We need only refer to the passage in the Commentary where he declares: Our so-called good works are not good, but God merely reckons (“reputat”) them as good. “Whoever thinks thus is ever in fear (‘semper pavidus’), and is ever awaiting God’s imputation; hence he cannot be proud and contentious like the proud self-righteous, who trust in their good works.”[735]
What is curious, however, is that, here and elsewhere in the Commentary, the so-called self-righteous, both in the cloister and the world, appear to be quite “confident” and devoid of fear; they at least fancy they may enjoy peace; hence, as depicted in the Commentary, they are certainly not the howling and anxious spirits of whom the later legend speaks. On the contrary it is Luther alone who is sunk in sadness, and whose melancholy pessimism presents a strange contrast to all the rest. His mysticism also veils a deep abyss.
Almost on the same page the pessimistic mystic speaks of that resignation to hell which has a place in his new system of theology. “Because we have sin within us we must flee happiness and take on what is repugnant, and that, not merely in words and hypocritically; we must resign ourselves to it with full consent, must desire to be lost and damned. What a man does to him whom he hates, that we must do to ourselves. Whoever hates, wishes his foe to be undone, killed and damned, not merely seemingly but in reality. When we thus, with all our heart, destroy and persecute ourselves, when we give ourselves over to hell for the sake of God and His Justice, then indeed we have already satisfied His Justice and He will deliver us.”[736] It can hardly be considered normal that a monk should wish to live—among brethren, who rejoiced in the promises of Christ and in the Church’s means of grace—the life of a lonely mystic sunk in the depths of an abyss, where “a man does not strive after heaven but is perfectly ready never to be saved, but rather to be damned, and where, after having been reconciled by grace, a man fears, not God’s punishments, but simply to offend Him.”[737]
Luther’s recollections of the mental ailments he went through as a monk also undoubtedly had their effect on the legend. We know that Luther never rightly understood the nature of these ailments and that he regarded his fits of terror, his nervousness and his gloom as anything but what they really were. It would appear that, in his old age, he simply lumped all his sad experiences together as typical of the sort of poison which Popery and Monkery, owing to their false doctrines, offered to their adepts. Nothing seemed to him to show better from what horrors he had snatched mankind. Whether involuntary self-deception played a part here, or whether, by dint of constant repetition, he came to believe in the truth of his tale, who can now venture to say? In any case his spirit of bitterness led him to make of his own sufferings a sort of spectre of terror common to all, who, like himself, had raved that they were zealously serving God whether in the monastery or in Popery at large. Even “great Saints” had, according to him, lived amidst the “devil’s factions and errors, under Rules and in monasteries and institutions,” but had finally “cut themselves loose and been saved by faith in Jesus Christ.”[738]
He completely shuts his eyes to the fact that both his fears concerning predestination and his morbid states of terror accompanied by fainting fits recurred in his case even in later life, and, that, after his apostasy he had in addition to suffer from remorse of conscience on account of his doings against the Church. Nor does he seem to see that he himself betrays the falsity of what he says of the general depression to which all monks were subject when he relates above, that he alone had gone about in the monastery labouring under such oppression and that no one had understood him or been able to console him (above, p. 113); hence, according to this, his brother monks cannot have suffered from the terrors he afterwards attributed to them.
The strange “terrors” under which he was labouring when he first knocked at the gate of the Augustinian convent at Erfurt were, according to Melanchthon’s definite assurance already quoted, closely bound up with his habitual states of fear. They were extraordinary states of mental perturbation (“terrores”) and can only be explained when looked at in the light of his other mental troubles.[739] Of the incidents that impelled him to enter the convent[740] Luther himself says in a passage which has also been quoted above, that (on the occasion of his first Mass) he had tried to reassure his father Hans by pointing out that he had been called “by terrors from heaven” (“de coelo terrores”); to which his father had harshly replied: “Oh, that it may not have been a delusion and a diabolical vision” (“illusio et præstigium”).[741] The happenings immediately previous to his entering the monastery are of a rather mysterious character. The inmates of the Erfurt convent declared at that time in consequence of what they had gathered from Luther, that he, like “another Paul, had been miraculously converted by Christ.”[742] Oldecop, who began his studies at Wittenberg in 1514, speaks in his Chronicle of “strange fears and spectres” on account of which Luther had taken the habit.[743] Still more remarkable is the report based on the account of Luther’s intimate friend Jonas, and dating from 1538. He says: When Luther, as a student, was returning to Erfurt after having been to Gotha to buy some books “there came a dreadful apparition from heaven which he then interpreted as signifying that he was to become a monk.”[744] If these statements were correct it would appear as though we have here already an instance of hallucination worthy of being classed with the “sights and visions” elsewhere mentioned. Even his earliest monastic days would assume a suspiciously pathological character if, even then, he was convinced of having been the recipient of heavenly messages. It must, however, remain doubtful whether Jonas’s report means exactly what it seems to mean and whether his sources are to be relied upon.
