One blemish in the character of Luther that is often cited with
condemnation even by Protestants deserves to be examined separately. It
is Luther's violence in controversy, his coarse language, his angry
moods. All will agree that violence and coarse speech must not be
countenanced in Christians, least of all in teachers of Christianity. In
the writings of Luther there occur terms, phrases, passages that sound
repulsive. The strongest admirer of Luther will have moments when he
wishes certain things could have been said differently. Luther's
language cannot be repeated in our times. Some who have tried to do that
in all sincerity have found to their dismay that they were wholly
misunderstood. What Jove may do any ox may not do, says an old Latin
proverb.
Shall we, then, admit Luther's fault and proceed to apologize for him
and find plausible reasons for extenuating his indiscretions in speech
and his temperamental faults? We shall do neither. We shall let this
"foul-mouthed," coarse Luther stand before the bar of public opinion
just as he is. His way cannot be our way, but ultimately none of us will
be his final judges. The character of the duties which Luther was sent
to perform must be his justification.
It is true, indeed, that the manners of the age of Luther were generally
rough. Even in polite society language was freely used that would make
us gasp. Coarse terms evidently were not felt to be such. In their
polemical writings the learned men of the age seem to exhaust a
zoological park in their frantic search for striking epithets to hurl at
their opponent. It was an age of strong feeling and sturdy diction. It
is also true that Luther was a man of the people. With a sort of homely
pride he used to declare: "I am a peasant's son; all my forbears were
peasants." But all this does not sufficiently explain Luther's
"coarseness."
Most people that criticize Luther for his strong speech have read little
else of Luther. They are not aware that in the, great mass of his
writings there is but a small proportion of matter that would nowadays
be declared objectionable. Luther speaks through many pages, yea,
through whole books, with perfect calmness. It is interesting to observe
how he develops a thought, illustrates a point by an episode from
history or from every-day life, urges a lesson with a lively
exhortation. He is pleasant, gentle, serious, compassionate, artlessly
eloquent, and, withal, perfectly pure in all he says. When Luther
becomes "coarse," there is a reason. One must have read much in Luther,
one should have read all of Luther, and his "billingsgate" will assume a
different meaning. If there is madness in his reckless speech, there is
method in it. One must try and understand Luther's objective and
purpose.
Luther had a very coarse subject to deal with, and Luther believed that
a spade is best called a spade. Luther never struck at wickedness with
the straw of a fine circumlocution. He believed that he had the right,
yea, the duty, to call coarse things by coarse names; for the Bible does
the same. Luther has called the gentlemen at the Pope's court in his day
some very descriptive names. He did not merely insinuate that the
cardinals of his day were no angels, but said outright what they were.
He did not feebly question the holiness of His Holiness, but he called
some of the Popes monsters of iniquity and reprobates. We shall show
anon that in that age there lived men who spoke of the same matters as
Luther, who told tales and used expressions that would render their
writings unmailable to-day.
The great men of any age are products of that age. Man is as much the
creature of circumstances as circumstances are the creatures of men--
Disraeli to the contrary notwithstanding. While men may create
situations, they may also be made to fit into a situation. Men have
become great for this very reason that they understand the spirit of
their age and were able to respond to its call. Back of both men and
circumstances, however, stands sovereign Providence, shaping our ends,
rough-hew them how we will.
No character-study is just that fails to take into consideration the
force of circumstances under which the subject of the study has acted at
a given moment in his life. In the case of Luther there is a more than
ordinary necessity for adopting this equitable method; for Luther has
declared hundreds of times that his stirring utterances and incisive
deeds were not the result of long premeditation, or the sudden outbursts
of uncontrolled passion,--though neither he nor we would have any
interest in denying that he could be angry and did become angry,--but
the answer to crying needs of the times. This answer was on many a
signal occasion wrung from Luther after much wrestling with God in
prayer. He was moved to action by the heroism of that faith which had
been kindled in him. He acted in harmony with the particular issue with
which he was called upon to deal. Deep compassion at the sight of his
suffering fellow-men put strong language on his lips. Between the
pleading of friends and the storming of enemies he had no choice but to
act as he did. Luther often seems unconscious of the greatness of his
acts: he speaks of them as "his poor way of doing things," and invites
others to improve what he has attempted. We fear that many in our day
fail to see the greatness of the achievement while they stricture the
manner of achieving it.
