purgatorial release, to anyone who viewed the exhibit at the Collegiate Church at Halle (and, of course, paid alms for the privilege). “Do not fear Luther,” said the archbishop, “for we have silenced him; go shear the flock in peace, the monk is fast in prison.”19 Incensed that these scandals had resurfaced, Luther immediately wrote a scathing tract against the “Idols of Indulgences” and supplied a copy to Frederick the Wise. But Frederick thought Luther’s writing unwise; he told Luther, through Spalatin, that he would not sanction Luther’s attack because it might “disturb the peace,” which rested on precarious grounds already.20 (Frederick was also feeling pressure from his cousin Duke George, the very same elector who had hosted the Leipzig Debate; George wanted to enforce the Edict of Worms and also sought legal permission to prosecute any officials who endorsed changes in the Mass.)
Luther was greatly disappointed at his prince’s unexpected lack of support. He wrote to Spalatin, “I will not put up with it. I will rather lose you and the prince himself, and every living being. If I have stood up against the Pope, why should I yield to this creature?” He then wrote to Albert directly. Surely the archbishop knew that indulgences were nothing but “pure knavery,” the only purpose of which was to “rob poor simple Christians both of their money and their souls.” Had Albert forgotten that Luther’s exposure of indulgence trafficking, which was surely Satan’s work, had ignited the reform movement in the first place? Perhaps, wrote Luther, “you fancy you are safe because I am out of the way,” and that the pope’s edict would “extinguish the monk.” But he was very much alive and “shall not hold my peace.” Luther gave Albert fourteen days to respond, or Luther would publish his article and the archbishop would be “plunged into disgrace.”21 Albert capitulated. He was a miserable sinner and nothing else, he wrote, and he would withdraw the exhibit. Luther doubted Albert’s sincerity but let the matter rest, and did not publish his tract.
Then more controversy came from an unexpected place. Three mysterious men arrived in Wittenberg from the small town of Zwickau, 130 miles to the south. The men were Nicholas Storch, a weaver; former Wittenberg student Markus Stübner, who boasted of his ability to read minds; and a budding theologian named Thomas Dreschel. These men, who came to be known as the “Zwickau prophets,” were mystics who claimed to have received direct revelations from God. They reminded crowds that God had always spoken directly to people and offered instruction, and it was happening again, with them. Scripture could now be overlooked, the men claimed, because their conversations with the Holy Spirit had taken its place. They preached that all external pleasures of the earth could be left behind, so that the soul could become centered with the Divine. In what was to eventually become the Anabaptist doctrine, they taught that infants, incapable of true faith, need not be baptized. Further, the prophets were certain that the apocalypse was nigh. Godless men would be destroyed, they warned, and the new, true kingdom of God, to be called the “third heaven,” would be established. All distinctions between Catholics and Protestants no longer mattered. In Wittenberg the prophets found a wide audience, including Karlstadt. A skeptical Melanchthon, however, wrote to Luther instead. What would the reformer advise?
Luther responded by wondering if the so-called prophets had been tested in their “encounters” with God? The Bible told of how all those who had spoken with God had been terrified, afraid, threatened by God’s awesome might. What suffering, what anguish, had they experienced? Luther himself had experienced his Anfechtungen. Could these prophets say the same? In short order Luther would meet the mystics personally. He had heard and read enough of riots and chaos. Indulgences had resurfaced, and false prophets had appeared, confusing the faithful and leading them astray. In its disorder the young Reformation—Luther’s Reformation—seemed close to ruin and he would have none of it. “They push on blindly ahead—there is no listening or reasoning,” he wrote. “Well, I have seen … such an outrageous smoke that it managed to blot out the sun, but the smoke never lasted, and the sun still shines. I shall continue to keep the truth bright and expose it.”22
The Wittenberg parish council recognized that only Luther could bring order from the chaos. Ignoring the Edict of Worms ban, they sent a message to Luther at Wartburg: please return, as quickly as possible. Despite Frederick the Wise’s protestations that the journey would be unsafe, and that the precarious non-enforcement of the Edict would be in jeopardy, on March 1, 1522, Luther left the castle and returned to Wittenberg. He no longer felt the need for the prince’s protection; he was, he wrote Frederick, under “a far higher protection than the Elector’s…. I say you have done too much, and you should do nothing but leave it to God.”23 Frederick asked only that Luther draft a letter advising the Diet, scheduled to convene again that spring, that Luther was returning to Wittenberg of his own free will and only to quiet the protesters, and that Frederick had nothing to do with the matter. Luther gladly did so.