The possibility of his having been the victim of hallucination at such an early date also raises the question whether his later abnormal states can be explained by heredity or his upbringing.
By their “harsh treatment,” so Luther says on one occasion, his parents had “driven him into the monastery”; here we have an entirely new version of the motives of his choice of the religious life; he adds that, though they meant well by him, yet he had known nothing but faintheartedness and despondency.[745] Poverty still further darkened his early youth. It is quite possible that the young monk may have suffered for some considerable time from feelings of timidity and depression as a result of his education and mode of life. The natural timidity which was apparent during a part of his youth may also have contributed its quota to the rise of the legend of the monk who was ever sad. But all this does not explain as well as an hereditary malady would the terrors or seeming hallucinations. Unfortunately the question of heredity is still quite obscure, though the highly irritable temper of his father referred to above (p. 182) may have some bearing on it. Luther, however, says very little about his parents and even less of his manner of bidding good-bye to the world.
The statements he makes, whether in jest or in earnest, concerning his vow to enter a religious Order, differ widely.
He declares he made the vow to God in honour of St. Anne, but that God had “taken it in the Hebrew meaning,” Anne signifying grace, and had understood that Luther wished to become a monk “under grace and not under the Law,” in fact not a monk at all.[746] Very likely it is no jest, however, when he adds that, “he had soon regretted his vow, the more so since many sought to dissuade him from entering the convent”; he had, nevertheless, persisted, in spite of the objections of his father and, after that, he had had no further thought of quitting the convent, “until God deemed the time had come” (to thrust him out of it).[747]
On another occasion he assures us he had entered the convent only “because he despaired of himself.”[748] And again: “God let me become a monk,” “though I entered forcibly and contrary to my father’s wishes”;[749] for I had “to learn to know the Pope’s trickery.”[750] As a rule, however, he leaves God out of the matter. He had taken the vow only “under compulsion,” so he says in self-defence; he had not become a monk “gladly and willingly”; he did not then know that a father had to be obeyed, or that vows rested only on “the commandments of men, on hypocrisy and superstition,”[751] but, during his life in the cloister, the suspicion of his father, who had now been reconciled with him, about the possibility of its having all been a diabolical delusion had sunk deeply into his mind; in his father’s words he had perforce to recognise the Voice of God.[752]
Again, the legend makes out the monk, in the time of his first fervour, to have looked more like a corpse than a man; yet, so far as we can judge, it was only after he had begun his public struggle, i.e. subsequent to 1517, that he began to show signs of physical exhaustion and emaciation, and this, too, was only owing to the way in which he went to work. On the other hand, on March 17, 1509, i.e. nearly four years after his entry into the religious life, when about to quit Erfurt, he wrote, that, “as to himself, by God’s grace, all was going well.” The expression he uses seems to imply that, not merely his spiritual, but also his bodily, state was satisfactory.[753]
In his legend Luther speaks repeatedly of certain morbid states from which he had suffered and which he duly uses to lash the Popish conception of holiness. They are too closely bound up with other facts in his mental life to be set aside as simple inventions, though it must also be added that they contain an element of uncertainty.