Few men have so utterly lived for a cause, in a cause, and with a cause
as Luther. It is the heart of an entire people that cries out through
Luther; it is the soul of outraged Christianity that moans in anguish,
and speaks with the majesty of righteous anger through Luther. An age of
unparalleled ferment that had begun long before Luther has reached its
culminating point, and lifts up its strident voice of long-restrained
expostulation through Luther. Remove the conditions under which Luther
had to live and labor, and the Luther whom men bless or curse becomes an
impossibility.
In Luther's life-work there is discernible the influence not only of
good men, such as the scholarly Melanchthon, the faithful Jonas, the
firm and kind Saxon electors, the eager Amsdorf, the alert Link, but
also of evil men like the blunt Tetzel, the wily Prierias, and the horde
of ignorant monks which the monasteries and chancelleries of Rome let
loose upon one man. The course which Luther had to pursue was shaped for
him by others. We do not mean to suggest that Luther in his polemical
writings employed the cheap method of replying to the coarse language
adopted by his opponents in similar language; but it is fair to him that
this fact be recorded. Some people remember very well that Luther
addressed the Pope "Most hellish father!" and are horrified, but they
forget that the Pope had been extremely lurid in the appellatives which
he applied to Luther. "Child of Belial," "son of perdition," were some
of the endearing terms with which Luther was to be assured of the loving
interest the Holy Father took in him. That Luther called Henry VIII "a
damnable and rotten worm" seems to be well remembered, but that the
British king had called Luther "a wolf of hell" is forgotten. It goes
without saying that the contact with such opponents did for Luther what
it does for every person who is not made of granite and cast iron: it
roused his temper. It should not have been permitted to do that, we say.
Assuredly. Luther thinks so too, but with a reservation, as we shall
learn.
The "imperious spirit" and "violent measures" charged against Luther a
careful reader of history will rather find on the side of Luther's
opponents. They plainly relied on the power of Rome to crush Luther by
brute force. What respect could a plain, honest man like Luther conceive
for men like Cajetanus, Eck, and Hoogstraten, who were first sent by the
Vatican to negotiate his surrender? For publishing simple Bible-truth
the cardinal at Augsburg roared and bellowed at him, "Recant! Recant!"
Even at this early stage of the affair matters assumed such an ominous
aspect that Luther's friends urged him to quietly leave the city. They
did not trust the amicable gentleman from the polished circle of the
Pope's immediate counselors. At Leipzig, Eck had been driven into the
corner by Luther's unanswerable arguments from Scripture; then he turned
to abuse and called Luther a Bohemian and a Hussite, and finally left
the hall with the air of a victor to celebrate his achievement in the
taverns and brothels of the city, where he found his customary delights
learned from his masters at Rome. Can any language of contempt in which
Luther afterwards spoke of this doughty champion of Rome be too strong?
Among the attendants at the Leipzig Debate was Hoogstraten. This
gentleman followed the elevating profession of torturing and burning
heretics in Germany,--the territory especially assigned to him. It
looked as if he had come to Leipzig to follow up Eck's verbal thunder
with the inquisitorial lightning, and make of Luther actually another
Hus. When he found that he would not have an opportunity for plying his
hideous trade this time, he ventured into territory where he was a
stranger: he attempted a theological argument with Luther. He asserted
that by denying the primacy of the Pope, Luther had contradicted the
Scriptures and defied the Council of Nice, and must be suppressed.
Luther called him an unsophisticated ass and a bloodthirsty enemy of the
truth. Certainly, that does not sound nice, but such things happen, as a
rule, when fools rush in where angels fear to tread.
