Katharina and Martin Luther

by Michelle DeRusha

  It was cold that early April night. The nuns huddled together under a tarp on the hard planks as the wagon jolted over the bumpy roads. Rumor has it the women hid in herring barrels, but the more likely scenario is that Koppe simply used his merchant wagon, in which he often carried herring and other goods, to transport the nuns under cover. The women held their breath as the wagon lurched beyond the boundaries of the convent’s land and skirted along the borders of Duke George’s territory.

  Even without the fabled herring barrels, the escape was nothing short of miraculous, says Kroker. No one had revealed their secret; there’d been no traitor among them; none of the many letters that had passed back and forth between the nuns and Koppe had been intercepted; and anywhere between nine and twelve nuns had managed to sneak out of their cells undetected on Easter eve and escape from the convent unimpeded.11 As dawn’s first light began to streak the sky, the wagon made its way into Torgau to the sound of church bells ringing in Easter morning. The nuns had made it; they were free.

  Jilted

  In Torgau, the women had a bite to eat, rested a bit, and exchanged their habits and veils for secular clothes provided by the local pastor. Imagine for a moment how odd it must have felt for Katharina to don the dress and head covering of a typical sixteenth-century German woman after almost twenty years of wearing only the plain habit and veil. One wonders: Did she feel vulnerable and exposed, or was there a sense of liberation and excitement in the air as the women dressed in the borrowed clothes, the fabric smooth and unfamiliar against their skin, their waistlines and bodices accentuated, free of the bulky, shapeless robes? We don’t have a description of the hand-me-down dresses the nuns wore that first day of freedom, but regardless of the quality or the detailing of the cloth, the clothes must have been more elaborate than anything they had worn in a long time.

  On Monday, the day after Easter, the nuns traveled the thirty-one miles to Wittenberg. With a population of 2,500 people, the town would have seemed like a booming metropolis to Katharina. As the horse-drawn wagon jostled over the city’s cobblestone streets, she took in the sights: the Elbe River on one side of the city and the moat on the other; the marketplace, noisy and bustling with merchants and shoppers; the Castle Church, where Martin Luther had presumably nailed his Ninety-five Theses six years before; and the Church of St. Mary, where, little could she have imagined at the time, Katharina would recite her marriage vows just over two years from that very day.

  A short distance from the church the wagon stopped in front of a formidable stone building. The complex was known as the Black Cloister, the driver informed the nuns, and at one time had housed Wittenberg’s Augustinian monks. In the wake of Luther’s reforms, however, most of the monks had moved on, leaving only two remaining in residence: an elderly monk and Martin Luther himself. As the wagon drew to a halt, Luther stepped from the Black Cloister to greet the nuns whom he had helped escape.

  On April 8 Luther had casually mentioned to a friend, “I heard yesterday that nine nuns have left cloister Nimpschau, their prison, among whom are the two Sessatzers, and the Staupitz.”12 He reported this tidbit of information as if it was a piece of unfamiliar news or gossip (along with misspelling Nimbschen), which we know it was not, as Luther helped to orchestrate the nuns’ escape. Perhaps this was Luther’s attempt to distance himself from the crime, at least with those outside his inner circle. Maybe he intentionally played ignorant to throw those suspicious of his involvement off his trail. When Koppe and the nuns arrived on his doorstep, however, Luther graciously welcomed them, praised them for their courage, and set about finding temporary quarters for the refugees. A few days after the nuns’ arrival in Wittenberg, however, the reality of the situation set in.

  Clearly the women did not have the skills to support themselves, and most were rejected by their families, who refused to accommodate them. Luther expressed frustration and resentment over the fact that he had been burdened with the nuns’ care. “I ask that you, too, would do a work of love and beg for some money from among the rich courtiers for me, and perhaps give some yourself,” he pleaded with his friend, George Spalatin, “so I can get food for the refugees for at least eight or fourteen days and also some dresses, since they have no shoes or clothing.”13 Luther learned the hard way that advocating on paper for the closing of monasteries and cloisters was one thing; the reality of dealing with it personally was a much different story.