In the case of people who have been brought up as Christians but who suffer from certain nervous disorders, particularly when their temperament is of the melancholy variety, a notable aversion for sacred objects may occasionally be observed. “Many such patients cannot bear the sight of a cross, cannot listen to prayers, stop their ears at the ringing of the Angelus, cannot mention the word ‘sacrament,’ but use some circumlocution instead.” “Among perfectly normal people we do not meet with this sort of thing, still it is nothing extraordinary.”[754]
Now, oddly enough, we find Luther, in 1532, telling the people quite seriously in his sermons on Matt. v.-vii., that, as a novice, he had not been able to endure the sight of the crucifix. “When I saw a picture or statue of Christ hanging on the Cross, etc., I was so affrighted that I averted my eyes.”[755] And, again, in the same sermons: “When I looked at Him on the Cross He seemed to me like a flash of lightning.” He also adds that he “had often been affrighted at the name of Jesus.”[756] “The Last Day,” he says in a sermon of 1534, he could not bear to hear spoken of, and “my hair stood on end when I thought of it.”[757] These statements are doubtless exaggerations, but Luther has others even stronger: He would “rather have heard the devil spoken of than Christ”; he would rather have seen “the devil than the Crucified”; “rather have heard of the devils in hell than of the Last Day.” It may be queried whether the above were simply inventions designed to vilify the monastic life and the faith in which he had grown up. Nevertheless, whoever calls to mind the “terrors” Luther experienced at his first Mass and in the procession with Staupitz, whoever keeps before him the part played by Luther’s “fears” even at a later date,[758] will certainly not think it beyond the bounds of possibility that, at times, he should have shuddered at the sight of the cross or at the mention of Christ or of the Last Judgment.
To all this, his bodily condition may have contributed, yet, in his legend, Luther makes of these doubtless morbid states of his the inevitable result of the holiness-by-works practised in the convent and taught by Catholic doctrine. It was because they had known Christ only as the Judge, Who must be placated by works, that he had so dreaded the Crucifix and the very mention of the Judgment. He says that he could not but tremble at the sight of the Crucifix, because, like the rest of the Papists, he had been taught to think that “I must go on performing good works until I have thereby made Christ my friend and gracious toward me.”[759] For this reason alone he had “so often shrunk back affrighted at the name of Jesus” and at the “Cross” as at a “flash of lightning,” because he, like all the rest, had lost his faith; “I had fallen away from the faith and had no other thought than that I had angered God Whom I must once more propitiate by my works.” “But praise and thanks be to God that now we have His Word once more, which leads us to Christ and depicts Him as our Righteousness”; our heart need no longer “tremble and quake.”[760]
After assuring us that he was often unable to gaze upon the Cross, he also at once proceeds to make capital out of this against the olden Church: “For,” so he continues, “my mind was poisoned by this Popish doctrine,” a doctrine according to which “Christ, our Healer, had been turned into a devil.”[761]
Nor does he hesitate to make out that the sight of the Saviour was likewise terrifying to all the zealous and earnest “saints-by-works” in the religious life and Popery generally.[762] In another passage he speaks of the dreadful emotion all felt at the mention of the coming Judgment and the Last Day: “And so we were all sunk in the filth of our own holiness and fancied that, by our life and works, we could pacify the Divine Judgment”; formerly they used to start “if anyone spoke of death or of the life to come”; but, since the light of the Evangel has risen, it is otherwise.
It is true that the way in which Luther here allows his prejudice to exploit these terrifying experiences may raise doubts as to whether they had ever actually existed even in his own case, or whether he did not rather invent them with the object of afterwards ascribing them to all. At the same time it is easier to believe in their existence than to credit him with having deliberately evolved them out of his own fancy.
The utmost caution must indeed be exercised in accepting his assertions on this subject. We cannot sufficiently express our amazement at the credulity with which Luther’s rhetorical statements about his life in the convent have often been accepted, for instance even by Köstlin. The fact is, that the ground on which Luther’s later account rests, the elements that he introduces into his transformation of the facts, and above all the bitter and aggressive spirit which directs and permeates everything, have not been adequately recognised and thus the mythological nature of his fiction has remained undetected. Otherwise it would surely have been impossible to assert, that, just as Paul had been through the mill of the Law, so Luther also had been through that of the religious life, in order, by virtue of his experience, to discover the supreme truth.
Various traits in the picture he drew, which, owing to its difficulties, has puzzled many people, may, as we have seen, be explained by his misapprehension or misinterpretation of the phenomena of his own morbid, melancholy mind. Other moral factors have, however, also to be taken into account.
As already pointed out, his depression of mind, due primarily to physical causes, became so pronounced owing to his refusal to submit to proper direction.
His dissatisfaction was increased by his growing impatience with the religious life, by remorse of conscience arising from his tepidity and worldliness, and by his growing antipathy to his vocation.