What was the papal bull of excommunication against Luther, with its list
of most opprobrious terms, but an unwarranted provocation of Luther, who
had a right to expect different treatment from the foremost teacher of
Christianity to whom he had entrusted his just grievance as a dutiful
son of the Church? Thus we might go on for pages citing instances of
reckless attack upon Luther, often by most unworthy persons, that drew
from Luther a reply such as his assailants deserved.
It is a gratuitous criticism to say that Christians must not revile when
they are reviled. Those who think that Luther did not know this rule of
the Christian religion, or did not apply it to himself, do not know the
full story of his life. He certainly did wrestle with the flesh and
blood in himself. He sighed for peace, but the moment he seemed to
become conciliatory and pacific, his enemies set up a shout that he was
vanquished. It seemed that they could not be made to comprehend the
issues confronting them unless they were blown in upon them on the wings
of a hurricane. As early as 1520 Luther replies to an anxious letter of
Spalatin, who thought that Luther had used too strong language against
the Bishop of Meissen, as follows: "Good God! how excited you are, my
Spalatin! You seem even more stirred up than I and the others. Do you
not see that my patience in not replying to Emser's and Eck's five or
six wagonloads of curses is the sole reason why the framers of this
document have dared to attack me with such silly and ridiculous
nonsense? For you know how little I cared that my sermon at Leipzig was
condemned and suppressed by a public edict; how I despised suspicion,
infamy, injury, hatred. Must these audacious persons even be permitted
to add to these follies scandalous pamphlets crammed full of falsehoods
and blasphemies against Gospel-truth? Do you forbid even to bark at
these wolves? The Lord is my witness how I restrained myself lest I
should not treat with reverence this accursed and most impotent document
issued in the bishop's name. Otherwise I should have said things those
heads ought to hear, and I will yet, when they acknowledge their
authorship by beginning to defend themselves. I beg, if you think
rightly of the Gospel, do not imagine its cause can be accomplished
without tumult, scandal, and sedition. Out of the sword you cannot make
a feather, nor out of war, peace. The Word of God is a sword, war, ruin,
destruction, poison, and, as Amos says, it meets the children of Ephraim
like a bear in the way and a lioness in the woods.--I cannot deny that I
have been more vehement than is seemly. But since they knew this, they
ought not to have stirred up the dog. How difficult it is to temper
one's passions and one's pen you can judge even from your own case. This
is the reason I have always disliked to engage in public controversy;
but the more I dislike it, the more I am involved against my will, and
that only by the most atrocious slanders brought against me and the Word
of God. If I were not carried away thereby either in temper or pen, even
a heart of stone would be moved by the indignity of the thing to take up
arms; and how much more I, who am both passionate and possessed of a pen
not altogether blunt! By these monstrosities I am driven beyond modesty
and decorum. At the same time, I wonder where this new religion came
from, that whatever you say against an adversary is slander. What do you
think of Christ? Was He a slanderer when He called the Jews an
adulterous and perverse generation, the offspring of vipers, hypocrites,
sons of the devil? And what about Paul when he used the words dogs, vain
babblers, seducers, ignorant, and in Acts 13 so inveighed against a
false prophet that he seems almost insane: `Oh, thou full of deceit and
of all craft, thou son of the devil, enemy of the truth'? Why did he not
gently flatter him, that he might convert him, rather than thunder in
such a way? It is not possible, if acquainted with the truth, to be
patient with inflexible and ungovernable enemies of the truth. But
enough of this nonsense. I see that everybody wishes I were gentle,
especially my enemies, who show themselves least so of all. If I am too
little gentle, I am at least simple and open, and therein, as I believe,
surpass them, for they dispute only in a deceitful fashion." (19, 482 f.
Translation by McGiffert.)
Nobody should make Luther any better than he makes himself. Still, the
question is pertinent whether violent polemics can ever be engaged in by
Christians with a good conscience. Luther has asserted that, while he
hurled his terrible denunciations against the adversaries of the truth,
his heart was disposed to friendship and peace with them. (16, 1718 f.)
