All that was in the future, however. When the Enchiridion first appeared, in 1503, it quickly sank from view. Europe was not yet ready for it. In the meantime, Erasmus pursued his biblical studies. To this point, he remained unclear about what form his program to purify the Bible might take. That would change, however, as a result of a critical discovery he made while in Louvain. Erasmus had moved to this large, fortified town east of Brussels in 1502 to escape plague-ridden Paris, and he would remain there for the next two years. Louvain had airy squares, impressive churches, a thriving beer industry, and a famous university, and Erasmus at once felt at home. Soon after his arrival, Adrian of Utrecht, a professor of philosophy, persuaded the town magistrates to offer Erasmus a lectureship at the university, but Erasmus—worried about the time such a post would take from his work—turned it down. (Adrian would prove a valuable contact, however; twenty years later, he would become Pope Adrian VI.)
“The study of Greek absorbs me completely,” Erasmus wrote to his old friend Willem Hermans, “and I have not wholly wasted my efforts, for I have made such good progress that I am capable of expressing my meaning in Greek with reasonable proficiency.” As a test, he tried his hand at translating (from Greek into Latin) Euripides’s plays Hecuba and Iphigenia in Aulis. Unfortunately, he quickly got bogged down in the choruses, which were so obscure “as to need a Delian prophet to unlock.” Inspired by Jerome, Erasmus began to study Hebrew but found it too difficult and gave up. “The shortness of life and the limitations of human nature will not allow a man to master too many things at once,” he observed.
In his spare time, Erasmus liked to visit the Abbé du Parc, a Premonstratensian abbey located just outside the town walls. It had a well-stocked library, and Erasmus enjoyed examining its manuscripts in search of lost treasures. “The most enjoyable sport,” he called it. On a visit in the summer of 1504, he found a codex by Lorenzo Valla with which he was unfamiliar. It was Valla’s notes on the New Testament. Reading them, Erasmus grew excited. Valla pointed out hundreds of places where the Vulgate seemed to render the Greek inaccurately or misleadingly. Some discrepancies were relatively minor; others were not. Of particular consequence was Valla’s note at 2 Corinthians 7:10. In this passage, Paul in the Vulgate refers to poenitentia, meaning “penance.” But, as Valla noted, the Greek word underlying it was μετάνοια (metanoia)—a compound of μετά (signifying change—the passing from one state to another) and νοέω (to perceive, to think). The intended sense was repentance, remorse, a change of mind. In other words, Paul seemed to be calling on the faithful not to perform the sacrament of penance, with its three-part act of contrition, confession, and satisfaction (which did not even exist at the time of his epistle), but rather to reflect on their actions and improve themselves. The emphasis was on internal reflection rather than external ritual. In this way, Valla was calling into question the scriptural foundation for the sacrament that was at the heart of the Church’s system of piety—a potentially explosive observation in an era when reformers were beginning to question the elaborate ceremonialism of the Church.
Valla did not pursue the theological implications of his findings, however. His notes were brief and for the most part restricted to matters of grammar and semantics. And Erasmus, of course, was well aware of the insights that consulting Greek manuscripts could provide. But Valla’s work showed how revolutionary grammar could be when applied systematically to the Bible, and it gave Erasmus the idea of producing his own catalog of scriptural emendations.
Erasmus was eager to share his discovery with the world, and so in early 1505, after moving back to Paris, he arranged to have Valla’s manuscript printed. Knowing how detested Valla remained and how much controversy this work was likely to cause, Erasmus sought to head it off in his preface. “I do not really believe,” he wrote, “that Theology herself, the queen of all the sciences, will be offended if some share is claimed in her and due deference shown to her by her humble attendant Grammar.” Erasmus was being coy. However humble an attendant grammar might seem, she could, when assigned to tidy up sacred texts, turn the whole theological household upside down. And that’s precisely what Erasmus had in mind. In his preface to Valla’s annotations and his defense of applying grammar to Scripture, we can see a line extending from Jerome through Petrarch and Valla to Erasmus—and the first glimmers of the groundbreaking new field of biblical textual editing.