It may be said, that, had the convent been wisely governed, Luther would never have been admitted to profession but have been quietly dismissed while yet a novice. Both for his superiors and for himself this would have been the better course. A morbid temperament such as his, whatever may have been its cause, was not suited for the religious life, even apart from the obstacles in Luther’s character. The monotony and the penances of the monastic life, the self-discipline and obedience; also the annoyances with which he had to put up from his brother monks, whose habits and upbringing were not his, must necessarily have aggravated his case, particularly as he refused to submit to guidance. His superiors should have foreseen that this brother would be a source of endless difficulties. Instead of this, Staupitz, the vicar, clung to his favourite. He even gave him to understand that he would make of him a great scholar and an ornament of the Order. Had he remained in the world, in a different and freer sphere of action, Luther might possibly have succeeded in shaking off his ailments and the resultant depression. But, in the convent, particularly as he went his own way, he became the victim of ideas and imaginations which promoted the growth of his doctrine and helped to pave the way for his apostasy. Nevertheless, his morbid states could not annul the vows he had taken in the Order, hence his leaving and his breach of the vows cannot be excused on the ground of his illness, though the latter may help to explain his step.
From all the above it is plain how unwarrantable is the assumption that to set aside Luther’s legend is to shut one’s eyes to the severe inward struggles through which he went previous to making his great decision.
There can be no doubt that, previous to his unhappy change of religion, the monk had to wage a hard fight with himself. He was striving against his conscience, and, by overcoming it, he consciously and deliberately incurred the guilt of his apostasy. “A frightful struggle of soul,”[763] may, and indeed must, be assumed, though a very different one from that usually pictured by Protestants and by Luther himself. It would indeed be “stupid” (to use the words of a Protestant biographer of Luther) to seek to “obliterate from history” the deep-down inward struggle which, “maybe, lasted longer than we think.” It is, however, gratifying to find that the same author admits that, as a monk in the Erfurt priory, Luther “found some inward contentment,” in other words, that the legend is false in this particular; he also grants that, at least “in this or that statement,” Luther, in his later accounts, has been guilty of “exaggeration”; that his “development” did not proceed quite on the lines he fancied later, at least that the “change was not quite so sudden,” and, finally, that “physical overstrain” had something to do with his struggles.[764]
It is only after 1530 that we find Luther’s legend of his monkish life fully developed. Before this we see only the first hints of the tale.
It cannot be argued that, till then, he had been silent on his inward experiences as a monk, or that the MSS. of the Table-Talk only commence subsequent to 1530. That, even before this, he had frequently spoken of his earlier spiritual experiences is evident from the passages already quoted, and might be proved by many others; moreover the absence of any recorded Table-Talk is a detail, since the latter is far from being our sole source in the present question.
We are justified in assuming that the idea matured in 1530, during his stay at the Castle of Coburg where he had to wage so severe a struggle with himself. Amid the trials he endured during his days of retirement at the Wartburg he had found time to pen his violent attack on monastic vows; so also, it was in the quiet of the Coburg, amidst the ghostly conflicts and delusions, that he wove the caricature of his own monkish life into the web of his history. At the very time when Luther was at the Coburg the burning question of German monasticism was being debated at the Diet of Augsburg; the Catholic Estates hoped that recognition might again be won for it from the Protestants, or that it might at least secure toleration in the districts where allegiance was divided. It was also at the Coburg that Luther penned many of the furious passages of his “Warning to the Clergy forgathered at Augsburg.”