At the core of Luther’s return to Wittenberg were both philosophical and practical considerations that would ultimately determine the course of the German Reformation. He was genuinely concerned with the escalating chaos that had emerged in his absence. He believed now that Melanchthon was too young and inexperienced to shoulder the burden of reform by himself. (For his part, Melanchthon agreed. “The dam has broken, and I cannot stem the waters,” he said.)24 Karlstadt was proving to be too inclined to mysticism and trends of the moment. Luther was troubled by the rising voice within the reform movement itself, which he called Schwärmer (enthusiasts), the radical faction that, in his view, was stretching the Christian liberty he espoused to make new—and incorrect—theological law. Ultimately, he recognized that a power vacuum existed in Wittenberg, and he felt the calling to minister to his flock, in his city. The ideas of the Reformation needed practical application. Wittenberg was his home, filled with his people. The very future of Christendom, he was sure, rested in the balance. Could order come from the confusion? Would there be reform, or revolution? Would Holy Scripture be the guide, or would fanaticism rule the day? Would God’s love and grace emerge triumphant, or would his faithful sink back into oppression and corruption? Would all of Luther’s work be for naught? He saddled a horse and rode alone to Wittenberg.
Luther’s first public appearance in Wittenberg came on March 7, 1522, Invocavit, the first Sunday in Lent. He ascended the familiar pulpit at Castle Church and addressed an overflow crowd of some 2,000 students, faculty, and peasants, many of whom were surprised to see that he had again tonsured his hair and was wearing monastic garb. But his appearance was designed to remind his listeners that the course of the reform he had championed would be best accomplished through patience and moderation. He delivered sermons on eight straight days, models of cool reason and understated elegance. His language was gentle, his delivery pleasant. These Eight Sermons of Wittenberg, as they came to be known, were examples of Martin Luther, preacher, at his very best.
He touched repeatedly on the themes of faith, love, and freedom, concepts that defined the evangelical movement as he saw it. The Gospel of the Lord, the saving grace of God himself, revolved around these basic principles; without them, there was nothing. For Luther, faith was a private matter up to each individual; it could not be hoisted upon anyone. “I will preach, speak, write, but I will force no one,” he said, “for faith must be voluntary.” God delivered his son for us, he explained, and our task was to believe. Faith did not come from following a specific set of rules or from meeting obligations. Rather, true faith came from the heart. Because we are mere humans, however, levels of faith varied from individual to individual. It was the duty of those with stronger faith to help those who faltered, for that was the essence of Christian love and charity. Faith without love was no faith at all. In fact, “it is a false faith, just as a face seen in a mirror is not a face but merely an image of one.”25 He urged tolerance and patience in others. Some Christians would embrace reform quickly, enthusiastically. Others would be more cautious, afraid perhaps of abandoning the old ways that had been instilled in them since birth. Luther himself had no use for so many of the customs and procedures of the past. But he respected the wishes of others who still felt affection for them. Be mindful of each other, Luther preached. All reform would come in God’s own time.
Luther insisted that with faith came order. He saw no need for rioting or destruction. “Take me as an example,” he said. “I stood up against the Pope, indulgences, and all papists, but yet while I was asleep or drinking Wittenberg beer with Philip Melanchthon and Amsdorf, the Word inflicted greater injury on popery than any prince or emperor ever did. I did nothing, the Word did everything.” Luther would never condone civil unrest if it led to chaos. “Had I appealed to force,” he said, “all Germany might have been deluged with blood; yea, I might have kindled a conflict at Worms, so that the Emperor would not have been safe. But what would have been the result? Ruin and desolation of body and soul. I therefore kept quiet, and gave the Word free course through the world.”26 Luther had unshakable confidence in the power of Scripture. He believed that it would take time, however, for people to come to understand the true message; after all, they had spent their lifetimes being told what to believe, and how. They now had the opportunity to hear the Word for the first time. Once the Gospel was understood and accepted, Luther believed, anything inconsistent with it would fall away.