Erasmus’s delight at his discovery is apparent in a letter he sent in late 1504 to John Colet, who was now serving as the dean of St. Paul’s cathedral in London. Updating him on his studies in Greek and Scripture, Erasmus noted that he was “now eager, dear Colet, to approach sacred literature full sail, full gallop. I have an extreme distaste for anything that distracts me from it, or even delays me.” Henceforth, he added, “I intend to address myself to the Scriptures and to spend all the rest of my life upon them.”
Unfortunately, he observed, he had been forced by his financial difficulties to put aside this work and take on some literary commissions—a most unwelcome distraction in light of his “burning zeal for sacred studies.” He then mentioned Lord Mountjoy. Given the young Englishman’s past generosity, Erasmus was desperately hoping for another display of it. Reluctant to approach Mountjoy directly, however, he clearly wanted Colet to do so on his behalf. The letter had its desired effect. Not long afterward, an invitation from Mountjoy arrived, and by the end of 1505 Erasmus was back in his beloved England.
8
Angry with God
In passing through the gate of Augustinian Hermits in Erfurt, in July 1505, Martin Luther was trading a life of bright conversation and easy companionship for a regimen of coarse robes and plain food, protracted vigils and exacting confessions. Located on a quiet street on the northern edge of the city, the Black Cloister, as it was called, was a somber assemblage of stone walls, heavy arches, and hushed corridors—all offering a refuge from the commotion and bustle of the dormitories and lecture halls to which Luther was accustomed.
Days after his entry into the monastery, some of his friends showed up at the gate to plead for his return, but he would not appear. In entering the cloister, Luther felt “dead to the world,” as he would later put it, but, given his crushing sense of worthlessness and fear of damnation, it was a state he devoutly desired. By strictly adhering to the monastic routine of prayer, study, meditation, and self-denial, he hoped to find a pathway to salvation.
Of the many orders in Erfurt, Luther had selected one that, like the order that Erasmus had joined nearly twenty years earlier, adhered to the Rule of St. Augustine, but the Augustinian Hermits were far stricter. For Luther, there would be no passing of confidential notes, no clandestine readings of proscribed texts, no Renaissance rays brightening his cell, but unbroken periods of solitude in cells and backs stiffened from long sessions of prayers. (Technically, Luther was not a monk but a friar, i.e., a member of a mendicant order. Unlike monks, who were restricted to their cloister, friars could leave it to preach, beg, and minister to urban dwellers. But Luther sometimes referred to himself as living like a monk, and many historians use the term as well.)
Luther was initially assigned a room in the monastery’s guesthouse, a two-story building set within the walls of the compound but outside the cloister proper. He would remain there for several weeks as the friars took the measure of his sincerity. He dutifully sent word of his decision to his parents. His father, who had invested heavily in his son’s education, was horrified. As Luther later recalled, he “went crazy and acted like a fool” and said he was withdrawing his “favor and goodwill.” Luther was deeply wounded, but not even the prospect of being disowned by his family could keep him from his chosen course.
After being deemed a fit candidate, Luther was led to the chapter house and the assembled friars. He prostrated himself before the prior, who then described the challenges that awaited him—the frequent fasting, the interrupted sleep, the mortification of the flesh, the strictly enforced humility an
d obedience. Luther declared his readiness to bear all. His clothes were removed and replaced by the garb of the Augustinian novice. (He had already been tonsured; i.e., the hair on the top of his head had been shorn, leaving a thin circle around the skull.) His novitiate would last a year and a day, and at any point Luther could decide that the cloistered life was not for him—or the friars could make that determination for him.