He there says: “For the monks I know not how to plead. For I am well aware you would rather they were all of them given over to the devil, please God, whether they take wives or not.”[765] In these words he erroneously takes for granted that all ecclesiastics shared his own hatred for the monks. He boasts in this writing that he “had destroyed the monks by his teaching”;[766] he trusts that “the Bishops will not allow such bugs and lice to be stuck again on their fur cappas.”[767] The reason why his doctrine had destroyed the monks was, because it had revealed how they were merely “intent upon works.” “For what else could come of it? If a conscience is intent on its works and builds on them, then it is stablished on loose sand which is ever slipping and sliding away; it must ever be seeking for works, for one and then for another and ever more and more, until at last even the dead are clothed in monks’ cowls the better to reach heaven.”[768] The last words are a caricature, a misrepresentation of a pious custom by which no one ever dreamt infallibly to win heaven. The “loose sand” is, however, a favourite expression with him when speaking of his teaching on works. It is the same teaching that he wants to bring before the eyes of all by means of his fiction. How, at that time, his thoughts were harking back to his former life in the convent is plain from a letter of consolation he then wrote to his “tempted” pupil Weller. He tells him that he himself had also had his sadnesses and temptations, but that what he had suffered as a monk had in the end proved a schooling for his present high calling.[769]
Had he really been the butt of such “temptations” as the legend depicts and contrived so successfully to vanquish them by his doctrine on justification, then we might expect to find some trace of this in his first writings subsequent to his change of outlook. Now, in the Commentary on Romans we have a vivid document bearing on his change of opinions, yet, full as it is of information about the author, we may seek in vain for the legend. On the contrary it breathes a high esteem for the religious state.[770] In the “Resolutions” to the Indulgence-Theses likewise, Luther speaks of the phases through which he had passed and of the mystical sufferings he had endured.[771] Yet here again the features of the legend are wanting. Is it not somewhat remarkable that an author usually so candid and talkative as Luther should have kept silence about those experiences of which, just at that time, i.e. at the beginning of his public struggle, he must have been so full?
Nor is the legend to be found in Luther’s writings dating from between 1520 and 1530. All the passages quoted above date from a later period.
Had the tale it tells been based on history he would surely have made capital out of it during this long spell of controversy with the monks and Papists. Thus, in his violent “De votis monasticis” of 1521, he as yet has nothing to say of his supposed so pious life, of his excessive penance, misguided holiness-by-works, and the despair he endured in the convent, though, in the Preface, he alludes to his own life as a monk. Nor, again, in his “De servo arbitrio” of 1525, does he as yet put forward the actual legend. It is true that here, when explaining his doctrine of Predestination, he refers to the fears from which as a monk he had suffered regarding his election, fear which arose from his doubts as to the fate decreed for him by God from all eternity. As it is also here that he for the first time airs his theory that his doctrine of absolute predestination and his dogma of justification were alone able to give peace,[772] this would seem to have been the place to give an account of his own life in the monastery and its attendant circumstances. But the legend was not as yet ready. We have merely a hint of what is to come: The Catholic doctrine that heaven may be won by works spells the end of all peace; “this is proved by the experience of all the holy-by-works, and this, to my cost, I also learnt by the experience of many years.”[773] About his heroic works of penance, his vigils, fastings, extraordinary piety, and the sudden and gratifying change, he has not a word to say.
Heralds of the legend are certain statements met with in a sermon of 1528 where he describes himself as having been a “very pious monk,” who was, however, wanting in constancy and like a “shaking reed,” not being firmly rooted in Christ;[774] again at the end of his “Vom Abendmal Bekentnis” he declares his “greatest sins” were his having “been such a holy monk and having plagued God for more than fifteen years with so many masses.”[775] In the latter writing he at least admits that “many great saints had lived in the monasteries”;[776] he even thinks that “it would indeed be a fine thing if the monasteries and foundations were retained, to the end that young folk might there be taught God’s Word, the Scriptures and how to live a Christian life,” in short as educational establishments for both boys and girls. “But, to seek in them the road to salvation, that is the devil’s own doctrine and belief.”[777]
Finally, in the sermons on John vi.-viii. which he began in 1530 after his return from the Coburg to Wittenberg and continued till 1532 we have the legend more or less complete: He had been a monk and had kept the nightly watches (i.e. had chanted the usual matins), had “fasted and prayed, scourged his body and tormented it”; he had been one of the pious and earnest monks who took their life seriously, “who, like me, were at some pains and examined and plagued themselves, and wanted to attain to what Christ is in order to be saved. But what did they gain thereby?”[778] At the same time he begins to enlarge in the most incredible way on the beliefs and habits of the Papists with regard to their own merits and the merits of Christ. All had held their tongues concerning the Saviour, so he says, and he emphasises his statement by adding: “I myself, I should have blushed to say that Christ was the Saviour.” Thus in a sermon of Dec., 1530.[779]
In the period that follows, what he says of his piety, and especially of his works of penance, grows more and more emphatic. The argument at the back of his mind is this: “If even so mortified, penitent, and holy a monk as he could find no peace in Popery but only black despair, must not then all admit that he was in the right in protesting against both the Church and her vows?”