  Immediately after helping Katharina and her fellow nuns escape from Marienthron, Luther continued to call for the widespread closing of convents. His introduction to a memoir written by Florentina von Oberweimar, who escaped from a Cistercian convent in Eisleben in 1524, for instance, was filled with passionate rhetoric against both the monastic life and the families who forced that existence upon their daughters. “Behold, dear people, what poisonous, evil, bitter, false, and lying folk the nuns are, whereas they want to be the holy and tender brides of Christ,” Luther wrote in 1524. “Woe unto you now and forever, lords and princes, parents and relatives, who push your children, your relatives, or your neighbors, body and soul, into such murderous graves or allow them to remain therein.”14 For a long time Luther considered himself a liberator of cloistered women. Once, when accused of being a thief of women because he’d helped to plan the Nimbschen nuns’ stealthy midnight escape, he responded, “I freely answer, yes, a blessed robber am I.” But, he was quick to explain, he believed he had freed the poor souls from jail and human tyranny and set them on the right path.15

  As time went on, however, Luther’s rhetoric softened, and his approach to the widespread closing of convents became much more conservative, most likely as a result of the hardships he had witnessed among the nuns who had fled Marienthron without a backup plan. “I’m pleased to hear that the remaining nuns at Nimbschen have put aside their cloister habits. But first they have to decide what they want to do when they leave the nunnery so they do not regret their withdrawal,” he cautioned Spalatin in 1534, upon hearing that the remaining Marienthron nuns had decided to leave the cloister. “Unless they are assured of having a future spouse or of a place where they are permanently taken care of, I would not advise their leaving.”16 Luther hadn’t fully realized the burden of responsibility that came with the closing of convents when he’d so cavalierly advocated for the release of all cloistered nuns in his earlier writings. Now that he’d personally lived through the reality of finding support for the Nimbschen nuns, he suggested a more cautious plan.

  Wittenberg’s Matchmaker

  Despite the fact that Luther and Koppe endeavored to be discreet about the nuns’ escape, the women quickly became the talk of Wittenberg. “A wagon load of vestal virgins has just come to town all more eager for marriage than for life. May God give them husbands lest worse befall,” one young man wrote to a friend.17 Luther’s friends Nikolaus von Amsdorf, a theology professor at the University of Wittenberg, and George Spalatin joked between themselves: “They’re beautiful, dignified, and all from the aristocracy,” wrote von Amsdorf. “The oldest among them . . . I have appointed for you, my dear brother, to be her husband. If you want a younger one, however, then you are to have the choice among the most beautiful.”18 All joking aside, marriage was the best and most viable option for the former nuns, and for a time, Luther took on the role of Wittenberg’s matchmaker, writing letters to potential suitors and helping to arrange engagements for the nuns who hadn’t been taken in by their families.

  Certainly not an old maid by early modern standards (compared to the High Middle Ages, when girls were legally allowed to be married at age twelve and boys at age fourteen19), at age twenty-four, Katharina was considered to be at her prime marriageable age, and it wasn’t long before she had a suitor. Hieronymus Baumgartner of Nuremberg was an alumnus of the University of Wittenberg and a friend of both Luther and Melanchthon. Baumgartner visited Wittenberg often and became acquainted with Katharina, who at the time was staying with Philipp and Elsa Reichenbach, who were friends with the
Baumgartner family. Rumors swirled around town as Katharina and Hieronymus were seen together more and more frequently. Katharina adored Baumgartner, but it was not one-sided; he reciprocated her affection.20 When he traveled back to Nuremberg, everyone, including Katharina, assumed Baumgartner would return to Wittenberg with his parents’ blessing and a promise of marriage.