Is a state of mind like this altogether inconceivable, viz., that a
person can curse another for a certain act and at the same time love
him? We think not. In his day this boisterous, turbulent Luther was
understood, trusted, and loved by the people. After the publication of
the Theses against Tetzel "the hearts of men in all parts of the land
turned toward him, and his heart turned toward them. For the religious
principles underlying the theses they cared little, for the arguments
sustaining them still less. They saw only that here was a man, muzzled
by none of the prudential considerations closing the mouths of many in
high places, who dared to speak his mind plainly and emphatically, and
was able to speak it intelligently and with effect upon a great and
growing evil deplored by multitudes. It is such a man the people love
and such a man they trust." (McGiffert, _Luther,_ p. 98 f.)
McGiffert has the right perception of the Luther of 1517-1519 when he
describes him as "the awakening reformer," thus: "He had the true
reformer's conscience--the sense of responsibility for others as well as
for himself, and the true reformer's vision of the better things that
ought to be. He was never a mere faultfinder, but he was endowed with
the gifts of imagination and sympathy, leading him to feel himself a
part of every situation he was placed in, and with the irrepressible
impulse to action driving him to take upon himself the burden of it. In
any crowd of bystanders he would have been first to go to the rescue
where need was, and quickest to see the need not obvious to all. The
aloofness of the mere observer was not his; he was too completely one
with all he saw to stand apart and let it go its way alone. Fearful and
distrustful of himself he long was, but his timidity was only the
natural shrinking before new and untried duties of a soul that saw more
clearly and felt more keenly than most. The imperative demands
inevitably made upon him by every situation led him instinctively to
dread putting himself where he could not help responding to the call of
unfamiliar tasks; but once there, the summons was irresistible, and he
threw himself into the new responsibilities with a forgetfulness of self
possible only to him who has denied its claims, and with a fearlessness
possible only to him who has conquered fear. He might interpret his
confidence as trust in God, won by the path of a complete contempt of
his own powers; but however understood, it gave him an independence and
a disregard of consequences which made his conscience and his vision
effective for reform."
McGiffert suggests a comparison of Luther with, let us say, Erasmus. Had
he been a humanist, he would have laughed the whole thing [Tetzel's
selling of indulgences] to scorn as an exploded superstition beneath the
contempt of an intelligent man; had he been a scholastic theologian, he
would have sat in his study and drawn fine distinctions to justify the
traffic without bothering himself about its influence upon the lives of
the vulgar populace. But he was neither humanist nor schoolman. He had a
conscience which made indifference impossible, and a simplicity and
directness of vision which compelled him to brush aside all equivocation
and go straight to the heart of things. With it all he was at once a
devout and believing son of the Church, and a practical preacher
profoundly concerned for the spiritual and moral welfare of the common
people." (p. 66f. 87.) Had Luther considered his personal interests as
Erasmus did, he would not have become the Luther that we know. Erasmus
in his day was regarded as the wisest of men; Luther in his own view,
like Paul, frequently had to make a fool of himself in order to achieve
his purpose. For instance, when he wrote against the dullards at the
University of Louvain, against the sacrilegious coterie at Rome that was
running the Church and the world pretty much as they pleased, or against
the brutal "Hans Wurst" (Duke Henry of Brunswick). Erasmus and his
school of gentle reformers always counseled a slackening of the pace and
the use of the soft pedal. Where is Erasmus to-day in the world's
valuation? Even Rome, in whose bosom he nestled, and who fondled him for
a season, has cast him aside as worthless. Luther lives yet, to the
delight not only of Coleridge, but of millions of the world's best men,
who, with the British divine, regard him this very hour as "a purifying
and preserving spirit to Christianity at large."
Luther was conscious of the difference in the method of warfare between
himself and his colaborer Melanchthon. He says: "I am rough, boisterous,
stormy, and altogether warlike. I am born to fight against innumerable
monsters and devils. I must remove stumps and stones, cut away thistles
and thorns, and clear wild forests; but Master Philip comes along softly
and gently, sowing and watering with joy, according to the gifts which
God has abundantly bestowed upon him," (14, 176.)