Luther believed, moreover, that there was room for flexibility in reform. While it was true that the Mass, traditionally practiced as an exercise in sacrifice, was an evil that had to be eliminated, there was no need to do so by extreme measures. To great degree these matters were better left to God. Luther reminded his listeners that while God was watching his people, so too was Satan. “Do you know what the Devil thinks when he sees men use violence to propagate the gospel? He sits with folded arms behind the fire of hell, and says with malignant looks and frightful grin: ‘Ah, how wise these madmen are to play my game! Let them go on; I shall reap the benefit. I delight in it.’ But when he sees the Word running and contending alone on the battlefield, then he shudders and shakes for fear. The Word is almighty, and takes captive the hearts.”27
Christians were to be forever free from the domination of Rome. That great truth had been proven over and over these past few years. No man—and no corrupt institution—had the right to tell another how to live or how to practice his faith. Luther referred to the “tyranny of popery,” a meaningless set of rules and obligations that had little or nothing to do with faith, but were better left free: marriage, fasting, eating meat on Fridays, confession of sins, living in convents, and the like. God had blessed his people with the freedom to choose in these matters; that was why monks were free to break vows of chastity or poverty—or to keep them if they preferred. Christians were also free from the tyranny of radicalism, Luther said. He was not in favor of replacing one oppressive institution with another. Christians could decide for themselves whether they wanted to include images in their worship. Individual churches were free to choose their own pastors. Outward signs of faith included the sacraments of baptism and the Eucharist. The sacraments need only be accompanied by faith; all else mattered but little. God did not demand a single, binding form of practice of these tenets of faith; he only required faith.28
Luther’s soothing sermons were welcomed by Wittenberg’s city and university officials. More important, his parishioners eagerly embraced his moderate messages. “Oh what joy has Dr. Martin’s return spread among us!” wrote Jerome Schurf (who had served as Luther’s legal counsel at Worms), to Frederick the Wise. “His words, through divine mercy, are bringing back every day misguided people into the way of the truth. It is as clear as the sun, that the Spirit of God is in him, and that he has returned to Wittenberg by His special providence.”29 Immediately the rioting stopped, and calm was restored. Mobs of students and peasants no longer met to destroy churches or ridicule monks. One of Luther’s students wrote, “Like St. Paul, Luther knows how to feed [the people] with milk until they have matured and are ready for solid food. To judge him by his face, Luther is a kind man, mild and good-natured. His voice is pleasing and impressive, and you would be amazed at his winning way of speech.” Another student wrote, “All week long Luther did nothing other than to put back in place what we had knocked down, and he took us all severely to task.”30 Even the representative of the Archbishop of Mainz was impressed. Fabricius Capito was sent to Wittenberg to monitor Luther’s return. Initially skeptical, he came away pleasantly surprised. “He is preaching daily and he plucks at his followers,” Capito reported. “At the same time he is not forgetting to contribute what he contributed in the beginning. Already, the people are flowing together as if into a procession and then continuing on into the liberty of Christ.”31 Luther had his Eight Sermons at Wittenberg immediately published, and he considered it his best book to date.
Luther followed his Wittenberg sermons with addresses to adoring crowds in Erfurt, Weimar, and other towns. Just as he had in his home city, he calmly reassured his listeners that God was in control, and that there was no need for unrest or uproar. Predictably, different towns made different ecclesiastical choices. Some retained the manners of the traditional mass, while others rejected them. Some continued to adorn their churches with paintings and statues, and some did not. Music played a large part in some worship services, and was all but absent at others. Luther himself oversaw a traditional celebration of the Eucharist at one Wittenberg church; at another only bread was administered at the high alter, while both bread and wine were distributed at a side chapel. Form was not important, Luther taught. What mattered was the substance of the Lord’s Supper, and the spirit in which it was taken.32
Luther met with the Zwickau prophets and challenged them: if they were truly conversing with God, as they claimed, would God produce a miracle? “Within seven years,” the mystics answered. “My God keeps your god from doing a miracle,” Luther scoffed.33 One of the men claimed he could read Luther’s mind. Secretly, he said, Luther sympathized with them and was intrigued by their claims that God was speaking to them. Luther laughed and said the only conversations they were having were with the Devil. He ordered the men out of town and they left, ridiculing Luther’s obviously powerful standing in Wittenberg. He had not merely challenged the authorities, they charged. He had himself become a new king of the Protestants.
Karlstadt, the prophets’ most visible follower, was also envious of Luther’s prominence. His association with mysticism was one theological difference Luther could not overlook, and their friendship ended. He was removed from his position by the town council and also left Wittenberg. He renounced his academic degrees and, believing that God favored the common people, dressed in peasant clothing and took up farming. He became pastor at a small church in Orlamünde, where he called Luther “a gluttonous Ecclesiastic” and “the Wittenberg pope.” Karlstadt and Luther would meet again, however, in years to come. Gabriel Zwilling, with Karlstadt the other reform leader in Luther’s absence, renounced his radical ideas and became a faithful adherent to Luther’s theology.
For the time being Luther was satisfied with the results of his return from exile. By his presence and calming influence he had managed to control and moderate the very forces of reform that he had set in motion. He was gratified that the unruly behavior had stopped, and he felt certain that Rome’s oppressive grip on Germany, which had existed for hundreds of years, was ending. He was a hero in Wittenberg, he was home, and he doubted that he would ever leave again. “Here there is nothing but love and friendship,” he wrote.34
Luther also was beginning to feel that God had trusted him to be the movement’s leader. It was more than a blessing, and more than a calling. He was fulfilling his destiny—God’s plan for him—and he believed that success in Wittenberg justified the suffering and torment he had experienced. “Follow me,” Luther preached. “I was the first whom God entrusted with this matter. I was the one to whom he first revealed how his Word should be preached to you.”35 There was a hint of truth in a point made by Karlstadt and the mystics. More and more, Luther saw himself as the Lord’s prophet.