  Katharina’s hopes were dashed when weeks and then months passed with no word from her suitor. Even Luther intervened on her behalf, advising Baumgartner in an October 1524 letter: “If you intend marrying Katherine von Bora, make haste before she is given to some one else. She has not yet got over her love for you. I wish that you two were married.”21 Still, there was no reply until the spring of 1525, when Baumgartner announced his engagement to fourteen-year-old Sibylle Dichtel von Tutzing, who brought a sizable dowry to the marriage.22 Clearly Baumgartner’s parents, themselves nobility, had considered a runaway nun with no dowry an unacceptable bride for their son.

  The breakup was a huge blow to Katharina. Not only was she heartbroken, she was also nearly out of options. Katharina had moved in with Lucas and Barbara Cranach, who lived in a huge, three-story house on the corner of Market and Schlosstrasse streets in Wittenberg. The fifty-year-old Lucas Cranach the Elder was an influential man and one of the wealthiest in the city: a city councilor, a good friend of Luther, and, most importantly, the court painter to Elector Frederick the Wise. He also operated a pharmacy, a wineshop, and a print shop; as Luther’s publisher, he made a great deal of money from the sale of Luther’s German New Testament and other writings.

  Lucas and his wife, Barbara, had been very kind to Katharina—taking her in, providing clothing, food, and housing for her, standing in as her family when Katharina had no family to claim as her own. Yet the truth was, Katharina was penniless, and worse, she could not stay with the Cranachs forever. They had been exceedingly gracious and generous, but they were not Katharina’s blood relatives and could not be expected to provide for her for the rest of her life.

  Nearly two years had passed since Katharina had escaped from the convent. All of the nuns who had fled Marienthron with her had either returned to their families or married. Katharina was the only one who had not found a sustainable living situation, and her options grew more limited by the day.

  A Bold Proposal

  Luther had one last idea—one more eligible bachelor he hoped would make a suitable match for Katharina. Kaspar Glatz was a doctor of theology and pastor of a parish in nearby Orlamünde. Intelligent, resourceful, a man of faith, and, most importantly, available, Glatz seemed to be the perfect suitor for Katharina . . . with one glaring exception: she didn’t like him. Katharina had heard Glatz was stubborn, opinionated, argumentative, and miserly. (These accusations largely proved to be true; Glatz later had to be removed from his congregation in Orlamünde because he argued so much with his parishioners.)23 She refused to have anything to do with Glatz and wouldn’t be swayed from her decision. Instead, she asked Nikolaus von Amsdorf to persuade Luther to abandon his plan. When von Amsdorf asked Katharina why a man of Glatz’s standing—a doctor, professor, and pastor—was not good enough for her, Katharina responded with a bold declaration: she would not refuse either von Amsdorf or even Luther himself, should either seek her hand in marriage, but Glatz she absolutely would not accept.24

  Katharina must have realized the huge risk she took in refusing to accept Glatz as her husband. She was essentially out of options, and she knew it. She did not have the means to support herself. She could not continue to stay with the Cranachs indefinitely. She could not, or would not, return to the convent. Yet Katharina not only refused to settle for a husband she didn’t like, she did something virtually unheard of at the time: she essentially asked Luther (and von Amsdorf as well—it apparently didn’t matter which of them said yes) to marry her. “How much considered effort did it take in those days to do that?” wonders German biographer Eva Zeller. “How much excessive daring [Ubermut]—more than courage! And how much self-assurance!”25 Katharina’s bold move was daring indeed. Even more than self-assurance, her proposal illustrates the gravity of her plight.

  Katharina von Bora had laid every last one of her cards on the table. She had risked it all because she had nothing and everything to lose. The ball was now firmly in Luther’s court. Would the renegade monk, the leader of the Protestant Reformation, the man who had single-handedly transformed the ways in which marriage was viewed in sixteenth-century Europe, accept this most unlikely proposal? We know Luther’s answer. The question is, why did he say yes?

  9

  Marriage Makeover

  Today, Western Christian weddings generally follow a standard protocol. A couple becomes engaged; the engagement is announced, followed by a period of wedding planning; the couple is married by a priest or minister in a church before a gathering of friends and family; and the union is celebrated at a reception following the church ceremony. We have Luther to thank for this tradition. Prior to his reforms, marriage was not regulated in any way, which, as we will see, led to a matrimonial mess of confusion and chaos.