So strictly had he kept his Rule, that, if ever monk got to heaven, it should have been he; he had plagued himself to death with watching, prayer, study and other labour.[780] This was the time when he “sought to be a holy monk and to be reckoned among the most pious.”[781] “If ever a monk was earnest then it was I.… I was at the utmost pains to keep the ordinances” (of the Fathers).
He “had been one of the best”[782] and was “wholly given over” to “fasting, watching and prayer”;[783] “I nearly killed myself with fasting, watching and cold … so mad and foolish was I.”[784] By fasting, sleeplessness, hard work and coarse clothing “my body was dreadfully broken and worn out.”[785]
In short, he had “sunk deeper into the quagmire [of mortification, obedience to the Church and monastic piety] than many an other”; so much so that “it had been hard and bitter” to him to cut himself adrift from the ordinances of the Pope; “God knows how hard I found it!”[786]
As he himself gradually came to believe in his extraordinary “holiness-by-works” it may be that his thoughts dwelt too exclusively to his earlier days as a monk, i.e. on those passed at Erfurt, during which he certainly was more zealous than in later years, though never such a fanatic as he afterwards makes out. He may also have compared his life as a monk with the small efforts after virtue he made subsequent to his public apostasy, and the contrast may have led him to make too much of his piety in the convent. The contrast, indeed, often troubled him, and we find him seeking for grounds to excuse his later lukewarmness in prayer, so different from his earlier fervour.[787] This also helps us to explain the line of thought followed in the legend.
The true character of the legend becomes clearer when Luther begins to exploit it in his polemics. He depicts himself as a sort of “caricature of the monastic saint,”[788] and then complains: This damnable life could not but keep me ever in a state of fear, and yet the Popish Church recommends and sanctions it; the more zealous I grew the further I withdrew from Christ—nay, brought even my baptism into danger! He had never been able to “find comfort in it,” nay, he had been compelled to “lose” it, to “lend a hand in denying it.” “This is the upshot and reward of their doctrine of works.”[789] He even goes so far as to say that the Papists “truly and indeed made nought of the baptism” of Christ, for which reason “their doctrine is as baneful as that of the Anabaptists”; they “make of us Jews or Turks, as though we had never been baptised.”
Luther’s persistent and obtrusive exploitation of his legend in his controversies must not be lost to sight.
In his new-found zeal he not only as a rule passes too confidently from the I (I did so and so) to the we, or they, the better to clap the blame attaching to himself on the monks in general, the Pope and all the Papists, and then to conclude with the praise of the new Evangel, but—and this reveals even more plainly the origin of the invention,—he also follows the reverse order, speaking first of the New Evangel, then of the senseless martyrdom endured by all the monks with their works, and, lastly, of his own personal experiences, as though they had been necessarily implied in his earlier premisses.
I cruelly disciplined my body, he says, and goes on: “They plagued and tormented themselves”; for all that, “did they find Christ? Christ says: ‘You shall die in your sins.’ To this they came.” “The Pope, too, labours and seeks,” to find what Christ is; “but never will he find it.” All this leads to the conclusion: “But now God has given His Grace, so that every town and thorp has the Gospel.”[790]
Above we heard him speak of the “quagmire” in which he was sunk; in the same connection he remarks: “We wore out the body with fasting,” etc., “and some even went crazy through it.” Then follows the inference: “And, at last, we lost our very souls.” For, to our “great and notable injury,” we were made to feel “in our anxious and troubled conscience” what it means “to try to become pious by works and so to redeem ourselves from sin.” “We would gladly have had a cheerful conscience,” but “it was all of no use, and we naturally became more and more downhearted about sin and death, so that no folk more unhappy are to be found on earth than the priestlings, monks and nuns who are wrapped up in their works.” “The more they do, the worse things fare with them.” But, since my doctrine has come into the world, people have unlearnt their faintheartedness: “We run to the Man Who is called Christ and say: Yes indeed, we must take it from the Man without any merit whatsoever [on our part].… He gives me freely that for which formerly I had to pay a high price. He gives me, without any works or merit, that for which formerly I had to stake body, strength and health.”[791]
His supposed experiences as a monk are even made to do service in his interpretation of Holy Scripture. In order to understand the Scriptures, so he argues, deep inward experience is called for. This he maintained when withstanding the fanatics and their system of illuminism. Here he actually carries back the beginning of his own experience to his convent days.