Dr. Tholuck, writing on "Luther's rashness," says: "What would have
become of the Church if the Lord's servants and prophets had at all
times done nothing else than spread salves upon sores and walk softly?"
He introduces Luther in his own defense: "On one occasion, when asked by
the Marquis Joachim I why he wrote against the princes, he returned the
beautiful answer: 'When God intends to fertilize the ground, He must
needs send first of all a good thunderstorm, and afterwards slow and
gentle rain, and thus make it thoroughly productive.' Elsewhere he says:
'A willow-branch may be cut with a knife and bent with a finger, but for
a great and gnarled oak we must use an ax and a wedge'; and again: 'If
my teeth had been less sharp, the Pope would have been more voracious.'
'Of what use is salt,' he exclaims in another passage, 'if it do not
bite the tongue? or the blade of a sword unless it be sharp enough to
cut? Does not the prophet say, "Cursed be he that doeth the work of the
Lord deceitfully, and keepeth back his sword from blood"?'"
One reflection suggests itself in this connection that goes far to
exonerate Luther: the language which the Bible employs against heretics
and ungodly men. It calls them dogs, Ps. 22, 20; 59, 6; Is. 56, 10;
Matt. 7, 6; Phil. 3, 2; Rev. 22, 15; swine, Matt. 7, 6; boars and wild
beasts, Ps. 80, 13; dromedaries and asses, Jer. 2, 23f.; bullocks, Jer.
31, 18; bellowing bulls, Jer. 50, 11; viper's brood, Matt. 3, 7; foxes,
Cant. 2, 5; Luke 13, 32; serpents, Matt. 23, 33; sons of Belial, 1 Sam.
2, 12; children of the devil, Acts 13, 10; Satan's synagog, Rev. 2, 9.
As regards its language, the Bible, too, agrees with the conditions of
the times in which it was written. When God, to express His righteous
anger, addresses the ungodly in such terms of utter contempt, He teaches
us how to regard them and, on occasion, to speak of them. This "coarse"
Luther is not more vehement and repulsive in his speech than the holy
Word of God.
We remarked before that we would not apologize for Luther's rashness and
coarse speech. Luther's acts are self-vindicating; they will approve
themselves to the discriminating judgment of every reader of history. We
can appreciate this sentiment of McGiffert : "As well apologize for the
fury of the wind as for the vehemence of Martin Luther." The Psalmist
calls upon the forces of nature: "Praise the Lord, fire, and hail; snow
and vapors; stormy wind fulfilling His word." (Ps. 148, 7. 8.) God has a
mission that our philosophy does not fathom for the mad hurry and
destruction of the whirlwind. How silly it would be to criticize a
cyclone because it is not a zephyr! We can imagine a scene like this:
The battle of Gettysburg is in progress and a gentle lady is permitted
to see it from a distance by a grim, warlike guide, and the following
conversation ensues:
"Why, they are shooting at each other! Did you see that naughty man stab
the pretty soldier right through his uniform?"
"Yes, madam, that is what he is there for."
"But is it not horrid?"
"Yes, madam, it is perfectly horrid. It is hell."
"But what are they doing this beastly work for?"
"Madam, they are fighting for a principle that is to keep this country a
united republic."
"Can anything be more horrid?--I mean, not the principle, but this awful
butchery."
"Yes, madam, there is something more horrid than that."
"What is it?"
"If there would be no one to fight for that principle."
War is never a pleasant affair. When men are forced to fight for what is
dearer to them than life, they will strike hard and deep. It is silly to
expect a soldier to walk up to his enemy with a fly brush and shoo him
away, or to stop and consider what posterity would probably regard as
the least objectionable way for dispatching an enemy. Luther was called
to be a warrior; he had to use warriors' methods. Any general in a
bloody campaign can be criticized for violence with as much reason as is
shown by some critics of Luther.