  Defining Matrimony

  Marriage during Luther’s time was considered part of the Church’s jurisdiction and thus was not managed by the state. However, while the Roman Catholic Church officially claimed it as one of the seven sacraments (which was decided at the Council of Verona in 1184), marriage was not administered within the framework of the Church’s liturgy.1 In other words, it was not required that the marriage ceremony take place in a church or be officiated by a priest. Because marriage was viewed by the Church as a gift from God and an act of consent between a man and a woman, canon (church) law failed to regulate the act of marriage in any substantive way.2

  In the early Middle Ages, a father’s transferal of legal authority over his daughter to the groom comprised the essential “marriage act.” The exchange of promises and property was accomplished entirely within the family, with little outside intervention by either the Church or the state. The ceremonial handing over of the bride from her father to her new husband was then followed by consummation, which often entailed a ceremonial bedding of the couple in the presence of their family and friends.3

  Later in the Middle Ages, however, it became increasingly common for boys as young as fourteen and girls as young as twelve to betroth themselves to one another without any parental involvement. A couple who said “I do” to one another were considered by the Church to be married, regardless of whether they had announced their engagement publicly, exchanged their vows in a church, or even obtained the consent of their parents. They essentially performed the sacrament of marriage themselves.4 In the eyes of the Church, because marriage was made by God, and a priest could only bless what God had already decreed, a couple who promised to love one another and live together until death was considered officially married, especially if the couple had consummated their vows by sexual intercourse.5 It was also common for young couples to make a secret commitment to one another by promising to marry in the future and then validating that promise with consummation.6

  The Marriage Mess

  These rogue marriages and promises of marriage between minors resulted in thousands of “he said/she said” arguments. The ecclesiastical courts were overrun with cases of contested betrothal: “girls seduced on alleged promises of marriage, parents challenging the secret unions of their children, bigamous ‘Casanovas’ accused of secretly promising marriage to two or more women, and possibly, most embarrassing of all, men and women sincerely attempting to make public their private vows, only to be challenged by someone claiming to have been secretly promised marriage by one of the partners.”7 In Augsburg, for example, almost half of all the marriage cases brought before the ecclesiastical court were for contested vows, while nearly two-thirds of the marriage cases in the Regensburg episcopal court were for contested marriages.8 The courts simply could not keep up with the thousands of cases brought before them.

  The state of marriage was
a mess. The pope and church officials had made marriage a sacrament, yet ironically, a wedding in a church, if it happened at all, was still an optional extra. Adolescents pledged lifelong commitment to one another, engaged in sexual intercourse to make the marriage official, and then informed their parents and their church that they had wed. Young men pledged marriage, consummated the “marriage,” and then denied having done so, leaving the woman no longer a virgin and, in some cases, pregnant.

  Even more frustrating to Luther was the fact that the Church, which charged fees to dissolve marriages (as well as for dispensations in cases of third- or fourth-degree consanguinity, which mandated that a person could not marry his or her third or fourth cousin), made money off the marriage mess they had created. In short, people paid the Church to marry or separate from whomever they wanted. “The Romanists of our day have become merchants,” Luther wrote in The Babylonian Captivity of the Church. “What is it that they sell? Vulvas and genitals—merchandise indeed most worthy of such merchants, grown altogether filthy and obscene through greed and godlessness. For there is no impediment nowadays that may not be legalized through the intercession of mammon.”9

  The bottom line: canon law as it related to the sacrament of marriage was confusing, easily abused, and impossible to uphold. Luther set out to transform the institution of marriage across Germany and beyond, and over a very short period did exactly that. In the wake of published works including his Sermon on the Estate of Marriage (1519), The Babylonian Captivity (1520), On Monastic Vows (1521), and On Marriage Matters (1530), society’s understanding of marriage underwent a radical shift. When Luther was finished with it, marriage in Reformation Germany simply did not resemble the institution of marriage from centuries past.