Already in the convent, so he declares, he had been compelled to bow to the idol of scepticism, because he, and all the rest, knew nothing of any real faith in the Gospel. Far less had he learned to pray Evangelically.
“That Christ was a mystery, as St. Paul says, I looked upon formerly, when I had to submit to being called a Doctor of Holy Scripture, as a lying statement which I very well understood. But now that, praise be to God, I have once more become a poor student of Holy Writ, and that, the longer I live, the less I know of it, I begin to see the marvel of such sayings, and find by experience that they must necessarily remain mysteries.… Our experience must bear witness to this, how amply, fully and clearly we now possess this same Word of Christ.”[792] But, by the Pope, it was “gruesomely murdered.”[793]
Of the Saints of their Order the monks made their God, and of their miracles they made their Gospel. “For know you this, that I, Dr. Martin Luther, who am now living and write this, was also one of the crowd who were forced to believe and worship such things [lying fables]. And had anyone been so bold as to doubt one whit of it, or to raise a finger against it, he would have gone to the stake or to some other evil end.”[794] That the latter was an exaggeration and the merest invention Luther was perfectly well aware.
He also speaks untruthfully of the manner of prayer in the convent. That he himself, when once he had fallen away from his vocation, no longer prayed in a right spirit is very likely. He, however, says: “I and all the others had not the right conception” (of prayer); it was no true “raising of the heart to God because we fled from God (‘fugiebamus Deum’).… We only prayed ‘conditionally’ and ‘hypothetically,’ not ‘categorically.’” This he said in 1537, admitting, however, with regard to his own then family prayers, that they “were not so fervent, because he was always forced to protest,” i.e. to pour out his anger against the Papists; but, “in the congregation as a whole, it comes from the heart and also serves its purpose.”[795]
His wilful misrepresentation of the truth becomes more pronounced, when, in the exploitation of the legend, he seeks to moderate the monks’ practices of penance and mortification—with the help of Terence and Aristotle.
In his Commentary on Genesis he complains: “The religious life of the monk is so crooked that no exception (‘epikia’) is allowed, nor any moderation. Hence it is all wickedness and unrighteousness. No heed is paid to the object of the Law, or to charity.… And yet what Terence says is still true: ‘summum ius esse summam iniuriam.’ God does not wish the body to be put to death, but that it be preserved for each one’s calling and for the service of our neighbour.”[796] “Learn, therefore, that peace and charity must govern and direct all virtues and laws, as Aristotle points out in the 5th book of his Ethics.”[797]
Now, as a matter of fact, the Rule of the Hermits of St. Augustine, with which he was thoroughly conversant, enjoined consideration for the health of the individual.[798] Brother Jordan of Saxony, whose book was regarded as a standard work in the Order, insists on care being taken of the body and only permits penitential exercises “in moderation, with the superiors’ approval and without scandal to the brethren.”[799]
His falsehoods are coupled with the outbursts of fury against Catholicism into which he was so prone to fall when attempting to describe the religious life he had forsaken.
Because we endured so much “pain and such martyrdom of heart and conscience” no one must now seek to excuse the Papacy; on the contrary “we cannot blame and scold the Pope enough”; “that he should have so wasted the beautiful years of my youth, and martyred and plagued my conscience is really too bad.” Popery is the “scarlet whore of Rome, the arch-whore, the French whore, chock-full of blasphemies”; “we must thank our Lord God that He has revealed and discovered to us the Pope as the dragon with his head, belly and tail.”[800]—The monks are a “devilish crew,” and monkery a “hellish cauldron”; by day and by night Christ is to all monks a “hangman and devil”; even the best and most learned, and St. Thomas of Aquin himself, were all driven to despair and died of the ghostly poison.[801] The last words occur in the work he wrote in self-defence against Duke George of Saxony (1533), who had twitted him with having committed perjury in breaking his religious vows.
The thought of his own infidelity and his abuse of the graces of the religious life was at times quite enough in itself to fill him with fury. At any rate his whole picture of his earlier years is steeped in polemics and the spirit of hate.