From the chapel, Luther was led to his cell, located on the second floor of a wing of the main courtyard. Just ten feet long and eight feet wide, it was bare of all ornamentation save for a crucifix on the wall. It had a table and a chair and a wooden bed frame, plus a rough canvas mattress stuffed with straw, two woolen sheets, a coarse blanket, and a pillow. The cell was unheated (as was the monastery as a whole except for one room). No visitors—not even fellow friars—were allowed in, and a peephole in the door allowed superiors to monitor all activities within.
Luther spent those initial weeks learning the order’s regulations, summed up in the Rule of Augustine—a rigorous code that, by prescribing a friar’s every gesture, utterance, and act, sought to extinguish all self-love and replace it with the love of God. Luther learned how to control his facial expressions; how, when walking, to keep his head bowed, his eyes on the ground, and his hands in the sleeves of his robe; how, when eating, to sit with his back to the wall; how, when drinking, to grasp the cup with both hands. With silence enjoined during meals and idle conversation in general discouraged, Luther had to learn the hand signals used for everyday communication, such as asking the time of day or requesting the salt at meals. The friars were forbidden to laugh or cause others to laugh, to yield to anger or nurse a grudge, or to show an “inordinate desire” for clean clothes. They were also forbidden to fix their eyes on women (who sometimes came to confess or attend church), for “unchaste hearts reveal themselves by exchanging glances even without any words.” Anyone who observed a fellow friar exchanging looks with a woman was required to admonish him and, if the friar persisted, to report him.
Above all, the friars were taught how to pray. They did so at seven fixed points during the day. These were the canonical hours, which since the fourth century had defined the rhythms of monastic life. At one or two in the morning, a bell roused the friars from sleep. After quickly washing and dressing in the dark, they made their way to the chapel—a gloomy Gothic sanctuary with a long, narrow nave. After sprinkling themselves with holy water and kneeling before the high altar, they took their assigned stalls and said matins. When it was over, they went to the chapter house for a reading of a chapter of the Bible. The friars said prime at six, terce at nine, sext at noon (after which they took their first meal of the day), none at three, and vespers between four and six (depending on the season). After a light evening refreshment—usually beer and wine served with gingerbread and salted bread—they said compline. The friars then retired to their cells for reading and contemplation, which continued until the bell rang at around nine, announcing the hour for sleep.
In all, the friars spent four to five hours a day in church, singing their way each week through the Psalter—the Vulgate version of the Old Testament book of Psalms. As soon as they finished, they immediately started over. As the novice master made clear, the friars could not mumble or race through the prayers or recite them mechanically. Every line had to be pronounced clearly and sincerely; every word had to be made alive in the heart, as the Augustinian rule put it. Through constant repetition, the Psalms were meant to take hold of and shape the friar’s consciousness, helping create a state of spiritual wakefulness and pious serenity. To ensure attentiveness, friars were instructed to be on the lookout for any brother who while in chapel lost his place, let his concentration wander, or—most serious of all—dozed off.
Such infractions were taken up at the collective confession held every Friday. Each friar (beginning with the eldest) had to confess his own sins and report those he had seen others commit, including speaking without permission, drinking in an improper manner, failing to return a book to its proper place, being late to chapel, laughing, or cursing. The penalties for such minor trespasses were usually mild—reciting extra prayers or having to eat while seated on the floor. More serious offenses—arguing, lying, gossiping with malicious intent—were punishable by up to three days of fasting.
In addition to these collective sessions, each friar was required at least once a week to make a personal confession. This was the central act in the friar’s spiritual life—the penitential process through which he acknowledged his sins, expressed contrition for them, and gained absolution from a priest. Monastic confession was far more demanding than the lay variety. Every wayward act, wanton glance, and unauthorized comment had to be recollected and acknowledged and the proper regret felt and expressed. In anticipation, Luther—grateful for this chance to unburden his conscience—would spend the entire week meticulously examining his conduct and making an inventory of his lapses.
In terms of the challenges he faced, Luther stood out in one key respect. For many friars, the supreme test was their carnal urges. As Luther would later put it, there were “horrible temptations to pollution” in the monastery. “Almost every night the brothers were bothered by them.” The pollutions were of two kinds—“nocturnal” (released during sleep) and “shameful” (self-induced). The latter included many “idle men” who were “fattened in luxury” and “incited by drunkenness and sloth to engage in such filth almost the whole day long.” At this point, however, Luther himself was not much bothered by sexual desires; only years later would they become insistent.
In these early months in the cloister, his battles were of a different kind. As was common in that period, many of his fellow inmates had become friars not out of religious conviction but in a search for security or at the insistence of their families. And, in the cramped quarters of the monastery, their shortcomings were magnified. Petty jealousy erupted, and fierce rivalries flared. Many friars, eager to stand out, were ostentatious in prayer and flamboyant in fasting. Far more than lust, it was pride, impatience, and anger that tested Luther as a friar and that he would have to control if he were to find spiritual tranquility and everlasting peace.
In the friary, every brother was assigned a task, and the novice master, seeing Luther’s puffed-up ways, gave him the most lowly: cleaning the latrines. Luther welcomed the challenge. The same was true of the begging he had to perform. As a mendicant order, the Augustinians had originally engaged in this practice to support themselves, but over the years the friary in Erfurt had, like many others, become wealthy, receiving generous endowments from the well-to-do and amassing large tracts of land. Begging had thus become unnecessary, but it was nonetheless retained as a spur to humility, and Luther had to carry a sack around town, soliciting alms. While doing so, he encountered many former colleagues and professors, but he came away feeling not humiliated but humbled.
As so it went with the monastic routine as a whole. The privations Luther had to endure were undeniably challenging. The jolt from the bell in the middle of the night announcing matins; the hunger that gnawed during the long hours before the first meal; the choking heat and humidity that invaded the cells in midsummer; the long stretches of silence and lack of engagement—all tested his fortitude and commitment. Yet as the weeks passed and summer gave way to fall, Luther gradually settled into the unhurried rhythms of the cloister. As his body adjusted to the hard surfaces of the prayer stalls, as his mind adapted to the confinement of his cell, his soul began to open and expand. Freed from everyday worries and distractions, he was able to concentrate on the one thing that truly mattered—his relationship to God. In his cell at night, he ardently beseeched the Lord, seeking his mercy and grace. During confession, he felt his burdens lighten, and when at the end of each session the priest pronounced the sacred words Ego te absolvo—“I absolve you”—he felt a rush of relief and comfort. In the darkness of the cloister church, the resonant chanting of the Psalms had an enthralling effect, a
nd at the conclusion of compline, as Luther stood and bowed in praise of God per omnia saecula saeculorum—“through all the ages”—he felt spiritually transported, as if “among the choir of angels.”
In September 1506, Luther, having demonstrated his earnestness, was approved to take his vows. At the ceremony, the prior warned him that once he committed himself, he would not be free, for whatever reason, to throw off the yoke of obedience. Acknowledging his readiness to so commit, Luther pledged to “live until death without worldly possessions and in chastity according to the Rule of St. Augustine.” He was clad in the habit of the order—a white shirt, a short and a long white tunic, a scapular, and a long white cope with a large collar, over which was placed a block cotta (or mantle) with a cowl. The scapular—a long band of cloth with an opening for the head that was worn front and back over the shoulders—symbolized the yoke of Christ. It was to be worn at all times, and leaving the cell without it was considered a serious offense. The prior raised Luther up and gave him the kiss of peace; his fellow friars then did the same. In taking his vow, Luther was deemed to have returned to the original state of grace, and he could now dedicate himself to attaining salvation. The monastic life, which over the centuries had been refined into a precise instrument for the cure of souls, seemed to be having its intended effect. Like so many others, Luther experienced “how peaceful and quiet Satan was wont to be in the first year” of being a friar, as he later wrote.
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